by Kallysten
“Petro’s a dragon, too,” Hazel said on a hunch, leaning a little forward to speak close to Isolda’s ear.
Isolda released a breath as she turned to her, then looked straight at Petro.
“You are? Really?”
Petro couldn’t shift in the confines of the apartment—he’d have knocked down a wall or two, and probably the ceiling too—but he had other ways to answer that question with more than words.
He blinked very slowly, his eyelids revealing gleaming golden pupils with vertical slits when they lifted again. A metallic glimmer shimmered over his exposed skin: his scales. They were an aged silver color, and in her mind Hazel could see just how beautifully they gleamed when he flew out under the sun in the open.
Blinded by her memories, Hazel barely saw Isolda stand and step forward to accept the shopping bags from Petro. She managed a faint smile when the child said good night and retreated to her room, but nothing more. She felt overcome by a deep sense of longing for the flights they’d taken together in the protected skies of Sanctuary. She’d never fly with him again like this—and her heart and soul both ached from this certainty.
When she pulled herself out of these dark thoughts, Petro was sitting in the spot Isolda had vacated, just far enough that Hazel’s knees didn’t quite touch his thigh. He was looking at her through eyes that gleamed once more, as though he needed the help of his dragon senses to see her better.
Before either of them could say a word, a light knock on the wall brought their attention to Leah, standing by the hallway.
“Sorry, lovebirds,” she said with an apologetic smile. “I didn’t mean to intrude. It’s just… I’m gonna turn in and I wanted to say… Thank you for getting me out of that place. Really.”
Standing, Hazel went to her friend and gave her a heartfelt hug.
“Like you have to thank us for that,” she muttered, barely pushing back some tears.
Leah laughed briefly and hugged her back.
“Good night,” she said, and added in a whisper, “Don’t be too loud, you don’t want to scare the kid.”
Her wink as she walked away made it quite clear what she meant. A hand seemed to tighten over Hazel’s heart until it was all she could do not to gasp in pain. The last time Leah had talked to Hazel and Petro before she’d been taken, they were very much an item; today, they were in this safe house together. Why would she doubt for one second that they weren’t together anymore?
Behind her, a brief crackling sound caught her attention. She turned to see Petro by the gas fireplace, silhouetted by the flames. Their eyes met across the room. Hazel’s body lurched toward him, yearning to be in his arms again… but her mind demanded otherwise.
“It’s late,” she heard herself say, barely recognizing her own voice. “Good night.”
His hand half rose toward her.
“Wait. Hazel, wait, please. Won’t you please sit with me for a moment?” He indicated the sofa. “Talk to me. Please.”
It used to be a game between them: seeing who would be able to get the other to say ‘please’ first. But this was no game anymore, was it? There was nothing she could say to him that would make this situation any better.
So why was she coming back into the room, why was she sitting on the edge of the sofa, her hands pressed together between her knees, watching from the corner of her eye as Petro sat next to her again?
“You’ve barely said three words to me in two months,” he said, and if his words sounded a little teasing, she could still hear the pain behind them.
She watched the flames in the fireplace rather than risk meeting his eyes again.
“I don’t know what you expect me to say,” she murmured. “I thought I’d said it all, actually.”
“You said more than I wanted to hear, sure. But you never explained why.”
She sat close enough to the fireplace that she could feel its heat radiating toward her, and still she found herself shivering in cold.
“Why?” she repeated blankly. “You know why.”
He’d been the one to say it first, after all. She may have three names on her wrist, it didn’t mean she could have three mates.
“But why—”
Before he could finish, someone said his name.
“Petro?”
Petro all but jumped, startled, and Hazel did the same.
“Petro, can you hear me?”
She looked around, searching for the owner of the voice. It sounded like a man, but Petro was the only man here. And they were alone.
Except for the young man’s face she could see right in the middle of the flames.
CHAPTER THREE
The bullet was still in.
Paul had heard it was a good thing, if there was such a thing as ‘good’ when one was shot. If the bullet was still in, it meant one wound instead of two. It also meant that it’d slow down the bleeding. Or at least that was what he’d heard. No one had mentioned the pain, however. Maybe because it’d have been stating the obvious.
He gritted his teeth and continued onward as fast as he could. With his left leg pulsing in agony and unable to support his weight, ‘as fast as he could’ wasn’t very fast at all. And the trail of blood droplets he left behind him would be as good as a neon sign to the officers looking for him. He’d heard barking earlier, and wasn’t sure if it’d been just a random dog or a police dog sniffing for him. Either way, all he could do was keep going.
The problem was, go where?
He didn’t need his confiscated car keys to start his car, but he didn’t know where the old clunker had been taken. He’d been on the lookout for a car he might be able to break into since escaping, but every car he’d seen was new enough to be equipped with an alarm that would rouse the entire town if he so much as touched it. He could disable an alarm with a bit of time, but not when the police were already on his tracks. He might as well put a giant glowing arrow over his head to indicate where he was.
There was no place in this small town where he could hide for long, no one here he trusted to take him in and help him get away. As far as he knew, there were no paras here—or if there were, they had the good sense to keep themselves and their powers hidden. Good sense he lacked, as this misadventure had proved once and for all.
It wasn’t that he bragged about what he could do—not really. He just liked the look of awe in people’s eyes when he showed them how he could control fire. Not create it; somehow making it clear that he couldn’t summon fire out of thin air always reassured people. But to watch him make the flame from a lighter change into various forms, or the fire tipping a candle leap harmlessly into his hand to execute a tap-dance number, those things were as good as magic for people.
Or at least, for some people.
The last girl he’d flirted with, a waitress in the lone restaurant of this little town he was driving through, had seemed downright fascinated. He’d been sure she’d end up comping his meal, especially after she’d sat at his table for a while. She’d asked questions that seemed innocent enough. And Paul, who’d been on the road for quite a while, had enjoyed the attention. It had ended abruptly when she’d excused herself to the ladies’ room… and had come back a while later with her father—the town’s sheriff.
Paul had always prided himself on his ability to ‘read’ people, and figure out within moments of meeting them whether it was safe to reveal himself as a para. Many people were scared of shifters, especially big ones like dragons. As far as he was concerned, they had a point. Dragons could be bullies, plain and simple. He knew that from personal experience. But abilities like his, more parlor tricks than potential weapons, didn’t frighten anyone. Not even the girl who’d ratted him out. Some humans were just prejudiced, and that was all there was to it.
In this town, prejudice seemed to be the norm rather than the exception.
He could hear a siren in the distance. He glanced back through the darkened street, and caught just a hint of blue and red lights alternating as far back
as he could see. He had to get off the street. If nothing else, he needed to get off his leg for a while.
He’d reached what looked to be the outskirts of the small town. The buildings around him, fewer and farther between, were warehouses and industrial lots. At this hour—it had to be close to midnight—surely they would be deserted. With a little luck, he might find a car or delivery truck he could borrow. At the very least, a place to hide for a while, rest his leg, and figure out what to do next.
The first building he stumbled to had no way in that he could see. The second one was closed with an old-fashioned padlock. The same thick paper clip that had helped Paul escape his cell came in handy again, and in no time he was entering the warehouse.
Leaning back against the door, he took in a deep breath of relief—and immediately coughed as a less than pleasant smell filled his nose and lungs. It was darker in here than in the street, but his eyes soon grew accustomed to the darkness, enough so that he realized what was all around him: mounds of neatly piled bags, some of them top soil, others manure of various types, all of it letting out a pungent smell of earth and decay.
Dragging his leg behind him, he looked around but didn’t find the delivery vehicle he’d hoped for. He ended up entering an office in the back of the building. The office was far enough from the street that he dared turn on the lights, and with the door closed he could trick himself into thinking he couldn’t smell the manure anymore.
One glass wall opened onto the warehouse while the rest of the office was plastered with printouts, three different calendars, and a bunch of family pictures with three smiling kids, all boys. He grimaced slightly at the sight; it’d been hard enough to have one big brother, how much worse would it have been to have two?
Half sitting, half collapsing into a swiveling chair whose seat cushion had been repaired with extensive amounts of Duct tape, Paul closed his eyes for a second and tried to steady his breathing. He probably ought to look at his leg, see if he could clean it up a bit or bandage it. He didn’t even want to try to remove the bullet. He wasn’t usually squeamish about blood… as long as it wasn’t his blood. He was going to need a hospital, or at least a doctor. But they’d ask questions. Report the bullet wound. And he’d be back where he’d started.
Damn it.
He needed help.
His parents had been dead for four years—cancer for his mother, heartbreak for his father a month later. He’d long ago lost contact with his uncle and lone cousin.
His friends… well, he did have friends. Just not the kind of friends who’d drop everything to come help him escape the police, especially when he hadn’t talked to them in… had it been two years already?
That only left one person… and it was less than certain that he’d want to help Paul. They hadn’t talked since their father’s funeral, and even then it’d been only a few insignificant words.
For a long moment, Paul tried to think of someone else—anyone else. He tried to make a plan. He even forced himself to look at his lower leg, cutting his jeans up to the wound with a pair of scissors he’d found on the desk and wiping the blood with bunched up tissues. He could see the bullet, the mere glint of metal shining behind the trickle of blood.
He clenched his teeth as hard as he could and tried to use the tip of the scissors to nudge the bullet upward. When the bullet didn’t move but he almost passed out from the pain, he had to admit to himself this wouldn’t work. He needed medical attention. Which meant he’d soon be back in jail, under the eyes of a sheriff who had delighted in informing him this town did not bother with trials for paras, and took care of its problems without calling the UIPP.
He could accept he’d soon die, or he could swallow his pride and try to contact his brother.
He rifled through the desk drawers a little more, and soon found what he needed: a slim box of matches. There were only four inside. Four chances to reach out to his brother. He took one out and sighed deeply before striking it against the side. A small flame crackled up, and Paul lost no time in cradling it into his palm, leaving the charred bit of wood on the desk.
His power didn’t consist only in manipulating fire. He could also talk through the fire, from flame to flame. All he needed was to have the person he wanted to talk to firmly set in his mind… and be lucky enough that this person would be near a flame. His first girlfriend, when he was in high school, used to keep a tea light lit in her room every night, so they were able to talk even when her parents took her cell phone away. But his brother hardly had a reason to keep a flame nearby.
Closing his eyes down to slits, Paul focused on his brother’s appearance, on his personality, on his voice, on his name. On all the things they’d shared and all the ways they’d clashed. Then he looked straight into the tiny flame in his hand and images started to appear.
Brick, on the sides and above: a fireplace. A room beyond it, dark, only illuminated by the flames from the hearth. A couch, and two people sitting on it, at either end. The woman was breathtakingly gorgeous, and Paul had to force himself to look away to the man. He sat with his whole body turned toward the woman, and his expression wasn’t anything Paul had ever seen on his face. Was he actually pleading with her? Was Mister Cockiness Incarnate himself pleading with a woman? Why would he?
Unless she was—
Paul’s heart stuttered and he forced his mind off that track. He didn’t have time for this now. He’d heard sirens go down the street twice already, and the second time the police car had seemed to be going much slower.
“Petro?” he said in the firmest, clearest voice he could muster. “Petro, can you hear me?”
He already knew the answer was a yes: at the sound of his name, Petro had nearly jumped off the couch, while the woman looked around with a frown. Could she hear Paul, then? Strange; usually, only the person he addressed could hear his voice. But he didn’t have time to wonder about it now.
“Paul?”
Petro’s voice sounded rough. He came to stand by the fireplace, looking down into the flames. He wouldn’t be able to see Paul, not like Paul could see him, but he still tried. He always did. His expression was a mix of surprise and badly hidden annoyance.
“What do you want now?”
Paul almost cut the communication right then. He’d lived all his life with his older brother’s disapproval, and he was sick and tired of it. Even when Paul had tried his best to impress him, Petro had always looked at him like he was an unwanted guest who’d overstayed his welcome. Part of it had been the thirteen years of age difference between them… but there had been more than that, of course. Better to get back to that jail and face the consequences coming for him than go through that game with Petro again.
The only thing that stopped him was that the woman had risen from the sofa, too, and she now knelt by the fireplace, looking at the flames as well… looking straight at Paul.
“How do you do that?” she asked, her voice a little breathless. “I never knew anyone—”
“You can see him?” Petro interrupted her sharply.
She looked up at him, and Paul felt a pang at seeing her eyes turn away from him. It was hard to tell their color through the flames, but they were clear, full of life, and feeling them on him had been like feeling the warmth of the sun. She wore her hair in a multitude of small braids and he had to clench his hand on his lap or he’d have futilely tried to reach out to caress them through the tiny flame in his palm. Was it her? Could it be that Petro had found her first?
“Yes I see him,” she told Petro. “Can’t you?”
“No, I never could,” he said, his tone milder now, and with a stifled sigh he knelt next to her before addressing Paul again. “What do you want, Brother?”
The sirens were going down the street again, growing louder, louder… but not decreasing this time. The car or cars had stopped nearby. Paul heard barking. He hurried to speak.
“Your help, if you’ll give it. I’ve gotten myself in a bit of a scrape. Arrested for being a para
and I don’t think they’ll give me a trial. I escaped but they shot me in the leg and—”
Out in the warehouse, a door creaked open. The flashing lights of the police cars filled the enclosed space.
“They’re here,” he said, speaking even faster. “I can’t escape on my own. Can you help?”
For the tiniest of instants, something dark crossed Petro’s eyes—something Paul had seen many times in the past, every time the subject of their mate tattoos had come up. He was sure Petro would say no. But then, the woman looked at Petro again, he met her eyes, and the darkness disappeared.
“I’ll help,” he said gruffly without looking at the flames again, his eyes remaining on the woman. “But you didn’t tell me—”
Outside his flimsy refuge, voices shouted, “He’s over there! In the office!”
“Freetown,” Paul said quickly. “Town’s name is Freetown.”
“But where—”
Hoping his brother had heard him, he snuffed out the flame. He swept the matchbox from the desk and hurriedly shoved it down his pants, hoping it’d be enough to smuggle them out. Maybe he’d get another chance to talk to Petro from the hospital. Surely he’d keep a flame near him, on the off chance Paul contacted him again. Would the woman still be with him? Paul found himself wishing she would be.
Raising both his hands over his head, he didn’t bother standing and merely waited for the officers to rush into the office. They did so with much shouting and threats, but Paul was too tired—and in too much pain—to be all that intimidated. The woman’s eyes still filled his mind, full of wonder and warmth.
He’d have given the world to know her name.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said tiredly at the demand that he raise his hands. “They’re already up. Can you put me in handcuffs already so I can lower my arms?”
“Get on your feet,” the same man ordered.
It was the officer who’d been on duty at the jail tonight—the one past whom Paul had slipped after jimmying the lock of his cell, and who’d awakened from his nap just in time to shoot wildly into a dark alley and get lucky with a leg shot. He looked ready to shoot again… and this time Paul had no doubt he’d shoot much higher. Paul stood, though he didn’t move forward.