On July 22, 1209, the crusaders sacked the town. The residents fled to the churches for sanctuary, which should have saved their lives. In the cathedral, however, the priests conducted a mass for the dead.
Sara read with horror that it proved to be a mass for those who had taken refuge there. The crusaders sealed the doors from the outside and razed the church while it was fully occupied. The rest of the city’s inhabitants were used for target practice or simply slaughtered.
The town was then burned to the ground.
By the end of the day, Arnaud Amaury, the Cistercian abbot-commander of the assault, sent triumphant word to the Papacy that twenty thousand people in Béziers had been killed, regardless of their age, rank, or gender. It was recorded that not so much as a single baby survived that day’s massacre.
It was a horrific account of terrible events, made even more horrible by the fact that it had been recorded by ecclesiastics who crowed about their triumph in Béziers. Sara could think only of all those people who had been viciously killed, of a town that had been eliminated because 1 percent of its population was Bible-reading vegetarians.
The closing words of the summary were the ones that made Sara’s blood run cold. At the launch of the assault, Arnaud Amaury had been asked how to tell Cathar from Catholic within the city walls. His reply resonated with the brutality of that day:
“Kill them all, for God will surely recognize his own.”
Sara shut the book, shivered, and stared out the windows of her shop. Her instincts told her that this church fire might be the fire in which Quinn’s mother had died. But that made no rational sense: Quinn would have been more than eight hundred years old, for that to be the case.
She thought of his joke that he was old enough to know better and wondered.
Maybe this was just another impossible thing to believe.
Maybe she had a couple of new questions for Quinn.
She thought of calling him for escort service and decided not to bother. After all, it was only midmorning, and the arcade was filled with tourists and shoppers. It couldn’t be a hundred yards to his booth. He’d probably be busy at this hour. Maybe he’d be glad enough to see her that he’d forget to be annoyed.
Maybe she needed to prove to both of them that there were still some times she could be alone.
She turned the sign to read BACK IN FIVE MINUTES, took the coin and the book that Magda had chosen, and stepped out into the arcade. The mermaid was glowing faintly when Sara locked the door and she hesitated for a moment, then decided that the mermaid was simply resonating with Quinn’s anxiety.
She hadn’t taken more than a dozen steps toward State Street before she knew she’d called that wrong.
After Quinn asked a volunteer to mind his booth, he and Donovan moved quickly in search of a good spot. Donovan suggested a cluster of trees to the east of downtown that housed a business park. The density of the trees and the comparatively small number of businesses combined with the hour to mean that few humans would observe them.
“Stay low,” he advised Donovan. “The less beguiling that needs to be done, the better.”
Donovan grinned. “Maybe we’ll just leave it be. It’s about time that humans knew we walked among them, in my opinion.”
“It’s never been our way,” Quinn said.
“It’s honest,” Donovan said with force and Quinn had to agree with him.
That same directness characterized Donovan’s fighting. Once they were in the clearing they’d chosen, he turned on Quinn.
“This is for Delaney,” he said and threw a punch at Quinn’s face.
Quinn seized his fist and turned it behind him, forcing Donovan toward the ground. “We can end this now,” he offered, but Donovan snarled.
He changed shape with impressive speed, shifting within Quinn’s grip to a dragon too large and sinuous for Quinn to hold. Donovan was dark blue in dragon form, as if he were made of lapis lazuli set in gold, and moved with power. He wrestled free of Quinn’s grip, pivoted, and slashed with his claws.
Quinn leapt backward, shifted shape, and met the attacking Donovan in midair. They locked claws in the traditional fighting pose and he felt the strength of his opponent. Upright, they were both beating their wings, which kept them a dozen feet off the ground.
Donovan was fighting to win. This was no play match: it was a blood duel in the old style. Quinn was more than ready for it.
“No room for mistakes,” Donovan whispered in old-speak, with a mischievous glance at the ground. The pair grappled with each other, each trying to force the other to break his grip or to roll backward.
“It’s better to win when the stakes are high,” Quinn replied.
No sooner had he said as much than Donovan made his move: he swung his tail to strike at the same moment he bent Quinn’s claws backward. Quinn snarled and retaliated in kind. They rolled in the air, tails locked and teeth bared, their powers evenly matched.
Quinn didn’t really want to injure Donovan, but the other Pyr didn’t share that perspective.
Donovan ripped his tail free of Quinn’s grip, then swung it at Quinn with killing force. When Quinn ducked the blow, Donovan slapped him across the face from the other side with one leathery wing. They dropped in the air, but Quinn beat his wings higher, bearing the other Pyr’s weight upward.
Neither of them was breathing hard.
Donovan lunged upward at Quinn, baring his teeth to bite Quinn’s scaled chest. Quinn slashed at the other Pyr with his legs and while Donovan evaded the full force of that blow, Quinn saw the flash of his sharp teeth. He breathed dragonfire to protect himself and Donovan loosed his grip.
Quinn let him fall.
Donovan caught himself just before impact. He glared at Quinn as he winced at the singe he’d taken.
“I won’t be retaliating in kind,” he muttered. “I’ve heard about the Smith and dragonfire.”
“You can’t believe every rumor you hear,” Quinn said with a smile.
Donovan snorted. “You won’t talk me into making you stronger that easily.” He’d barely finished his old-speak when he dove at Quinn again.
Quinn realized he’d felt only a fraction of Donovan’s power. This time, the other Pyr locked claws with Quinn with surprising vigor. Quinn couldn’t tear his claws free. Donovan wrapped his tail around Quinn’s as if he’d hold him captive.
“Now you can surrender,” he taunted, but Quinn had other thoughts.
He wasn’t going to waste all day satisfying Donovan’s desire to fight. He wanted a fight: he’d get a fight.
And he’d get it now.
Quinn exhaled smoke in Donovan’s face in the same moment that he thrashed Donovan with his tail, knowing he’d leave him bruised but not that injured. He dragged his teeth across the other Pyr’s shoulder, enough to draw blood, then flung him out of the sky with a heavy strike of his tail.
Donovan fell, pivoted right above the ground, and raged upward, fury in his eyes. He snatched at Quinn’s wings, tearing one painfully with his claw, then slashed across Quinn’s belly with his rear claw. Quinn glanced up in that moment.
It wasn’t the sight of Donovan’s tail, poised to strike, that surprised him.
A topaz yellow dragon came out of nowhere, slicing between them from above like a well-honed blade. Quinn had time to roar a warning but neither of them had a chance to respond. Donovan bellowed as his wing was nicked. Quinn took a swipe with his tail at the passing Slayer but only caught his back.
The yellow Slayer hovered not far from the pair and grinned. “What a pair of losers,” he taunted in old-speak. “Looks like you’ve both gotten fat and lazy.”
“Lucien,” Donovan snarled.
“Donovan,” Lucien purred, then made a mocking little bow. “How sweet it is to meet once more. Think I’ll thump you again?”
Donovan exhaled a puff of smoke and Quinn could feel his anger. These two had battled before, and Donovan must have taken the worst of it. “He’s sneaky,” he mutte
red to Quinn. “He won before because he cheated. Make no assumptions.”
“Fair enough.” Quinn remembered Sara’s observation that the Slayers fought as a team. He glanced around but couldn’t see any other dragons in the vicinity. “We can take him together,” he suggested and Donovan nodded.
“Yeah, well, don’t blink,” the other Pyr said. “You never know what the real game is with this one.”
With that, the pair of Pyr dove at Lucien as one.
A man fell into step beside Sara. “Can you break a twenty?” he asked with quiet urgency, and Sara’s city girl habits kicked in.
“No, I’m sorry,” she said crisply, and hurried past him.
“Liar,” he accused, and she glanced up in surprise. He was slightly older than she, trim and well dressed. There was something familiar about him, although Sara was sure she had never seen him before. He smiled and shook his head. “It’s not nice to lie, Sara,” he said.
She was shocked to hear him call her by name. She must know him, and there was something about him that caught at her memory. Maybe she’d met him at the Chamber of Commerce? Sara couldn’t be sure. His eyes were a deep brown, with glints of gold and a faint glimmer of humor.
But it wasn’t friendly humor. He was laughing at her and the malice in his gaze made Sara trust her instincts to get away from him. Fast.
“Excuse me, I have to go. I’m late.”
“Yes, you are late,” he agreed, surprising her again.
She paused to look at him. “Who are you?”
“Don’t you know?” He smiled with deliberation and she guessed where they had met.
At the bell tower, the night before.
After all, there was only one other person who had called her a liar recently, only one who had made the accusation with such silky ease.
Not one other person precisely: one other dragon.
She pivoted to run and collided with another man, one who caught her shoulders in firm hands. “Easy, Sara,” he said, his voice low and melodic. He was a large man, much taller than she, with fair hair and icy pale eyes.
“I don’t know you. Excuse me.”
“Of course you know me, Sara,” he said with a smooth assurance that reminded her of a ruby red and brass dragon.
His smile broadened. “See? You do remember.”
“You must be the ones holding the Wyvern captive,” Sara said and saw his alarm.
“I beg your pardon? Did you hear that, Ambrose?”
Ambrose? Sara turned to look at the golden dragon, who simply smiled. “You’re Ambrose?”
He held a finger to his lips, his smile unwavering.
“Look at me, Sara,” whispered the other man. When Sara didn’t turn, he snatched her chin and made her face him.
“Hey!” she began to protest, then forgot why.
Little flames danced in the depths of his pale eyes. They seemed to light the center of his irises but theirs was a cold flame.
Sara shivered, knew she was imagining things, and kept looking.
The fires in his eyes burned brighter and higher, whiter and colder, as the man’s voice wound into her ears. He had a Russian accent and spoke with authority. That must have been why Sara wanted to agree with him so badly.
“I’m so glad we met you in time to give you a ride,” he said smoothly. “Aren’t you?”
It seemed very hard to Sara to remember what she had been doing, and even harder to disagree with the man with the flames in his eyes. “I don’t think I need a ride,” she managed to say; the two men laughed.
“But it’s too hot to walk,” the man said.
“But it’s too hot to walk,” Sara found herself echoing. Some part of her brain struggled against his melodic voice and his force of will, but she could feel her resistance fading away.
What was happening to her?
“Miss?” asked a passerby. “Are these men bothering you?”
“Of course not: we’re old friends,” the Russian one insisted. The passerby looked skeptical but Sara couldn’t tear her gaze away from those cold flames.
“We’re old friends,” she said.
“If you’re sure,” the passerby said with some hesitation.
Sara couldn’t look away from the Russian, the old friend whom she wanted to please so much.
“Of course she’s sure,” said the Russian. “Our Sara is clever enough to know her own mind.” He seemed to find this funny, but Sara knew it was true.
“I know my own mind,” she said, barely recognizing her own voice. She sounded like a woman in a trance.
“Why don’t we go this way?” suggested Ambrose. “The car is parked on the next street.” Sara couldn’t look at him, though, not with the Russian man staring at her so intently. She couldn’t even watch the passerby walk away, she was so fixated upon watching those flames.
The Russian man was clearly amused by this.
It was quite beautiful how the flames burned in his eyes, though. Why hadn’t she ever noticed anything similar before? She wanted to draw closer to him, to watch those flames forever.
And to agree with him.
“Why don’t we go this way?” he suggested softly.
“Why don’t we go this way?” Sara repeated.
“It’ll be quicker in the car.”
“It’ll be quicker in the car.”
“And you can have a nap in the car.”
“I can have a nap.”
“I know you’re very tired, Sara. You must be so very tired.”
Sara barely stifled a yawn. “Very tired,” she agreed and he smiled.
He walked beside her, one hand on the small of her back, guiding her back toward Maynard Street. Sara couldn’t look away from his mesmerizing gaze, even though her heart was pounding. It was good of him to guide her, because she would have tripped without his assistance.
He was such a good old friend.
“Soon we’ll be among ourselves,” he promised her.
“Soon we’ll be among ourselves,” Sara echoed and couldn’t take a breath. Some part of her mind screamed in frustration, but she couldn’t heed it, couldn’t pay attention to it, couldn’t do anything other than what the Russian man wanted her to do.
“Such a strange door knocker,” Ambrose said as they passed Sara’s shop. “How does anyone use it when it’s burning hot?”
And then he laughed.
Lucien was slippery and sneaky, just as Donovan had predicted. He was fast and evasive: Donovan snatched him early and the Slayer wriggled free, as if he had no bones at all. He flew in erratic patterns, so that Quinn closed tight behind and just as he was about to strike, Lucien turned hard and escaped his grip.
Lucien’s scales glittered and he was as hard to corner as a sunbeam. He stopped suddenly, then lunged forward unexpectedly, hammering once into Donovan in a collision that left the lapis lazuli Pyr gasping for breath. He attacked from behind and below and had no quibbles with taking advantage of a blind spot.
At least Donovan was getting the fight he wanted.
Quinn and Donovan became better at anticipating each other’s moves with every passing minute. Quinn only hoped they learned to fight together quickly enough. Donovan surged after the willowy Slayer and slashed at his back with his claws, then breathed dragonfire. Lucien took his first hit and roared with pain.
Then he spun, his tail winding into a spiral below him. Quinn saw the hatred in Lucien’s eyes before he slashed at Donovan. His talons were long and black and sharpened, and they sliced Donovan’s belly like knives cutting in unison.
Donovan gasped, his pain too great for him to bellow, and began to fall to the earth. Quinn saw the blood running from the other Pyr’s belly and raged toward Lucien.
“One down, one to do,” Lucien said with a chortle. The Slayer turned with slow confidence, bracing himself for Quinn’s assault, and forgot about Donovan.
To his own detriment. Quinn focused on Lucien, knowing that Donovan would shortly come to his aid. He swung his tai
l and Lucien darted backward, taunting him.
“Oh, aren’t we assertive,” Lucien whispered in old-speak. “Afraid I might get the jump on you?”
He leapt at Quinn, and Quinn made to swat the Slayer out of the air with his tail. Lucien seized the end of Quinn’s tail and rode Quinn’s follow-through, laughing. Quinn spun and struck his tail hard against a large rock. Lucien took the brunt of the blow and sizzled with anger as he fell to the earth. He shook his head and came up fighting, fire emanating from his nostrils and his eyes blazing with anger.
He dove at Quinn, those black talons extended. Quinn backed toward a massive tree, letting Lucien draw closer and closer. At the last minute, Quinn darted behind the tree. He heard Lucien’s talons drive into the wood.
The talons on both front claws had dug into the tree trunk, but Lucien immediately hauled one free. He was livid, almost glowing in his rage, and he turned to breathe dragonfire at Quinn.
Quinn hovered beside him, letting the dragonfire fill him with new power. He smiled at the Slayer’s obvious shock.
“Is that your best shot?” he asked mildly and Lucien belched smoke and fire again.
Quinn brushed a bit of ash off his shoulder, letting the Slayer see how his scales gleamed like forged steel.
“You really are the Smith,” Lucien whispered.
“And you’ve given me the strength I need to finish the business at hand,” Quinn said. Lucien’s eyes widened and he struggled to free his one claw from the tree. The talons had sunk deep, though, with the force of impact, and he couldn’t pull them out.
“I don’t like these,” Quinn said, seizing the Slayer’s free claw by the wrist. He examined the long talons, which looked to be made of metal. How could Lucien have metal talons? What technology was this? He glanced up to find the Slayer smiling.
“You have to come to the dark side to get a set, Smith.”
“Maybe I’ll just take these instead,” Quinn said. “I like to collect souvenirs.” He gave Lucien a moment to worry about it, before he slashed the joint with his claws. He tore the claw free and threw it to the ground, ignoring Lucien’s furious screams.
The Slayer pulled himself free of the wood then, his eyes red with fury. Lucien came after Quinn but didn’t manage to reach him before Donovan caught him by the throat. The other Pyr had quietly flown up behind the Slayer and now his claws were locked around Lucien’s throat.