Pia Does Hollywood

  Pia stared. “So she actually admitted she killed him.”

  “Yes. If Shane had not been present, the spell she threw at me would have killed me instantly. As it was, he acted very quickly and deflected it.”

  “He has quite a reputation as a magic user,” Pia remarked.

  Tatiana smiled. “He did then too, and Dain had been one of his closest friends. Between Shane and Isabeau, magic flew everywhere. They literally brought the halls down around our ears. This all happened before Isabeau acquired Morgan and her other Hounds, or Shane very well might have been overpowered and we all would have died that night. I remember being shocked at the magical battle, because she had grown unbelievably strong—much stronger than I or anybody else had realized.” After shredding the lettuce, Tatiana began to crumble bread between her fingers. “That night caused a schism between our people. Some stayed loyal to her, and others followed me and Shane. We were refugees for several months, traveling across Britain and building a temporary encampment along the shore until we finally decided upon sailing as far west as we could. We ended up settling here in southern California.” The Queen gave her a sidelong smile. “Of course, I compressed several years into a few sentences. The actual living of the tale took much longer.”

  “You sent out the Sebille before you set sail yourself,” Pia said.

  “Yes, I did,” Tatiana replied. “Good friends were on that ship. We were heartbroken when it disappeared without a trace.”

  “Do you think Isabeau had anything to do with it sinking?”

  “Sometimes I wonder if she did, although that’s mere speculation. Storms happen. Ships sink. At any rate, as I said, the night of the confrontation was, I think, the first time Isabeau tried to kill me, but it wasn’t the last. Every so often, an assassin shows up here, or someone tries to plant a bomb. Apparently, my sister is not just delusional, but she’s unable to forgive or move on with her life. To be honest, I’ve grown used to it.” Tatiana sighed. “Out of sheer exasperation, I’ve tried to have her assassinated too, but she’s grown too strong and wary for me to get anyone close enough to do it. And somehow, she has gathered her Hounds. They are utterly loyal to her.”

  Pia finished her meal and set the pasta bowl aside. Then, because she couldn’t resist, she asked, “When was Dragos at Isabeau’s Court?”

  “Some time before I got pregnant, but now that I think about it, not too much earlier.” Frowning, Tatiana set her uneaten meal aside as well and wiped her fingers with her napkin, as fastidious as a cat. She said, “Dragos didn’t lose his memory from the contagion, did he?”

  Pia stopped moving. For a moment, she didn’t breathe, as her mind raced frantically around, searching for a way to deflect or misdirect.

  But now that the Queen had flat out said the truth, her options had turned slim to none. The thing about shadows and misdirection was, once someone started to disbelieve the magic, their power dissipated like so much smoke.

  She had almost begun to believe that they had tap-danced well enough that they were going to be able to keep all their secrets.

  As her hesitation went on a bit too long, the Queen asked gently, “Was it the head injury? The news downplayed his accident this summer, but of course the scar on his forehead is quite visible.”

  God, she hoped Dragos would forgive her for this. Pia met the other woman’s gaze and said directly, “Yes.”

  Tatiana blinked. Clearly she hadn’t expected such a straightforward response. “I see.”

  “He’s going to hate that I told you that,” she said dryly.

  Long eyelashes fell, obscuring the expression in the other woman’s eyes. “You don’t need to let him know that you told me.”

  Pia wasn’t about to play that game. “Oh, yes, I do. We have no secrets between us. Ever.”

  Tatiana acknowledged that by lifting one shoulder. “That’s always the wisest course in a marriage. It’s an especially wise course of action to take as Dragos’s mate.”

  “Well, it isn’t a tactical maneuver,” she replied, glancing out the window. Dragos had eaten some of the food on the tray and pushed the rest aside. Now he lay on his back, eyes closed, hands folded across his flat, lean stomach. Despite the thick chains circling his wrists and ankles, he looked quite comfortable. She smiled to herself. “We trust each other. So, he’ll be annoyed with me, but he’ll get over it.”

  Envy flashed across the other woman’s face, or at least she thought it did. It had vanished in the next instant, so she couldn’t tell. Tatiana asked, “Do you know how much memory he’s lost?”

  “At first, his memory loss was total. But, thank God, that didn’t last more than a few days. Now, almost all of it has returned. Everything that matters to me, at least. He has a few pockets of long-term memory loss, but mostly, those are historical events. It’s really just a fluke that the whole thing has come up. If we hadn’t been so preoccupied with—with other things, I don’t think there would have even been a misstep.” She smoothed her fingers along the edges of the chair cushion. “Can you tell me what Dragos was doing at the Seelie Court?”

  “To be honest, I don’t really know,” Tatiana replied. “He was a recurring guest for several seasons. He and Isabeau seemed to have this ongoing thing.”

  Utterly flummoxed, Pia stared at the other woman.

  Thing? What did Tatiana mean by thing?

  One thought after the other tumbled through her mind. Had they been enemies? Lovers? Dragos was older than sin. She had known for a fact that he’d had sex before, and probably quite a lot of it at some point or other, because he knew how to do such wise, wickedly inventive things that made her eyes pop out of her head, and she was quite sure they hadn’t exhausted all of his repertoire of tricks yet.

  But knowing something had happened and coming up against the reality of it were two different things entirely.

  She wasn’t jealous at the thought. Not exactly. Dragos was hers, totally, but she did feel sour and unsettled.

  The only way to get more information was to pump Tatiana for it, because Dragos wouldn’t be able to tell her anything, even if he wanted to. She asked, “What do you mean, they had an ongoing thing? Do you mean they had an affair?”

  “I don’t know,” Tatiana replied. “They might have, but I never knew anything for sure. Even then, I was marginalized at her Court, and I was certainly not privy to any confidences. I remember they sort of smilingly poked at each other verbally, and she seemed to be fascinated by him. And I had no idea how to read him. It had something of a flirtatious hint to it, but there was also this edge, like maybe they hadn’t yet decided whether or not they were enemies. She once called him ‘that damn inquisitive dragon.’ I always wondered if he was either trying to get information from her, or perhaps he was searching for something. Maybe he’ll remember in time.”

  “Maybe,” Pia said. Inwardly, she doubted it. He had recovered most of his lost memories within a few days after the accident, and now, the more time passed, the less likely it was that he would remember.

  “Well, if you have anything to do with Isabeau, be careful. I cannot say if she and Dragos parted on friendly terms or not, and as you have seen for yourself, she is a vicious and relentless enemy.”

  “I appreciate the warning.” Rubbing her forehead, she wondered how Aryal, Quentin and Shane were doing. No news might be good news. Of course, it might not too. Quentin had seemed pretty certain that Morgan would kick their asses. She muttered, “Why is Isabeau’s Chief Hound called Morgan of the Fae?”

  “Because Morgan lives at Isabeau’s Court, but he isn’t actually Light Fae himself. Neither Shane nor I are quite sure what he is, although I make a point of not getting close enough to him to find out. He seems human, but he’s also hundreds of years old, which of course no normal human could achieve.” Tatiana had tensed while she talked. Now she looked unsettled as well. “If he has human blood in him, he also has something else—either Elder Races blood, or perhaps some kind of magical Power—that ha
s prolonged his life. Not much frightens me, but he does.”

  A trickle of real fear for Quentin and Aryal ran down Pia’s spine. She wished they would get in touch somehow, but of course they would be too busy to call, and Dragos’s telepathy was down.

  While they talked, she kept part of her attention on the quiet, sunny afternoon outside, which was how she saw what happened next.

  The quiet scene erupted. In place of the large, black-haired man lying prone on the lawn, an immense bronze dragon appeared, with the bronze coloring darkening to black at the tips of his long talons, tail and gigantic wings. His sudden appearance knocked the two Hummers sidelong. Looking down at his body, the dragon shook himself like a dog, and his chains fell away.

  Fierce joy shot through Pia, as strong as a sunburst.

  Guards shouted in both surprise and alarm, causing Tatiana to spin in her seat and stare wide-eyed out the window.

  The dragon mantled his massive wings, looked at the guards and said, “If you shoot at me now, you’re only going to piss me off.”

  Surging to her feet, Tatiana strode to the French doors and yanked them open. She shouted, “Any fool that shoots at him will face disciplinary action!”

  The dragon strode to the verandah. It took him three steps.

  Grinning, Pia pushed to her feet and poked her head around Tatiana. “Hi, baby,” she said. “Good to see you.”

  “Good to be here,” Dragos said. He folded his wings into place and cocked his head to look under the verandah roof at her with one golden eye. “I’m going hunting. Okay with you?”

  “Everything’s great with me,” she told him, beaming.

  He told her, “Take your medicine.”

  “I will.” Telepathically, she said, I love you.

  Love you too. Be back later.

  With that, he wheeled, crouched and launched into the air.

  * * *

  Dragos had tried to shapeshift every ten or fifteen minutes. When he finally did connect with his Wyr form and shift, he felt the last of the contagion burn away.

  Now, he tore through the air, fierce eagerness fueling his flight. He said telepathically to Aryal, Where are you?

  Whoa, she exclaimed. You’re telepathizing!

  While I appreciate your gift for the obvious, he drawled. I would rather know your location.

  South Harbor Boulevard, she said briefly. Near the waterfront. There’s a large herd of zombies here, Dragos. The Hounds are here too, behind them, driving them forward at us. They’re using them as shields while throwing attack spells at us.

  Zombies?

  He coughed out an unamused laugh. That was as good a word for them as any.

  He told her, I’m coming in hot. Tell the others to get out.

  Hells yes! As far as I’m concerned, you can torch them all. Most of them are half eaten—they couldn’t survive any kind of antidote or reversion anyway.

  That’s what I saw in the group that attacked me. He flew west, as hard as he could. Shoreline’s in sight now.

  Quentin and Shane’s forces are retreating. They’re in an SUV, headed south.

  Got it.

  The sun hung lower in the sky since he had been chained, reigning over the western horizon and sparkling on the vast water. As he neared the waterfront area, he felt blasts of magic from the battle.

  A winged figure shot into the air and swooped. It was Aryal. She held an automatic weapon and sprayed the area below her with gunfire. He caught a glimpse of flying black hair, piercing gray eyes, and her angular, hawkish face.

  A deadly spell burst upward like a firework at her, but dipping one wing, she rolled to the side and let herself fall through the air, and the spell shot past her harmlessly.

  The dragon smiled to himself. As usual, she was utterly fearless.

  Compared to his size, though, she was like a two-seater aircraft. He told her, Stay out of my way.

  Flipping, she righted herself and flew south after the SUV.

  In the next moment, he was on the scene.

  The infected herd was large, and its members as fast as the ones who had attacked him earlier. But they weren’t fast enough to outrun him.

  As the dragon dove, he opened his jaws and let all of his anger boil out. Fire spewed onto the scene. In just a pass or two of his wings, he had shot past. Wheeling, he turned and dove again, laying fire over four industrial blocks.

  Only when he felt sure that he had covered the area thoroughly did he pull up to land in the middle of the hot blaze. The dangerous, pathetic figures of the infected collapsed almost immediately.

  From the ground, it looked as though the world was on fire. It suited the dragon’s apocalyptic mood. He strolled down the street. The flames were so hot, the asphalt underneath his talons grew soft and sticky, then caught fire. At times like this, when he was enraged and civilization had fallen completely away, he thought he could burn down the world and never miss it.

  When that happened, he could hear a quiet voice at the back of his mind.

  You could do it, brother, Death whispered. We could do it together.

  These days, however, when he heard that quiet, far-off voice, he shook away the lure that Death held for him. There was too much buoyant life that surrounded him, and love. His mate. His son. His new, unknown child, as mysterious as an unexplored land.

  Maybe we could, the dragon said to the quiet voice. But we won’t today.

  Up ahead, the figure of a man walked toward him, through the flames.

  Dragos stilled, and his eyes narrowed. Dragon fire burned hotter than almost any other blaze, save the sun’s, but the figure did not appear to be affected.

  As the man neared, his features and form became distinguishable. He wore tailored black clothes, leather gloves and a leather suit jacket that could, Dragos noted, hide any number of weapons. He was tall and wide-shouldered, and moved with the kind of liquid athleticism that Dragos associated with his Wyr soldiers, but this was no Wyr.

  He looked like a human man in his midthirties, deeply tanned, with chestnut hair and clear hazel eyes, and a strong, contemplative, even sad, face. And he carried so much Power, he felt like a walking, talking nuclear bomb.

  The dragon’s hackles rose.

  “Lord Cuelebre,” the man greeted him in a calm voice that Dragos could hear perfectly well over the roar of the flames around them. He spoke with a Welsh accent. “Unfortunately, you managed to kill all my compatriots before I could reach them in time. You are not supposed to be here.”

  Dragos didn’t recognize the male. Perhaps he would have, once upon a time, before his head injury. Falling so unexpectedly into that hole in his memory made him rage even more.

  So he took an educated guess.

  “Morgan,” the dragon growled. The man did not deny the name. “You are not supposed to be here either. You started the contagion.” The dragon stalked closer. “And when the Light Fae came close to eradicating it, you worked to spread it.”

  “My Queen commands, and I am compelled to obey,” Morgan said, inclining his head and offering a slight, courteous bow.

  “Did your Queen compel you to destroy all the Elder Races?” Dragos barked.

  As the dragon drew nearer, the other male turned slightly to walk at an angle, until they were circling each other like adversaries, while everything around them burned. At Dragos’s accusation, Morgan tilted his head. “Her quarrel is with this Light Fae demesne. It does not involve you, or the rest of the Elder Races.”

  “Quite the contrary,” the dragon hissed. Lunging forward, he snapped at the other male, who leaped back, faster and more fluid than Dragos had believed possible. Morgan gestured, and a wall of Power slammed between them, shimmering from the fire. “It involves me. My mate. And it involves any race that carries a hint of Power. Both human and different Elder Races can be infected by the contagion. Your creatures attacked me. One of them broke my skin. I started to turn.”

  The other male frowned, his clear hazel gaze sharp. “You wer
e susceptible?”

  “For a brief time, I was.” Dragos pushed at the wall of Power, seeking a way to get through. “And I am not susceptible to any illness. Magically inclined humans have caught it and turned. This contagion is utter madness. It will destroy all of us if it is allowed to spread.”

  Morgan closed his eyes, and his face tightened. “She swore it would only kill the Light Fae in this demesne.”

  Only kill the Light Fae? He spoke of eradicating hundreds, if not thousands of people.

  “Well, the bitch was wrong,” Dragos snarled. He clawed at the wall of Power, and the tips of his talons screeched down the shimmering barrier like nails on a chalkboard. As he tried to stalk around it, the wall shifted, keeping pace with him. “You have something that creates this hell. A magic item, or a vial of something. Where is it? Give it to me!”

  To the dragon’s astonishment, Morgan reached inside his leather suit jacket and pulled out an amulet.

  Even through the dragonfire and the sorcerous Power that Morgan exuded, the amulet seemed to radiate an aura of blackness.

  It wasn’t as strong as a Deus Machina, or God Machine. There were only seven Machines in the world, and they could not be destroyed. Back at the beginning of the world, the seven gods of the Elder Races had thrown something of themselves into the world to enact their will through the ages.

  Dragos had encountered God Machines before. He knew how to identify them, and while this amulet was no Machine, still, it was imbued with a touch of Death’s Power. Dragos might not be susceptible to any illness, but Death’s Power could still touch him. Theoretically, he could die, and the fact that he had been susceptible to the contagion reinforced that theory.