Blood and Fire

by Dana Lyons

  Her question seemed to confound him. “Why do you ask, Agent?”

  “Just trying to understand the creator.”

  He flicked an eyebrow. “The goal, my goal, is to improve humanity. To bring in a replacement for the lesser aspects of human behavior--call it closing some of Pandora’s Box. By breeding out greed, jealousy, lust, coveting, and envy, I believe we would live in a better world. Wouldn’t you consider such house cleaning to be a benefit?”

  “Theoretically, of course.”

  “Ah. You don’t question my motives and the ‘destination’ as you call it, just my qualifications for the job.”

  Don’t play games with me, she thought. “Doesn’t the dragon’s blood thirst support my challenge to what you claim is the benefit?”

  “You’re mixing dragons and humans—apples and oranges,” he answered glibly. “Do you speak out of worry for Pantheon, or yourself?”

  His face displayed no shame, no guilt. When she didn’t answer, he waved his hand in dismissal. “There would be no thirst in the dragons if the protocols were followed.” He shrugged. “I did what I could. I’m not responsible, as I have said before.”

  “That’s the difference between you and God,” she said. “He accepts responsibility; you don’t. Tell me about the blood thirst. What causes it?”

  He took his time answering. “Blood thirst is roused by flying, which is why flight is forbidden. Your killer is a flyer.”

  “Why does flying cause this thirst?”

  “Because flying shrinks the human mind and expands the dragon presence.” He leaned forward, speaking explicitly, his tone more warning than his words. “You don’t want to know what’s on a dragon’s mind.”

  His words reverberated with risk. She licked her lips and refused to shudder. “What can we do to catch a flyer?”

  “Ask other dragons if they’ve seen a dragon flying. Monitor their watches for overtime. See if another body shows up.”

  This announcement was delivered with straight forward logic. She looked down so he wouldn’t see the rage, the desire she felt to wrap her hands around his throat and choke the—

  Rhys suddenly sat next to her. He cleared his throat and nudged her foot.

  She coughed and shifted in her seat, working to contain her explosive urges. Once in control, she cocked her head and squinted at Lazar with a frown. “Did you say ‘see if another body shows up?’ That’s how you value life here on Draco? That’s your suggestion, the best your genius can offer?”

  His eyes lost their amusement. “Other than shutting down the entire surface operation and retraining all eight hundred dragons, yes. Those are your options.” He smiled, a flat line. “You see, Agent, it’s not the value of life you’re up against, it’s Pantheon’s bottom line. You don’t have to look deep to see they’re the true criminals here.”

  As much as she agreed with him, she retracted her indignant posture and refused to react to his baiting. His obfuscation told her he was most certainly up to something. “Thank you, doctor.” She rose, needing to exit before she laid hands on him. “We’ll likely be back with more questions.”

  “You know where to find me. And, by the way, Agent. You’ll need another, you should know.”

  “Another what?”

  He didn’t answer, but stared at her with a spread of happy crinkles around his eyes and a smug grin. His lofty I-know-more-than-you attitude was clearly designed to push her buttons. Despite her resistance, he was successful. They played chess, only his pieces were invisible. She turned on her heel and walked out with Rhys and Quinn behind her.

  Once they left, Lazar opened a desk drawer and removed an attaché case. He flipped the latches and opened the metal case, examining the contents. “Yes. One sample of pure Nobility, one sample of not-so-pure Nobility.”

  He hummed as he made sure the two vials were secure before placing the case into a cardboard sleeve. He secured the sealing tabs, attached the label to the package and smoothed the edges repeatedly. From the lab, he went straight to the shipping office. “Hey, Max,” he greeted.

  “Doctor L, how are you?”

  “I’m well, Max. Do you need any more medicine for your arthritis?”

  “I do, Doc, that’s real nice of you. It sure helps with the pain.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” Lazar offered. “Can you process this and get it on the next flight out?”

  “Sure. What do you have in here? Anything liquid, explosive, flammable, toxic or hazardous?” He shook the package.

  “None of the above,” Lazar answered. “Nothing but paperwork in there, you know—boring scientific stuff. You don’t have to x-ray it.”

  “If you say so, Doc.” Max shook the package again, then stamped it ‘Passed’.

  “Say, when do you want to come by for that medicine?”

  “How about tomorrow?”

  The package moved down the rollers and out into the processing area. Lazar smiled as he watched.

  Next stop, Earth.

  Suddenly, he heard Max. “Tomorrow? Oh yes. Tomorrow, come by my office.” He walked out, rubbing his hands together.

  * * *

  Dreya took a seat at the bar at the End of the Line with Rhys and Quinn on either side. “Lazar really irritates me.”

  Quinn quietly said, “He makes me want to do things … I swore never to do again.”

  She shot him a quick glance. The words were threatening, but the tone of his voice is what chilled her; she wondered what actions he referred to. As little as she knew about Rhys, she knew even less about Quinn.

  Rhys waved at the bartender, held up three fingers and mouthed ‘tequila’. He said to her, “I thought you were going to jump up and kick his ass, necessitating me saving you.”

  “Do tell, how were you going to save me?” She lifted one brow in expectation of a good story.

  “Not to worry. One of us,” he waved at Quinn, “would have thought of something. That Lazar—boy, what a piece of work. Makes me wonder if all geniuses are psychopaths with a God complex.”

  The bartender set down their shots. They tossed them back and placed the empties on the bar. Dreya wiped her mouth, relishing the tequila burn going down her throat. She needed something to erase the taste of Pantheon’s lies. She signaled the bartender another round; he brought the bottle.

  “This is what I hate about our job,” she lamented.

  “What’s that?” Quinn responded.

  She lifted her shot glass and examined the clear alcohol. “A murder is going to happen. And we can’t do anything to stop it.” She tipped her glass and drained its contents.

  “I have an idea,” Rhys said.

  She and Quinn turned to him in unison.

  “Simon has a ton of bio metadata from their watches. There must be a ‘tell’, something in all that data that indicates such a profound change as turning into a cold-blooded killer.” He set his glass on the bar. “Pay for my drinks. I’m going up to the med lab.”

  He took off in a rush, reminding her of how he got from place to place so quickly in DC.

  “He’s dedicated,” Quinn said.

  “He has a lot on his mind.”

  They all had a lot on their minds. She couldn’t rest for a minute without her thoughts turning to the future. What was going to happen to them? Keeping such a monumental secret in their line of work would require some cover. Who could they tell about what they were?

  “Can we talk?” He set his drink down and turned his pretty eyes on her. Only they weren’t pretty, they were creased and shaded with pain.

  She looked about and saw the bar filling up. “Must be shift change somewhere. Let’s go back to the room.”

  They paid and walked to their room. She had a jittery stomach in response to the wave of uncertainty coming off Quinn. Inside their room, she sat. He paced. She let him walk it out, waiting. But the longer he paced, the more anxious she became. “Quinn?”

  He stopped abruptly. “I can’t do this.” His eyes were troubl
ed, his brow creased, his lips pulled in a grimace of pain.

  “What can’t you do?” she asked. His emotions were a jumble she couldn’t decipher. She had no idea what he was going to say, and that frightened her.

  “I can’t be part of a team.”

  She exhaled through pursed lips. Okay, she thought, got that out in the open.

  His hands were shoved in his pockets, his expression sad. “I can’t … join another team.”

  The pacing renewed, keeping him in motion. The more he walked, the more angst and agitation rolled off him. Wondering what drove him, she cringed, wanting to touch him, to sooth his troubles. She remembered how he liked his head scratched when he was a wolf. “Come here, sit. Do that for me, please.”

  He hesitated.

  Frightened … of me? Or himself?

  “Just sit next to me. No, lay down on the couch. Put your head in my lap.”

  “I can’t mate with you—”

  “Not asking you to mate with me. Asking you to come here and let me touch you. You keep your clothes on, I promise.”

  He laughed, but the sound was brittle, the expression on his face confused.

  “Just be still for a minute,” she coaxed.

  With a shrug, he lay down and placed his head in her lap. When he got settled, she closed her eyes and gently put her hands on his face. His eyelids flinched a few times as she felt her way across his face, but she got the lay of things, and he relaxed.

  At first, his invading emotions were turbulent, swirling like a maelstrom … a questioning void pushing for answers. She understood his need. She, too, had to have answers—from him, from Rhys, from Lazar.

  His skin was smooth with a slight stubble on his cheeks. She closed out all sounds and thoughts, and placed her focus in her finger tips.

  She stroked his forehead, and rubbed her thumbs across his eyebrows. She massaged the bridge of his nose and gently pinched his upper cheeks, releasing them with a ‘plop’. When she did the same to his lips, he broke into laughter.

  From his face, she moved to his scalp, raking her fingernails across his head and pulling his hair lightly. She scratched behind his ears and stroked his hair away from his forehead.

  He was like putty, formless, his long legs jutting out from the end of the couch. His emotional storm had dissipated. He was physically relaxed, but underneath, she detected a pervasive sadness. She wanted to ask, ‘What bothers you?’, but resisted, hoping he would come to speak of it on his own.

  Her fingers idly touched his head and stroked his face, quietly calming him. She lay her head back against the couch and kept her eyes closed, feeling his breath on her fingers, sensing his heartbeat coming into sync with hers. The telepathy opened up between them.

  I’m fighting Nobility.

  She smiled. Then you’re fighting yourself.

  I can’t even define Nobility. But it’s pulling my feet out from under me.

  Yes, I know the feeling. I fight Nobility because I don’t know where it’s taking us.

  His eyes opened and he kissed her fingers. “As much as I want to make love with you, I can’t be hard-wired into a team,” he whispered. He pressed her hand to his lips. “Dreya. I can’t.”

  All she heard was ‘can’t’. What she didn’t hear was exactly what he couldn’t do and why. “And yet Nobility compels you to stay with us. You mentioned another team. Tell me.”

  A long pause came before he spoke, his words so soft she barely heard them. But her mind felt every syllable of pain.

  “I had a team, and they’re all dead. I’m the only survivor.”

  “Is that why you get up at night?”

  He nodded. She gently placed her fingers over his eyes, a gesture that required the utmost trust. She opened her heart and mind, seeking answers without speaking the difficult words. Do you blame yourself?

  I blame God.

  Divinity was a difficult concept to hold onto in their line of work. The closest conversation she had with God was talking to Lazar. What do you blame God for?

  For letting me live. And now I don’t deserve to be part of you and—

  His forehead wrinkled under her fingers. She smoothed his brow while she spoke. “I used to not put much stock in talk of God … until I survived a corrupt sample of Nobility. Why did we live, Quinn, when so many others died? If you blame Divinity for you surviving your team, who do you blame for surviving Nobility?”

  He didn’t attempt an answer. She understood. The question overwhelmed her also. Not being human disturbed her psyche more than she could voice; keeping this incredible secret weighed tremendously on her shoulders; the thought of not being in control made her grind her teeth.

  She relaxed her jaws and exhaled deeply. Her chaotic, panic driven thoughts were of no help to either of them. “If I blame anyone, it’s Smith. If anyone’s responsible, it’s Lazar. If I have to mention God, I thank him for saving you twice and bringing you to me now. I want you to stay with us. The team and the mating—we’ll sort that out. But not today.”

  The words were from her heart, expressing her need for him to remain in her life. In the quiet, he whispered, “How do you do it? How do you know … what to say to me … how to touch me? Is it the alpha thing?”

  Remembering her conversation yesterday with Rhys, she twisted her lips in a wry smile. The secret was in Nobility. Nobility opened her mind to his thoughts and emotions, so there was no grey area, everything was clear. “Our minds touch. There’s no garbage between us—what we share is pure.” She shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know if that makes any sense, but I see you … inside.”

  “Hmm.” He went still. “I wonder what we’ll be like once we mate.”

  “Mating is a life time commitment,” she reminded.

  He tensed under her fingers and she rushed to finish. “Let’s see where Nobility takes us. One day and one problem at a time.” He relaxed under her hands and they stayed on the couch with him finally falling asleep. His breath came soft and regular.

  She didn’t know where they were going, and that frightened her. Nobility may be without definition, but it would certainly define them, of that she was certain. She just wasn’t sure how. With a madman like Lazar at the controls, none of humanity was safe.

  Nobility had changed her irreversibly. As the future came under similar assault, Lazar’s earlier words, ‘you’ll need another’ fired even more questions. Another dose of Nobility? What did he mean?

  Lazar definitely must die … but not yet.

  * * *

  Nate Givens crawled into bed with his Infinity screen set for cool blue ocean and sleep.

  No blood. No fire. No flying.

  He lay on his back, running the video in his mind of being at the waterslide park with his mother, of playing ball and running with a kite when he was a kid. He smiled with these happy images and drifted into sleep. About two hours later, his thalamus began sending sensory information to his cerebral cortex, stirring his memories of flying, of ripping out a human’s throat, of blood and fire—

  Soaked in sweat, he woke with visions bubbling in his mind.

  Blood and fire; fire and blood.

  His dragon mind was alive with the inherent nature of the beast. His dragon brain wanted more blood, more flying, more life as dragon—it was the instinctual drive for supremacy. And only flying, blood and fire, would calm the drive.

  He rolled out of bed and turned off the Infinity screen. His head ached from the pressure with the dreams, or nightmares, depending on who you asked. The human saw nightmares; the dragon saw excitement.

  “No,” he chanted. “I’m human. I want to be human. I don’t want to fly again, don’t want to kill any more people.”

  But the memories could not be erased. The biological thrill of flying; the physical exaltation of being dragon; the sheer emotional ecstasy of draining a human body was all too much to deny.

  He placed his head in his hands. There was no rest, no relief from the craving, from the hot desire to
quench his blood thirst again. As much as he swore he would never give his mind over to the dragon and fly again—

  The dragon’s going to win this one.

  He reached for his pants.

  * * *

  Nelson Rhodes looked at his watch and grimaced. He had been warned, ‘Don’t go to Draco unless you like to work’. What they should have said was ‘being a plumber on Draco Station meant never having any time off.’ A water leak on a space station was a potential disaster, hence his 1A rating and prime pay rate.

  “But I work too much,” he said, tossing his wrench in his tool bucket. He mopped up the last of the spilled water and tested the line again. “Dry. Good. I’m done.”

  He stood up. Seeing someone suddenly behind him, he jumped. “Damn, dude, you scared me.” He clutched his chest and gasped.

  “I have a drip in my residence. Can you take a look? The noise, you know, drip, drip, drip—it’s keeping me awake.”

  Rhodes moaned. “Man, look what time it is.”

  “I’ll pay you extra, and you don’t have to turn the work order in. Just a quick repair and easy cash in your pocket.”

  He weighed his options.

  What else am I going to do in the middle of the night?

  “All right,” he relented. “Show me where. And that’s a double charge plus the extra you promised.”

  “I really appreciate you doing this. Right this way.”

  “Your face looks familiar. What’s your name?”

  “You can call me Nate.”

  “Oh, yeah. Now I remember. You’re the Pantheon poster boy for Draco Demons. Glad to help, Nate.”

  * * *

  At 5:00 A.M. Lazar gave up trying to sleep and rose, taking his first cup of cappuccino. Often his mind was too busy to allow more than a minimum of sleep; today was such a day. The new computations he ran about the generational impact of Nobility on the human genome versus corrupted Nobility were intriguing.