Hoarding Secrets (A Dragon Spirit Novel Book 3)

by C. I. Black

  Diablo was still midway across the garden, the rifle in one hand, his borrowed short sword in the other. Jet’s gaze jumped to the black drake as she tossed her saber into the Handmaiden’s residence, pulled a grenade from an inside pocket of her jacket, and released the pin. She tossed it at Grey and bolted inside.

  CHAPTER 38

  “Grenade!” Grey batted the grenade away from him, and Diablo and dove for the door after Jet. He caught it before it closed, wrenched it out of her grip, and opened it wide enough for him to slip inside.

  The device erupted with a massive explosion, the force slamming the door shut behind him and locking Diablo out. Grey could only pray the black drake had gotten out of the way in time, but still couldn’t count on Diablo being in any condition to keep fighting — even if Grey had made certain the black drake knew the words to open the magical lock on the Handmaiden’s door. Regardless of how fast Diablo could heal, that kind of explosion could permanently disable a drake if a limb was severed and no one was around to help it reattach.

  “Why won’t you just die?” Jet growled. She grabbed her saber and dove at Grey, the blade aimed at his heart.

  He leapt to the side, letting it slice his shoulder, and grabbed her sword arm. She rammed her foot into his chest. Bone cracked, and white lightning exploded through him. More hazy memories danced at the edge of his vision, and his grip on her arm weakened. He ground his teeth, forcing his mind back to Ivy.

  Jet jerked free of his hold and slashed at his neck. He rolled to the side. Pain burned through him as he scrambled to his feet and awkwardly drew his borrowed Colt semi-automatic from his shoulder holster with his left hand. The .45 felt awkward in his offhand, but until the tendons in his right healed, he was going to have to hope his offhand aim was good enough to get the job done.

  Jet lunged in, moving too fast for him to get a good aim, and slashed at his gun arm, while drawing another knife and jabbing at his gut. He heaved forward and caught half her knuckle guard and half her blade with his shoulder again. Pain flared where she sliced. He batted the knife down and to the side with his injured hand. The blade cut through his heavy jeans and nicked his thigh.

  She flashed her teeth and twisted, drawing the knife back toward his gut. He jerked away, but she flicked the tip of her saber at his gun hand, forcing him to yank it back or risk losing it. He needed distance if he was going to have the second to aim and hit something vital — the only way he was going to incapacitate her enough to win this fight. But she pressed her attack, slashing at his gun again. He ducked under the swing, away from the knife, aimed the gun for her gut, and fired. She leapt to the side and screamed. He didn’t know how solid the shot had been, but he’d gotten her.

  He yanked his hand up to grab her jacket, but his fingers still wouldn’t work. She wrenched a backhanded swipe of her saber at his neck, and he rammed his shoulder into her chest and slammed her back. She hit the settee and jammed her knife into his gut.

  Pain exploded through him. His chest was on fire from the broken rib and now the gash in his gut, hazy memories billowed at the edge of his consciousness, barely held back by the memory of Ivy’s aura, and the heat from the medallion grew. If the magic within it hadn’t yet been awakened and glowing, it would be soon.

  Jet rammed her knee up into the other side of his gut. Another crack, another broken rib, and more searing pain. With a roar, she shoved him to the side, using her knee and the knife in his gut for leverage, then scrambled over the side of the settee and bolted for the glass and wrought iron door leading into the residence proper.

  His pulse pounded. He couldn’t lose sight of her and let her use her magic to disappear in the maze beyond. He also didn’t know how many other dragons Servius had in his employ and couldn’t afford for Jet to get to help. Certainly not until Diablo managed to get inside — and Grey wasn’t going to contemplate the possibility that the black drake was too injured to help.

  Grey dove over the settee’s arm after her, rolled to his feet, and fired before being certain about his aim. The bullet skimmed her shoulder and shattered the glass behind her.

  She wrenched the door open, and Grey forced his legs to move faster.

  He fired again.

  Missed.

  Shit.

  He had to keep her in sight, had to get to her before she called for help — if help hadn’t already heard the grenade go off outside or the gunshots.

  He dove for her and she jerked to the side. He swung his arm out, slammed it across her chest, and rammed her back against the wrought iron railing of the landing. She drove her knife into his chest, clipping the edge of the medallion, sending heat radiating through it, and piercing his flesh above his heart with a hard, powerful thrust.

  The reek of garbage filled his nose and rain rattled on a window. His throat burned. His whole body burned. They were going to kill him, take his head, and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.

  “How fast can you heal?”

  Not fast enough. Never fast enough.

  But for Ivy, his healing had to be fast enough. She needed him, and he needed her.

  He wrenched his attention back to a murky present with a hazy green tint. But it was enough. He stood on the balcony in the Handmaiden’s residence, Jet had her knife stuck in his chest, and the brass medallion under his T-shirt was ever-too-slightly warm to be natural.

  “I know you’re not a fast healer.” She dropped her saber and reached to draw another knife from her belt for better close-combat fighting.

  “How fast I heal doesn’t matter if I take your soul,” he growled.

  Her gaze dipped to his chest and her eyes widened. The medallion might not be glowing, but this close, anyone could see the outline under his T-shirt.

  “How did you get a medallion?”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Are you really asking that? The prince’s former assassin owed me a favor.”

  “Servius will want that. He won’t have to go to Court to get the one from the arena.” She opened her mouth and drew breath — probably to yell to Servius.

  Grey rammed his elbow into her face. Her head jerked to the side, but she still managed to jam her free knife into his gut and yank out the one in his chest. Pain lit up his torso, and a hint of darkness swarmed at the edge of his vision — consuming memories or blood loss, he wasn’t sure which. He jammed the gun into her ribs, fired, and drew a howl of pain, then dropped the weapon. With a roar, he dipped low, grabbed the waistband of her pants with his good hand, and tossed her over the edge of the railing.

  She screamed and hit the stone floor, her eyes wide, her expression shocked. Grey grabbed the gun and bolted down the stairs. He hit the floor as she rolled to her side, but Servius stormed out of the maze of bookshelves and Jet’s attention jumped to the ancient black drake. He held something small that glowed with bright white light in one hand and had his other hand clamped around the back of Ivy’s neck.

  Grey’s heart skipped a beat and his sight snapped into crystal clarity. She was splattered with blood, one strap of her dress had been ripped off, and the fabric had been torn in two blood-crusted gashes and a hole in her chest, as if she’d been impaled with swords and shot.

  “Are you really still trying to stop me, silver drake?” Servius shoved Ivy to her knees and tapped his forearms together. A blast of wind slammed into Grey and tossed him into the bookshelves behind him. The air burst from Grey’s lungs, a fiery agony exploded through his chest, and the shelf boards cracked, tumbling him and all the books to the floor.

  “He—” Jet rolled to her hands and knees. “He has the—”

  Grey jerked the Colt up and fired. The bullet hit her in the head, sending a spray of bloody mist across the floor, and she collapsed, her eyes wide and vacant.

  Servius’s eyes narrowed. “He has the what?”

  “The temper of a fire drake,” Grey growled as he stood. “Let Ivy go, give me the coin, and I won’t send you to Tobias in little pieces.”

 
“I didn’t think you worked for Tobias.”

  “Maybe I’m trying to get into the prince’s good graces.” Grey met Ivy’s gaze, unable to resist the draw of her soul on his, even though it risked revealing to Servius how much she meant to him. The fear of losing her that had clamped tight before he’d entered the Handmaiden’s residence now ignited into a rage, and a growl bubbled in his throat.

  Look away. Just God damned look away.

  But he couldn’t. He was lost in her eyes. She was his lifeline, his focus.

  The rest of the room clicked into sharp clarity, every crack in the stone-tiled floor. Jet’s blood oozed into the grooves between those tiles. Servius’s gaze was wary, while Ivy’s was tight but attentive. She was waiting on his lead. She’d gotten off her knees, but remained crouched, ready to bolt as soon as he gave the sign.

  Except Servius could control wind — a surprising revelation since the black drake had managed to keep quiet even the suggestion that he possessed an earth magic ability. If Ivy made a run for it, Servius could just grab her with his wind. Of course, if Grey distracted him, she might be able to get away.

  Servius glanced at Ivy then back to Grey. “You think rescuing Regis’s favorite spy will help with that?”

  Grey offered a half shrug. Better to not let Servius know what Ivy meant to him.

  “Regis is soul sick.”

  “That’s why the coin and the green drake are going to Tobias.” Grey adjusted his grip on the Colt, keeping it half-hidden by his thigh. He had three shots left.

  “Then leave them with me. I’ll be emperor before the day is done.”

  “And how many drakes will be left?” He had to make it count, and the first shot would have to be from the hip, like how the gunslingers shot in the cowboy movies — something that had always looked impressive but he had no experience with.

  “How many drakes will be left if Regis remains?” Servius asked. “Someone has to do something, and that someone is me.”

  “Let’s wait for the Handmaiden to return and get her blessing.”

  “That bitch can go to hell.” Servius flashed his teeth. “She’s just as complicit as Regis is in his atrocities.”

  Grey jerked the gun up and fired. Ivy dove away from Servius. He tapped his arms and a blast of wind slammed Grey back into the wall. Blood welled in a thick line along Servius’s cheek. If it hadn’t been for the wind, Grey would have shot him in the head.

  Ivy was still scrambling away — a few feet and growing — while Servius roared, his eyes wild with rage. Grey leapt up and raced toward him. All he needed was to buy Ivy time to get away. After that—

  Well, he had no idea. Maybe Diablo would make a miraculous appearance and help, or Ivy would get her hands on a gun and shoot Servius.

  Another blast of wind swept Grey into the air and threw him into the second story railing. His legs tipped up, and he toppled backward onto the landing and skidded through the broken glass into the Handmaiden’s antechamber.

  Grey scrambled to his feet, his back burning with glass cuts, and rushed back onto the balcony. Ivy screamed and grabbed at a wind-rope now lashed around her neck. With a twist of his hand, Servius jerked her back into his grasp. At his feet, Jet groaned and climbed onto her hands and knees, already starting to recover from the gunshot.

  “Do your job,” Servius growled. “Kill him.” His gaze locked on Grey’s, and he bared his teeth with full aggression. The black vortex of a gate formed against the bookshelf beside him and he dragged Ivy through.

  Grey’s thoughts stuttered. How the hell had he summoned a gate with the Handmaiden’s gatelock in full effect?

  His memories flickered at the edge of his vision and he mentally wrenched forward the memory of Ivy’s aura.

  Jet staggered to her feet and drew a sidearm from inside her jacket. “You’re fucking dead.”

  She fired two quick shots, and Grey leapt back into the doorway to the antechamber.

  The front door flew open, and Diablo rushed in, holding his borrowed short sword. Blood crusted along one side of his jeans and jacket, but it didn’t drip onto the floor, indicating whatever injuries he’d sustained from the grenade had already healed.

  “Took you long enough,” Grey said, now more than ever wishing he could heal that fast.

  Jet’s footsteps rushed up the stairs and Diablo quirked an eyebrow. “You haven’t killed her yet?”

  “Don’t think I haven’t been trying.”

  “Jeez. Amateurs.” He raced past Grey onto the second story landing. Two more quick shots erupted then Jet and Diablo raced into the doorway — Diablo missing his sword. Diablo yanked the gun from her hand and slammed his elbow into her jaw.

  Grey shoved the Colt into the back of his jeans and drew the medallion’s chain off over his head.

  Jet yanked a knife from a hidden sheath in her jacket and sliced at Diablo’s arms, her movement jerky and her expression tight. He leapt back, but kicked her in the chest and shoved her into Grey. He wrapped his forearm around her neck and pressed the medallion against her back. With three quick words, he activated its magic and heat roared from the medallion, over his hands, and enveloped Jet. Her body went rigid. She screamed and flames rushed over her.

  Diablo wrenched back. “Holy Mother,” he hissed, his eyes wide, as if he’d never seen the assassin’s medallion in action — and if he hadn’t spent any time with Hunter while he was working, he probably never had.

  The fire flared with blinding brilliance, then whooshed back into the medallion, filling Grey with an unsettling chill. Jet’s eyes rolled back and she collapsed to the floor, her soul in the medallion and no longer in her human vessel.

  Grey slung the medallion back around his neck and dropped beside her, his chest burning with the agony of cracked ribs and more gashes than he wanted to acknowledge. Somehow he managed to keep his concentration on Ivy’s aura as he ripped open Jet’s jacket and did a quick search for weapons. She’d used all but two small throwing knives and a grenade. Not worth it, and there wasn’t enough time to search for anything she’d really hidden on her person. Ivy was still in danger, and now Servius had the finished rebirth coin.

  “Do you still have the rifle and the extra magazine?” He straightened and strode to the exit, his body screaming at the movement.

  “I can’t endanger my coterie by going to Court with you.” Diablo didn’t sound happy about that.

  Grey opened the outside door and grabbed for his broadsword, but the tendons in his wrists hadn’t knitted back together, and he couldn’t get his fingers to work. “I know, but I can’t let him get the medallion out of the arena.”

  “And you sure as hell can’t face him alone. You’re bleeding from— I have no idea how many wounds, and you can’t even pick up your sword.”

  “The bleeding will stop.” Eventually. It was his broken ribs that were going to keep hurting for longer than he liked. Grey grabbed the sword with his left hand. “And the tendons will work when I need them to.”

  “Yeah, and if I wish hard enough, my life would be normal.” Diablo rolled his eyes. “Just because you want something doesn’t mean it will happen.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Grey glanced across the garden, searching for the rifle. If he couldn’t find it in the next ten seconds, he had to move on. Servius already had a head start and Grey still had to get outside of the gatelock before he could summon a gate to Court.

  A crater lay off to the side of the garden, and a whole section of ice shrubs and miniature trees had been shattered. A trail of blood, bright red against all the white, led halfway from the Handmaiden’s door to a half-destroyed wall of ice shrubs, and there, mostly hidden by a chunk of ice, was the Springfield. “You’re going to call Capri and tell her to tell Tobias what’s going on. We were friends before I became royal enemy number one. That should keep your puzur safe. I just have to hold out long enough for that.”

  “He’ll have to arrest you.”

  “Then he’ll arrest me. Servius
can’t have the coin and neither can Regis. Tobias understands that.”

  “Really?”

  “He wouldn’t have called me in at the beginning of this mess if he didn’t.” And Grey prayed that was the case. He rushed toward the rifle, struggling to sheathe the broadsword at his hip while holding it in the wrong hand.

  Diablo raced up beside him, grabbed the sword from Grey, seized his waistband to stop him, and slid the blade into the sheath. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

  “As long as Ivy is safe, I don’t care.” And that was the only thing that mattered. He had to save her, and with Servius controlling wind — and Grey’s current state of injury — the odds weren’t good that he’d be able to stop him. Slowing him down would have to be the goal.

  “I’m pretty sure she’d disagree with that.”

  Grey shoved away from Diablo, bent — agony snapping through his chest at the movement — and retrieved the rifle. “The magazine?”

  “You’re a fucking moron.” Diablo yanked the rifle from Grey and replaced the magazine.

  “I just need to stall him and get Ivy to safety.” Grey took the rifle back and rushed toward the tunnel.

  Diablo raced after him. “She’s a dragon, too. She more than proved that when she took Bolo’s head.”

  “I know that. But she’s still a hatchling. She has no fighting experience and no magic that’s useful in combat.” The shadows in the tunnel enveloped him, and the tingle of the gatelock weakened. “Servius can gate through a gatelock. I have no idea how powerful he is and I’m not stupid enough to think I can take him on my own. I don’t have any combat magic, either.” He caught Diablo’s dark gaze. The black drake’s expression was hard to read. He didn’t look happy, but Grey wasn’t sure about what. “I promise I won’t endanger your puzur when I’m arrested.”

  “I’ve seen the results of the prince’s torturer’s magic. I’m not willing to take that bet.” He glared at Grey. “And what about the medallion? What will you do if Regis gets his hands on that?”