Fireborn (The Dark Dragon Chronicles Book 2)

by Ripley Harper

  I never did develop the reflexes to avoid the whip or break the chains. I couldn’t get the plants to grow or expel the water from my lungs. I didn’t learn to control the air currents, and one of my falls fractured my femur so badly it took a nine-hour surgery to save my leg.

  And now they want to drill me into the magic of fire.

  I look at Jack Pendragon. Then I look at Ingrid.

  “What are you going to do to me?” I ask, not even trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice. “Throw me into the fire?”

  “Of course not, little one,” Ingrid says soothingly as she takes my hand in hers.

  I yank it back.

  Jack Pendragon gives the enormous fireplace a considering look. “That might not be such a bad idea,” he says slowly.

  A pulse of fear shivers through me.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Ingrid’s tone is firm despite her deathly pale face. “So far the drills have only made her weaker, and I personally ensured that the Masked Ones follow all the tried and tested protocols. I won’t risk her health any further, and certainly not for some experiment you’ve suddenly decided to cook up out of the blue.”

  “It wasn’t her health I wanted to risk,” Jack Pendragon says. “Zig, recite your little rhyme for us again.”

  Zig’s icy silver eyes grow even icier. “The Old Words is not ‘a little rhyme.’ It is holy and absolute, the only pure source of good in this broken world –”

  “Oh, spare me the sermon.” Jack Pendragon raises an open hand towards Ingrid, as if appealing for sympathy. “You have no idea how tiresome it is to surround yourself with these religious fanatics on a daily basis. I swear, if they weren’t so good at killing, I’d have gotten rid of the lot of them long ago.”

  I sneak a glance at Zig, hoping he’d lose his temper, but he just stares straight ahead, his face now carefully blank again.

  “The words,” Jack Pendragon says impatiently. “This is a direct order. And for God’s sake, focus on the part where it mentions fire directly, and spare us all that flesh-eating melodrama.”

  When Zig begins to speak, all his earlier fervor is gone. “For those born of fire, the Horror will darken the light,” he says tonelessly. “For their protection, it shall devour the land. And the people shall be as fuel to its fire: neither woman nor man shall be spared.”

  Jack Pendragon gives a satisfied nod.

  “What exactly do you want us to take from that?” Ingrid asks.

  “For their protection it shall devour the land.” He repeats Zig’s words with a nasty little smirk on his face. “Jess just told us she extinguished a fire to protect a boy. And didn’t she bind me to protect the young Skykeeper? Oh, and we all know why she brought the Order’s court to its knees—it was to protect her beloved keepers, wasn’t it?

  “So?” Jonathan asks.

  “I think I understand.” Ingrid’s deathly white face is grim. “You don’t want to push Jess into the fire after all.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “You want to push me into the fire.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Oh God.” I look from the one to the other. “You’re both insane.”

  “You can’t touch me,” Ingrid tells Jack Pendragon wearily. “You should know that by now.”

  “Indeed,” he says. “But young Zig shouldn’t have the same problem.”

  “He refused to kill me earlier. Why would he do so now?”

  “It’s true, unfortunately; like the rest of his family, the young man has his principles. But he has his weaknesses too.”

  The snake tattooed on Zig’s face flicks once. “I will not harm the innocent.”

  “Don’t make me laugh. Nobody in this room is innocent, Ingrid Waymond least of all.” Jack Pendragon’s tone hardens. “You will push that old bitch into the fire—right now—or you will not see Amber alive again.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Yes.

  Zig looks into Jack Pendragon’s glittering eyes for a full minute. The tension in the room is unbearable. Then he crosses the room towards Ingrid, his face devoid of all expression.

  “Stop!” Ingrid cries, her hand splayed open towards him. Last year I saw her repel Jack Pendragon this way, but it doesn’t seem to work on Zig. He walks closer, seizes her upper arm, and starts pulling her towards the fire.

  “Leave her alone!”

  I jump up, grab his hand, try to pull him off her. But his strength is astonishing. It’s as if he doesn’t even notice I’m there.

  “Stop it,” I hear Jonathan say as Zig calmly and methodically walks Ingrid towards the fire, dragging me along as if my body’s made of air. “This isn’t right.”

  And then I don’t hear anything else because my entire world narrows to the act of stopping Zig.

  Zig is freakishly strong and he’s immune to Ingrid’s magic, but I’m desperate and far more dangerous than I look. So I draw on all those self-defense classes with Gunn, and I attack him in the way I’ve been taught to attack someone bigger and stronger than me when I can’t run away. I jab my fingers into his eyes. I bring my leg around and knee him in the groin. I throw a chopping blow to his throat. I headbutt the hardest part of my skull against his nose. I pull his hair towards me and bite his ear.

  Nothing.

  My nails scrape off his eyes as if they’re made of glass. His body feels like steel, his skin like marble. My headbutt doesn’t even make his eyes water. My teeth don’t even break his skin.

  As he nears the fire, he effortlessly flings me off him. The movement seems small, almost dismissive, but the force of it is so great I fly through the air, knock my head against the table, and land on the floor in a crumpled heap, gasping for air.

  Zig has Ingrid in his grip. She seems completely helpless: a weak, sick, old woman. They’re standing right next to the gigantic fireplace now.

  “Push her into the fire,” Jack Pendragon says.

  “Don’t do this, father.”

  I can’t breathe; the fall must’ve knocked the wind right out of me. The room is spinning, my head is on fire, my leg is sheer, utter agony.

  “Do it now.”

  Ingrid is fighting Zig, but her blows look almost comically weak. I try to scramble up despite the agony in my leg, my head spinning, my lungs fighting for air.

  “Please,” I wheeze, begging.

  Zig gives me one last look, his face impossible to read. Then he kicks Ingrid’s legs from under her, and when she falls, he pushes her into the fire as she screams and screams.

  Chapter 5

  The death cries of my keeper awake me from my slumber.

  I am in the lair of an old acquaintance. A cursed place: the nest where the damaged ones reside.

  I do not emerge from the mist, but I peer through the veil into the gloom. I do not unfurl my limbs, but I allow myself to feel the weight of my life-force. My human form is injured but her life-force is still strong, and I am well-rested.

  I feel fully restored and powerful, if a little irritated by this early awakening.

  Through the mist, I perceive that a Slayer is forcing my Keeper’s fragile human body into the fire. This does not please me. Her body is close to death, and I do not want her time on this earth to be cut short.

  Not this one’s.

  Her suffering provokes my ire, dragging me closer and closer towards the veil.

  I look upon the Slayer, attempting to determine why he should be acting so foolishly. To my surprise, I have enjoyed his constant presence these past weeks. His company has been strangely soothing: the way he continually recites that simple poem, over and over again, every second of every day, makes for a calming island of peace in the chaotic stream of all the others’ jumbled thoughts. He has also been remarkably effective in protecting my human form, even if the girl herself has been too blind to notice.

  Why would the Slayer turn against my Keeper now? Surely he must appreciate that this act would provoke my wrath?

  I know he fears me, as al
l true Slayers do. He lives in terrible dread of my awakening. Why then would he dare to stir me?

  I look into the thoughts of the damaged ones for the answer, but they flee from me, as terrified as children, and I do not pursue them. Their anguish moves me; I pity their brokenness and their shame.

  I have long avoided the harsh duty that awaits me here, for I feel only sorrow at what they have wrought in their arrogance and folly.

  I look into the thoughts of the Slayer, but he has mesmerized himself by the recital of his poem to block all his natural sensitivities from his consciousness while he tortures my Keeper.

  For a brief moment, I pity him too.

  He is still young, and this strategy will lead to its own kind of damage, in time.

  I do not look into the thoughts of my human form, although I long to, with a hunger that is alien to me. This one is precious to me, in a way that very few of the others have been, and I yearn to know her fully.

  But all in good time.

  Even the briefest flashes of my presence have alarmed her; she is human and innocent, in a way that few of the others have been.

  I treasure her humanity and I do not want to risk its loss. Not quite yet.

  I do not look into the mind of my old acquaintance either—that meeting can wait for another time. No, it is the mind of the boy that I finally delve into and, like all human beings, his thoughts are amusing and petty and ridiculous and tragically beautiful.

  When I finally understand what is happening here, I almost laugh at the superstitious ignorance in which these humans wallow.

  Firemagic!

  How amusing their simple beliefs are. How petty their need for control; how desperate their longing for order. They are foolish and blind, but in spite of my tolerance for the old misguided ways, I cannot allow my Keeper to suffer any longer. Not this one.

  This one loved me once, truly and deeply.

  And I have not often been loved.

  I unfold one long talon and reach through the mist to tear a thin strip through the veil. I allow my human form to feel the faintest glimmer of my power, just enough to lend her the strength to end this undignified farce.

  Then I close my eyes again. It is not my time yet.

  I fall back into my slumber.

  *

  I am screaming, hysterical with horror and fear. The room lurches around me when I try to stand; my leg is sheer agony, completely useless. I must’ve broken it again. I can’t move. I can’t breathe.

  And then I can.

  In the blink of an eye, my body fills with power and my mind calms as my spirit soars high and free.

  Oh dear God.

  I have almost forgotten how good it feels to be healthy and strong.

  I get up from the floor, and for the first time in months my leg doesn’t hurt when I put my weight on it. My body is powerful and full of energy, my mind is calm and at peace.

  I allow myself a second to revel in the sensation of wholeness before I focus on the plight of my keeper. By now the entire room smells like burnt flesh, and her screams of pain have become a low, voiceless, scratchy whine.

  When I reach him, the slayer makes a harsh sound, but he does not run from me, nor does he relax his hold on my keeper. Instead he closes his eyes and recites his poem with all the fervor of the desperate.

  I gently take my keeper from his grasp. He tries to resist, but his strength is no match for mine, naturally.

  Once I’ve brushed him off, I focus on my keeper, who is whimpering pitifully, her flesh red and weeping, blistered and blackened. I cradle her damaged body in my arms, lay her down carefully on the sofa, then place my hands on her wounds to take the pain from her.

  Oh!

  The moment I connect to her life-force, I am overwhelmed by her agony.

  She has been hurt by something far worse than fire tonight.

  Deep inside, her wounds are grave and terrible. Festering. When I realize that she is but a few breaths away from death, I look upon her with renewed respect, delighted by her strength. I cannot imagine what it must have cost her, earlier, to hide the extent of her injuries so well.

  Her courage pleases me.

  It doesn’t take too much of my energy to heal her, and I do it gladly. This woman may have her faults, especially now that she is old and tired and full of grief. But she is my last true remaining keeper, and I need her to be well.

  It is only when her health and her strength are restored, her life-force rushing through her body like a great river instead of a trickling stream, that I turn away from her.

  I have not forgotten that I am surrounded by enemies.

  I deal with Zig first. In this heightened state of awareness, with my body so strong and my mind so clear, I can plainly see that I will need this young man in the time to come. He is skilled in mysterious, half-forgotten ways few today can match, and I now understand, with great clarity, that those skills will be useful to me once the war begins.

  I cannot have him close to me, however, if he poses a danger to those who are mine.

  He will need to learn his place. If he cannot love me, he will have to fear me.

  When I turn around, he is about to slip from the room.

  “STAY.”

  He stops in his tracks but does not turn around.

  “Look at me.”

  “You have no power of me, monster.”

  “LOOK AT ME.”

  He makes an odd, reluctant, grunting sound but he turns around slowly, just like I knew he would. His body must obey me, even if his mind will not.

  When he’s finally facing me, he tries to avoid the magnificence of my gaze by looking down at the floor, but there is no escape for him, and when he cannot fight me any longer, he raises his head defiantly.

  Ah. I am pleased to note there’s not the slightest hint of fear in his eyes. Instead, his look is one of pure, unadulterated hatred.

  “Your powers will be useful to me in the coming war,” I tell him. “But if we are to work together, you need to understand who commands and who obeys.”

  “I will never obey you.”

  Fascinated, I mark the pure religious zeal in his eyes.

  Astonishing! Even now he is mumbling, reciting that simple poem to himself.

  I nod. So be it. “Your Old Words prescribes a concept of justice that not many still follow in this modern era.”

  “You know nothing about the Old Words,” he sneers.

  But he is wrong.

  Some of his mutterings must have penetrated my subconscious mind over the past weeks because I now recall whole reams of it, word for word.

  “For to balance the scales of justice,” I quote, “thou shalt give life for life, hand for hand, foot for foot, blow for blow, wound for wound, stripe for stripe, burning for burning.” I step closer to him. “Are those not your precious Old Words?”

  He glares at me, silent.

  “ANSWER ME.”

  “It is. But in the mouth of the Horror, even words of truth may be warped and twisted.”

  “I have not twisted anything. Those words reflect your morality, not mine.”

  “You have no morality.”

  “Maybe not.” I point a finger at him. “But you do. And by your own code, you must be punished in kind for what you did to my keeper tonight.”

  He flinches from me as I walk closer, but it’s a motion of disgust rather than fear. His gaze remains defiant, challenging me to do my worst.

  I smile.

  This young man will make a magnificent soldier. Truly, it might be unwise to injure him now. I look at the flames again, pondering, and he follows my gaze. Together, we take in its blazing, beautiful, deliciously destructive power.

  When he turns to me again his face is resigned, and I realize that he does not fear the coming agony of his burning flesh. He is already viewing himself as a martyr, already preparing himself to suffer for his beliefs.

  This is not ideal.

  The last thing I need is to strengthen his b
eliefs and encourage his fanaticism. He needs to fear me if he is to obey, but his religious conviction is protecting him from every natural form of terror and doubt.

  I take another step closer to him. And then closer again.

  “You can push me into the fire.” His voice trembles with his hatred. “You are filled with your evil power now, and I do not have my sword at my side. But I will never bow to you. No torture will sway me—I do not fear you, or any of your kind, and I never will.”

  I take another step. By now I’m standing so close I can reach out a hand to touch his face.

  Ah. His tattooed skin is surprisingly rough and warm under my hand: a living male animal.

  His eyes widen in surprise. And then disgust. “Take your hands off me!” he hisses, his silver eyes narrowing to thin slits.

  I put both hands against his cheeks to gently cup his face.

  “You cannot use those tricks on me, monster!” He gives a triumphant laugh. “I am immune to the shine. Don’t you know that?”

  I don’t move, don’t react at all. But secretly I am smiling because I now know exactly what I need to do.

  This young man believes me to be a monster. That is all he sees, all he ever allows himself to see. He has denied my humanity from the moment we first met, telling himself that I am a monster, over and over again.

  But I am not a monster.

  I am a girl.

  We are now standing so close I can feel his breath on my face.

  “Your tricks won’t work on me! I am immune to the shine! Your magic is useless!”

  I do not use any magic.

  All I do is to put my slender, girlish body against his. To pull his face closer, gently. To put my lips against his lips, softly.

  As the breath leaves his body in a shocked, harsh moan, I close my eyes and I kiss him as lightly and sweetly as I can.

  I do not try to seduce him, or to force my power into him, or to bend him to my will in any way. I merely rest the full vulnerability of my human body against his. I merely allow him to feel the slight form and the soft lips and the uncertain touch of a real girl against his hard, unloved, mistreated male form.