by Ruby Dixon
Fire In His Blood
Fireblood: Book 1
Ruby Dixon
Want to be notified when I have a new release? Sign up for my newsletter or follow me on Facebook!
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Ice Planet Barbarians
Ruby Dixon Reading List
WANT MORE?
Fire In His Blood
Years ago, the skies ripped open and the world was destroyed in fire and ash. Dragons - once creatures of legend - are the enemy. Vicious and unpredictable, they rule the skies of the ruined cities, forcing humanity to huddle behind barricades for safety.
Claudia's a survivor. She scrapes by as best as she can in a hard, dangerous world. When she runs afoul of the law, she's left as bait in dragon territory. She only has one chance to survive - to somehow 'tame' a dragon and get it to obey her.
Except the dragon that finds her is as wild and brutal as any other...and he's not interested in obeying.
What he is interested in is a mate.
Copyright © 2017 by Ruby Dixon
Photo by: Sara Eirew Photographer
Cover Design by: Kati Wilde
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
1
2023, Fort Dallas
Seven Years After The Rift
CLAUDIA
As far as jail cells go, this one’s pretty decent. I mean, I’ve been in my fair share over the last few years, and most of them are converted storage closets or small, reinforced rooms. This one has a small cot in the corner, a bucket for personal use, and the door’s a barbed wire frame that allows me to look out on the rest of the makeshift jail. Considering that the last time I spent a few days in one of these places I was left in the dark entirely, this feels posh.
Which means I am probably completely and totally screwed.
I’m not a negative person. Not normally. I’m more of a ‘let’s make lemonade and sell it’ person. Doesn’t do any good to cry over lemons. Then again, I’d kill to have a lemon right about now. I don’t think I’ve seen a bit of fruit since the Rift. I imagine fruit trees were one of the first things to go. Anyhow, it isn’t in me to cry and weep over my fate. That interferes with getting shit done, and there’s always entirely too much shit to get done. If there’s a setback—and let’s face it, there always is—I regroup and attack it with a new game plan. I have people depending on me, and there’s no time to mope.
But I can’t help but feel a little worried when the two guards in the jail keep glancing over at my cell and whispering to each other. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I’m pretty sure it’s nothing good. I give them my best hard stare and try to look fierce. Girls that are weak and soft—like Amy and Sasha—get taken advantage of. I’m not letting anyone do that to me.
Amy. My sister. God, she’s going to be so worried. I’ve been stuck here for almost two weeks now. While my little sister is used to me flitting in and out thanks to my scavenging runs, two weeks is too long. She’s going to be frantic. I hope she doesn’t go after me.
I really, really hope she doesn’t pay someone to go after me. We don’t have any money, and girls our age only have one other option in Fort Dallas. I’ve told Amy she doesn’t have to do that, but I worry she won’t listen. That panic will take over and she’ll do something she regrets.
Stay put, I mentally command my sister. Stay calm. I’ll be home soon.
Or…not, I think as I eye my jail cell once more.
The guards are watching me again. Shit. I’ve been here a while now, and with nothing to do but people-watch as others come and go, I’ve learned which expression means ‘time to change the poop bucket‘ and which expression means trouble.
The look I’m getting right now? Major trouble.
I just smile innocently. No big deal. This is me, absolutely not freaking out.
If they came over to harass me and comment about my tits, that’s one thing. I know what to expect from that. All this whispering and staring? I worry that something bad is happening. I can’t quite shake that feeling. Given that this is the longest I’ve ever been held in a cell, I’m afraid I won’t make it back home again.
That feeling only gets stronger when they both take a look over at the yellowed dry-erase board on the wall and then glance at the door to the jail.
I’m not wrong. Something’s happening today.
In a way, I guess it’s a good thing. No more of this endless waiting-in-limbo crap. No more biting my ragged nails down to the quick, worrying. No more testing the concrete seams of my cell, trying to determine if there’s loose rock somewhere and I can dig an escape tunnel. No more watching shift after shift of the guards leaving, only to be replaced with a new shift.
I should be happy. And yet…
I bite my lip, thinking of my sister. Amy is at home, waiting for me to bring food and supplies and money after my scavenging trip. She’s still there and still hungry and helpless. I hate that. I hate that I’ve been stuck in this jail cell for two weeks. Our friend Sasha will take care of her, but…Sasha has her own worries. And Amy needs help. She’s only two years younger than my twenty-five, but she’s soft where I’m all hard edges. Amy can’t scavenge. She can’t hold a knife or throw a punch if someone tries to overpower her and steal what’s hers. I’m the one who watches her. And yeah, Amy’s been babied, first by our parents when they were alive, and by me and Sasha in the After. Amy’s leg broke during the Rift and it never set properly, so she walks with a bad limp. It never bothered me before because I was there to take care of her.
But now? I’m beating myself up, imagining Amy at home, starving. Amy limping to the nearest scavenger shop with whatever she can exchange for food. Amy selling herself, spreading her legs for one of the soldiers to make a little meal money like Sasha does…but Amy wouldn’t do that. Amy would starve first.
One of the guards—the one with the gut—glances at the door again and saunters over to my jail cell. He peers down through the barbed wire gate at me. “How we doin’ today?”
“Same as yesterday.” What, does he think I have a full schedule or something? I’m in a freaking jail cell on bogus charges. Well…a little bogus.
Teeny, tiny bit bogus.
At least, not entirely legit.
“Long night,” he comments, then rubs tired eyes.
“Oh, not me. I slept like a baby.” I give him my most winning smile. I’m going to try charm, I think. Weasel a few answers out of him. He’ll either run with the ball and start fingering his nightstick in a gross sort of way, or he’ll get suspicious. This is one time I’m hoping
my guard’s a creep.
He just frowns at me. “You slept through the dragon attack?”
All right, now he just thinks I’m a dummy. No one sleeps through a dragon attack, especially not one that’s out of pattern. I was up last night, too, huddled in a corner, hugging my knees to my chest and praying for it to end, which is how I spend every dragon attack.
The dragons usually attack like clockwork—the big golden ones attack every three days, just before noon. The smaller red ones attack daily for a week and then nothing for another three. No one ever attacks at night.
Except last night. And I don’t know what that means. And I can’t think about it because then I’ll worry about Amy, and it does no good to worry about Amy while I’m stuck in here.
“Sleep through the dragon attack? Me?” I shake my head and try to keep smiling. “I meant otherwise.”
He just looks at me like I’m crazy. Maybe I am. Flirting with a guard for information is a slippery slope.
“So,” I ask. “What’s on the agenda for today?”
The guard’s eyes narrow at me. Guess I’m being too obvious. Before he can say something, the door opens and another uniformed guard sticks his head in. He nods at my two captors, and the second man gets to his feet. The guard at my door reaches for something in his belt. For a moment I worry it’s a nightstick, but when I hear the jangle of keys, I relax. I’m getting out.
One way or another. I mean, I might be getting punished, too, but at least it’s a chance.
The door creaks open and he flicks his fingers at me. “Come out, Miss Jones.”
I stand, my legs wobbly and achy, and step forward. I hug my old, worn T-shirt to my body and try to look helpless even as I scan the room. How hard will it be to make a run for it? I consider the empty ‘jailhouse’ and the other guard staring at me with avid interest by the desk. I could be faster than both of them, in theory, if they’re all that’s around. But if there’s one thing I know about Fort Dallas? There are always more soldiers. I discard the idea of escape; I fought when they threw me down here, but two weeks and several meals lighter, I’m too stiff and weak to do much fighting. I don’t even protest when the guard holds up handcuffs. What good will it do?
I stick my wrists out and keep my ‘I’m so helpful’ smile on my face, though it feels like I’m dying inside.
He leads me out of the jailhouse and into a long, dark corridor lit by only a few dusty windows. A new guard arrives, nods at the one walking at my side, and then they flank me and steer me down a crumbling concrete corridor and into an endless maze of broken concrete and ripped up flooring. An old, dull sign across the long hall that reads ‘Food Court’ reminds me that this part of Fort Dallas was once a shopping mall. The concrete-covered bazaar where the scavengers hold their swap-tents? An old parking garage. Memories of shopping and hanging out with friends after school float through my mind, but that was another life ago. That Claudia Jones is dead. She died in the Rift, and the skinny, gritty survivor I am today is the only one that remains. That Claudia knew about malls and schools and who was the lead singer of her favorite boy band. Survivor Claudia doesn’t remember much about the world before the fire and the Rift. Everything’s changed too much between now and then. To me, this building is just more of Fort Dallas. Crumbling. Broken down. Barren. Sorry. Charred.
Smoke lingers in the scent of the air and wisps through the sunlight, again making me think of dragons. The stink of it makes me weary and anxious all at once. The entire world’s nothing but fire and ash lately, and I’m just so sick of it all. I’m not an optimist like Amy. I don’t think things will get better at some point.
I think we just have to make do with what we’ve got. Maybe that’s why I’m the scavenger and Amy’s safe at home.
You’d better be safe, I mentally chide her. I’m going to kick your ass if you’re dead. The thought rips through me with such horror—Amy dead—that I stop in my tracks and bend over to puke.
“You sick?” The less-nice guard asks as I hork bile up on the concrete. “Or pregnant?”
I shoot him the bird when I’m done and wipe my mouth, shuddering. I’m neither. I’m just one of the many people in Fort Dallas who’s slowly starving to death. The jail isn’t exactly keen on three square. Yesterday, I got oatmeal, which was exciting until I found a giant dead bug in it. I ate it anyhow, bug and all. Oatmeal hasn’t been around since the Rift and it was probably expired anyhow. And bugs? Bugs are just protein.
‘Course, it might have been why I threw up.
One of the guards nudges me with his leg. “If you’re done stalling, shake a leg, all right? Mayor’s waiting on you.”
Oh yippee. The mayor? It’s definitely judgment day, and if I get the mayor to look over my trial, I’m screwed. I swallow hard and wipe my mouth on my dirty T-shirt. “I’m good.” The acrid scent of lingering smoke hangs in the air, even more ominous than before, and I think about the dragon attack from last night. Lots of bad things floating in the air lately.
The guards lead me through the remains of the shopping mall and into another shop. I don’t know what this shop was pre-Rift; the interior is clean and neat, and there’s a worn Persian rug on the floor and a fleet of plastic chairs lining the walls. A waiting room. My guards don’t lead me to one of the chairs, though. Instead, they take me through to a second chamber.
As they do, bright light floods my vision. I flinch instinctively and put my hands over my face, trying to shield it. Panic floods through me. Surely we’re not out in the open…are we? The open areas aren’t safe—protection comes from buildings with thick roofs and solid brick walls. Concrete. Underground places. Anywhere protected from flame and claw and ash.
But when my eyes adjust, I realize we’re just in a big room with a lot of windows, faded curtains drawn back to let the light and the view in. Not that there’s much of a view—ash and more rubble, oh, and a little more ash. I eye the curtains appreciatively, though. That much fabric? That’s enough blankets to buy a month’s worth of food in a swap-tent. Using all that nice, heavy fabric as a curtain seems kinda stupid. The rest of the room is bright sunlight and tile floors that are swept sparkling clean. I’m guessing this place was pretty before the Rift. Not a safe room, mind you, but pretty.
“Surprised you have the curtains open,” I murmur to my guards as they lead me forward. “What with the dragon last night and all.”
“That was last night,” the tall, leathery-faced one says, even as his hand pinches my arm a little tighter. “Should have almost a week of quiet now.”
“Mmm. So it was a red? How could anyone tell in the dark?”
He scowls down at me. “It’s close to time for a red. Must be one of them.”
I don’t like his easy confidence, but I don’t know that he’s wrong. The dragons came last night and rained fiery chaos down on the city, and we huddled in our concrete shelters and waited for the hours to pass. It is closer to time for a red, but it was still out of pattern. They shouldn’t be coming for a few days yet…and they never come at night, ever. Something about all of this is wrong.
But since the dragons did come last night, they shouldn’t come again for a few days. In theory, the sunlight should be safe today.
Nothing’s safe anymore, though. Not really. So we work with what we have.
A short, fat man with neatly combed gray hair sits at a desk in the center of the room. He looks up at the sight of me, a little frown on his face. His desk has a clutter of objects on it—a small globe (as if geography means anything anymore), a picture frame, and lots of papers. Behind him stand two other guards. I’ve seen the fat man walking around Fort Dallas before—the mayor. The mayor blinks at me, then opens a small plastic rectangle in front of him. I hear the clack of keys, and then he looks up.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
The man has a laptop. If that’s not the height of hypocrisy, I don’t know what is. Laptops are pretty much like unicorns and hot showers after the Rift—nonexistent. There’s
no electricity to charge them, and the batteries have to be recharged via hand-crank generator. Some people still cling to the old technology, which means that when you find some, it goes gangbusters in the swap-tents. We’re talking enough food to live like kings just for one functioning laptop.
It’s my dream to find one. Just one. Then I can get a real home for Amy, Sasha and me. Enough foodstuffs to not have to worry about where our next meal will come from. New clothes. A functioning laptop is like winning the lottery. I’ve found a few batteries in the Scavenge Lands before, but never one that would hold a charge. Batteries are almost as hot—if not hotter—than the laptops themselves. Any existing electronics, like guns, were confiscated by the New Militia in the shocked wake of the Rift, and people let them. Because they’re banned and so rare, electronics are now the hottest things on the black market.
I should know; I was trying to sell a laptop battery to Tucker the Trader when I got busted.
“Claudia James, you know your crimes?” The mayor straightens a pair of ugly, thick glasses perching on his nose. He looks tired. There’s soot on his clothing and a smear of it on his forehead. Not unusual; everyone’s cleaning soot off of everything for days after a bad dragon attack…just in time for the dragons to come again. I’m probably grimy with a layer of it myself.
Do I know my crimes? Of course I do. I just don’t think they’re crimes. The question is, should I feign innocence or be forthright? I study the mayor’s face, and he looks tired and annoyed. Innocence won’t work, then. All right, I’ll go with ballsy. “My crimes? I can take a wild stab at it if you want.”
The mayor peers at his laptop, then frowns at me again. He closes it gently and picks up a yellowed dry-erase board. Man, I don’t even warrant real paper? That sucks. “Claudia Jones,” the mayor reads aloud. “Held by the New Militia for trespassing, theft, black-marketeering, and attempting to evade the law. How do you plead?”