by Leela Ash
“Daddy!”
Ethan stared at him. Insistent. Uncompromising. Sure that somehow, some way, his father could make everything all right.
That was love, Darian realized. It didn’t bend. It didn’t make excuses. It didn’t fail.
Love made whatever sacrifices were necessary.
In a flash, he understood what he needed to do.
Would he die for Tess? Yes.
Then why wouldn’t he eat crow for her?
“Ethan, pack. We’re going to be leaving soon.” He snatched up the phone.
“We’re saving Tess?”
“We are.”
The joy and pride that lit his son’s eyes gave him the strength to dial the number. To take the first step on the long, painful road back to himself.
On the third rang, a man answered. “Mr. Morland. I didn’t expect to hear from you again.”
Brandon Lorde. His Alpha. The First of his Flight.
The man he’d betrayed.
There were a thousand things he ought to say. Apologies, excuses, explanations.
He didn’t have time for any of that. Instead, he cut straight to the problem. “The Fangs have my Mate.”
And in one second, as quickly as that, a year of betrayal was swept aside. “Your Flight defends you,” Lorde said. “What do you need from us?”
Relief washed over Darian, leaving him breathless. Was it truly so simple?
No, he realized. There would be explanations and atonement in the future. Lots of it. Now, however, was not the time.
This is how a Dragon behaves. Nothing stops him from defending those he loves. He would never demand that another Dragon humble himself, grovel, before he offered aid in such a blessed cause.
It had been a long time since Darian truly was a Dragon. But those memories, that soul-deep purpose, came rushing back.
“I need a Witch Hare. A good one. I bound my Dragon and I…” He choked but forced the words out. “I need to free it.”
He wouldn’t have been surprised if that confession horrified Lorde, or if his Alpha had condemned him. He deserved it.
Lorde gave no hint that he’d even heard him. “Where are you?”
“Connecticut.”
“Good. You remember my place in NYC? Go there. My housekeeper is a gifted witch.”
On the edge of Central Park. He could be there within an hour. “Thank you.”
But his Alpha didn’t stop there. “I’m in California right now. I will call the rest of the Flight and head back myself.”
They would follow him into battle? Even after he had deserted them and the newfound Wellspring? Their honor shamed him, but he welcomed that bitter draught. It meant he would have allies, if he needed them. “I will leave as soon as I can, but…”
“Of course. But if this is a trap, know that your Flight flies behind you.”
“Thank you.” Some part of him wanted to repeat that word, over and over. Yet he was already moving, grabbing his backpack, dodging around Ethan to snatch up their toiletries. Gratitude, like contrition, would have to wait for another day.
One thing did slip out, before he could stop it. “I’m not Fallen. I want you to know that. My Dragon is furious with me, but… but it’s still a Dragon.”
“I know,” Lorde assured him. “Dragons have Mates; Worms don’t. I don’t know who your woman is, but her love sanctifies you. For her – and for your Dragon – I’ll give you aid and a chance to explain your actions.”
In the end, that was all Darian could hope for.
Chapter 14
“Mr. Morland. Young Master Morland. How good to see you.”
Amarie, Lorde’s housekeeper, possessed the mismatched blue and green eyes common amongst Witch Hares. At the sight of them, Ethan slunk closer to his father. Yet the old woman greeted them warmly, with a smile that held not the least bit of condemnation for Darian’s past betrayal. She whisked them inside, plucked their packs from them, and immediately trotted off toward a bedroom. From the way she behaved, Darian might have been here only yesterday. Not a year – and a lifetime’s worth of mistakes – ago.
He and his son lagged a bit behind her as the boy dragged his feet. “Daddy? Why are her eyes funny?”
“Because she’s a witch.”
The boy’s jaw dropped. Wide-eyed, he searched Darian’s face for any sign of laughter. But his father simply shrugged. If he was going to reclaim his Dragon, he couldn’t keep shielding his son from the truth. “The world is stranger than I ever let you know, Ethan. I’m not going to lie to you about that anymore.”
“So witches are real?” His son cringed slightly.
“Yes. Witches are real. And Dragons. And other things that we’ll talk about, later.”
“Not to worry!” Amarie chirped back over her shoulder. “I’m a good witch!”
Ethan absorbed that in silence as they climbed the stairs. “But Santa Claus isn’t real, right?”
“Right.”
The child seemed relieved to have gotten at least one thing correct.
Once their scant belongings were deposited in their bedroom, Amarie folded her hands in front of her. “Now, Master Morland,” she said to Ethan, “your father and I have urgent business.”
“Business?” The boy gave him a nervous glance.
“Magic,” the housekeeper clarified.
That didn’t reassure his son at all. “To help Tess,” Darian added, which made the boy nod.
“You’re free to wander as you will. Though you might want to start your explorations downstairs, in the kitchen. I just baked a batch of cookies in honor of your arrival.”
“Have as many as you like, sport.” Darian hated bribing his son, but every moment he delayed was a moment Tess spent in the clutches of the Fangs of Apophis. If they hurt her…
No, he couldn’t think about that. It would drive him, and his Dragon, mad.
Once Ethan scampered off, the Witch Hare closed the door. “Now, could you show me the spell, sir?”
Darian liked her. No small talk, all business. He pulled his shirt off at once, revealing his tattoo and the rune that marred it.
Amarie tutted and peered at it. “I see, I see,” she muttered. Hard though it was, he resisted the urge to hurry her. This needed to be done, and it needed to be done right.
Minutes passed before the Witch Hare nodded. “Good. The magic is strong, but not skilled. Very fortunate that you didn’t find a more qualified witch, sir. This shouldn’t be difficult to remove.”
“Good to hear.” He took a seat on the edge of the bed.
“I’ll just get my tools. Might I suggest that sir prepares himself?”
“For what?” he asked. Darian didn’t care if the process was painful, but he was curious.
The old woman paused in the doorway. “Mr. Morland, you’ve muzzled your Dragon. If that creature is anything like my master’s Dragon, it’s going to be vexed.”
“Very vexed,” she added, as she slipped out the door.
Ah, hell. He hadn’t considered that.
Left alone in the still room, he tried to reason with his own soul.
I’m sorry. I was wrong to bind you.
Nothing. Either the Dragon couldn’t – or wouldn’t – speak to him.
You have every right to be angry with me.
Silence.
He sighed. Nothing to do but wait, then. Fortunately, it didn’t take long. The old Witch Hare returned with full hands. One held a bundle of quill pens, the other balanced a clay bowl full of water. Pale purple flower petals floated on its surface. A pouch dangled from her wrist; something inside it clattered.
“Let’s hope we don’t need them,” she chirped as she plunked the bag down on the bedside table. Darian refused to ask what ‘they’ were, though he was curious. But every second counted. Amarie squinted at the bundle of feathers then snatched up one and dipped it into the herb-infused water. “Hold very still, please. And, hard as it is, be patient. This will take time.”
�
�Tess may not have time,” he growled.
For once, a flash of annoyance lit the Witch Hare’s eyes. “Mistakes of this magnitude, sirrah, are not fixed with a snap of the fingers.”
Darian gritted his teeth and nodded. True. This delay was on him.
Amarie leaned forward. With her quill, she began to scratch at the great ‘X’ that marred his Dragon tattoo. Each stroke of its point scraped across his skin like a rat’s claw, leaving a burning sting in its wake.
Scritch, scritch, scritch, went the quill. His eyes narrowed. It wasn’t painful, but he was shocked he could even feel such a minor ‘injury.’ The muscles on his chest twitched, irritated by this nagging, nibbling itch.
After a dozen scratches, the old woman dipped her tool into the bowl. To Darian’s shock, colors flooded its waters. Black, as if she had indeed dug the tattoo itself off his body. Yet around that a dark, ugly yellow flowed, the color of pus and bruises. Where had that come from?
He didn’t ask. Questions would only slow the witch down – and leave Tess in danger longer. Darian watched that sick, toxic sheen swirl through the bowl’s bright petals. That was what he’d done to his soul.
He expected some response from his Dragon. As the bars of its prison weakened, would it tear at them? Would it rail at him, throwing his many sins into his face? Mock him for needing the aid of the creature he locked away?
Instead, he felt a stillness within himself. It wasn’t peace. His Dragon didn’t give him that grace. No, it was more like patience. The cold, endless endurance of a hunter who knew that soon – very soon – its prey would emerge from hiding.
Somehow, Darian suspected he was that prey.
Not a feeling he was used to. He tried to echo that patience, to pull it in and quiet his restless, anxious heart.
Without a clock in the room, he couldn’t say how much time passed. Hours, he assumed. Surely, no mere minutes could drag on so long? And in every second that crawled past, he felt her. Tess. In danger. Captured. Every moment, his heart screamed at him to leave. To abandon this useless, time-wasting ‘magic’ and just fly to the woman he loved.
Darian drove that feeling away, coldly. He was a Dragon. Or, rather, he was becoming one again. He was the master of himself. He would not endanger Tess’ life by rushing out to ‘rescue’ her without his full power.
And so he waited, impatiently. At some point, a loud ‘thump’ echoed up from downstairs. One of Amarie’s eyebrows arched, but she said nothing. The father in him longed to rush out and see what deviltry Ethan was getting into. Clearly, the cookies had all been devoured.
Yet another natural urge he couldn’t give into.
On and on the cleansing went, until his chest burned. The bowl’s clear waters grew foul, a thick, oily mass of pestilence.
Finally, when the touch of Tess’ peril had driven him half mad, Amarie leaned back and set her quill down beside the polluted bowl.
“Is it done?” Darian didn’t feel any different. Well, his pecs felt like someone had scrubbed them with poison ivy. Yet his Dragon remained silent, absent. How could that be? How could it not rage or rejoice?
“Almost.” She picked up the clinking bag and opened its drawstrings.
He tensed. “So it’s bad?”
“Hmm? Oh, no!” Six vials of dark inks slid out onto the desk. “I don’t need to repair your link to your Dragon. Thank goodness! Not sure these old eyes are up to that task.” From inside the bag, she plucked one last bottle, a heart-shaped flask filled with some pale golden liquid. Motes of light danced within it like tiny stars. Amarie produced a silken handkerchief from her pocket and poured the liquid onto it. “Just one last bit of purification, and you’re done!”
Relief washed over him. Until the Witch Hare paused, her hand hovering over his chest. “This will hurt,” she warned him.
And she didn’t lie.
When the cloth touched his skin, agony ripped through him, as if the little scrap was soaked in acid. Fire blazed across his chest, tore deep into his muscles, setting every nerve alight.
Darian tilted his head back and smiled. There was something clean about that pain, as if it burned away all the mistakes he’d made. He embraced that penance, let its agonizing purity wash over him.
Then it passed, as quickly and silently as it had come.
“Done?”
Amarie nodded. He rose immediately, snatching his shirt up from the bed. Some part of his mind noticed that the old woman didn’t smile. She simply leaned back in her chair, folded her hands in her laps, and watched him warily.
He didn’t have time to wonder why, or to puzzle over his Dragon’s odd silence. Tess had lingered in the Fangs’ clutches for far too long already. Striding toward the door, he called over his shoulder, “Tell Ethan I’ll be…”
That was when his Dragon pounced.
Like a hawk swooping down on an unsuspecting mouse, rage slammed through him.
YOU!
Infinite fury and reproach thundered in that one tiny word. Darian’s knees buckled, he crumbled to the floor as the full weight of his Dragon’s disdain came crashing down upon him. Dimly, he saw Amarie watching him, cool and dispassionate. But there was nothing she could do to shield him from the righteous anger of his Dragon.
YOU HAVE SHAMED US! YOU ABANDONNED OUR DUTIES, OUR FLIGHT!
He gave no reply because he had no answer. It was right. All of his ‘reasons’, his excuses, wilted in front of that burning fury. He gasped, drawing deep, ragged breaths as a tight band, like the implacable grip of a Dragon’s talons, closed around his chest.
YOU ARE UNWORTHY! WE SHOULD REND OURSELVES APART!
To become a Worm. Was that not what he deserved for his treachery?
The spiritual claws tightened and pin-pricks of blood bloomed on his shirt as his skin began to tear under their pressure. Yet now he did argue. Not for himself.
For her.
“No. Tear me apart later.” His voice was a choked, grating whisper under that terrible pressure. “After we save Tess.”
She was all that mattered. He would face his punishment, whatever it might be. But only after he rescued her.
Like a buffet of wind from great, unseen wings, some unseen force knocked him flat. The spiritual ‘talons’ that held him dropped away and air rushed back into his bruised ribs. In their wake, Darian felt something he had lost so long ago.
Power.
Every nerve, every inch of skin tingled from it. Strength washed over him, bringing his soul alive with a furnace blast of energy. The world brightened, details sharpening into razor-like focus. Adrenaline flooded through him, and confidence. The knowledge that he could – and would – defeat any threat.
He was a Dragon again.
Darian rose to his feet, drinking in the rediscovered glory of his strength.
Behind him, Amarie cleared her throat. He turned to find her holding out his jacket. “I imagine you thought of her. Your Mate?” Without waiting for his answer, she nodded. “I thought she’d be the answer to the test.”
“This was a test?” He slipped into his coat, letting its smooth leather hide his blood-dappled shirt. “Of what?”
“Of whether or not you remembered what it meant to be a Dragon.”
As he considered that, the old woman smiled. “I expect, Mr. Morland, that if you had thought of yourself – if you had made excuses to defend your pride or begged for forgiveness – your Dragon would have destroyed you. But you didn’t, did you? You thought of her instead.”
He nodded, still slightly dazed by the world’s heightened glory.
The elderly Witch Hare patted him on the elbow. “And so you passed the test. Now go on. Go save your lady.”
Chapter 15
Locked in a back room at the Emerald Lounge, Tess fought to keep her last meal down. It wasn’t much as far as food went. A cold Happy Meal that someone had tossed onto the floor. Dick immediately turned his nose up at the limp, greasy French fries. She made herself choke it all down. You never
knew when you’d need your strength, right?
Now, she regretted that decision. Bitterly.
A sense of doom and nausea had crept over her, growing stronger for the last two hours. Food poisoning? Couldn’t be, because it started almost as soon as she finished the stale Chicken McNuggets. Concussion? Maybe. Her head still throbbed from the blow that had knocked her out.
Yet inside, she couldn’t accept either of these theories. Something was desperately wrong. Whispers surrounded her, and time and again, her skin crawled as if ghosts pawed at her. Dark, destructive urges flickered through her mind. She yearned to run… to pound on the door, screaming… to kill her ex-boyfriend.
Okay, that urge was kind of understandable. Fighting her mysterious nausea, she glared at Dick. The Adanai remained untouched by whatever afflicted her. He paced endlessly, from one side of the tiny room to the other, an aggrieved pout plastered across his face.
“I can’t believe they did this to me,” he whined. For the hundredth time. “I’m on their side.”
A key rattled in the door. Dick licked his lips and backed away.
Not much warning, but Tess staggered to her feet. As soon as the door swung open, she darted through the crack.
A big, meaty arm caught her at once. “You know, I don’t want to hurt you,” Arnage, the Bear, rumbled. “But I will break yours legs if you try to run away.”
Not that he needed to threaten her. Past him, Tess saw a half dozen other men. Wiry, nasty-looking customers. One grinned at her, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth.
Rats. Lots of them.
Sick as she was, Tess seriously doubted she could outrun all of them. Best to wait and watch for a better opportunity.
So she gave the Bear a lop-sided, weak smile. “Okay then. Don’t have to tell me twice. I’ll behave myself.”
“Good.” His solid, immoveable grip on her arm didn’t loosen at all. “Both of you, come with me. The Man wants to talk to you.”
‘The’ man? Like there was only one of them? She considered making a joke about that but Arnage didn’t look like he had much of a sense of humor.
Dick, of course, immediately flew into full boot-licking mode. “Wonderful! I am, obviously, deliriously happy to have an opportunity to clear up this misunderstanding.”