Kiss of Fate

  There was no movement on the ground, no whisper in the air. The sun rose slowly. The wind stilled. The shadows were eliminated as the sun drew higher, but Nikolas knew that Boris wasn’t gone.

  He could smell Slayer.

  He prowled the area, guessing that the Slayer was injured and close at hand. He had only to find him. Nikolas turned over rocks; he peered around cacti; he looked down holes made in the sand by other small creatures. Boris’s scent was elusive, appearing and disappearing, as if the Slayer would have preferred to mask it but didn’t have the strength to do so.

  That worked for Nikolas.

  He caught a waft of Boris’s scent, pivoted, and pounced on a small rock. He turned it over and saw a flash of crimson streak across the sand. Boris wasn’t fast enough to evade Nikolas.

  Nikolas snatched him up, holding him between finger and thumb, piercing him from either side with a sharp talon. Boris struggled and spun. Nikolas lifted him high, then breathed a narrow stream of dragonfire. He roasted the Slayer, taking his time to maximize Boris’s pain.

  Boris had injured the Wyvern by choice and there was no punishment harsh enough for such a crime. While Boris begged for mercy in old-speak, Nikolas lifted the small creature above his head. He let Boris dangle there for a moment, then opened his mouth wide. He let Boris look down his gullet and anticipate his own fate.

  Nikolas would eat Boris whole, crunch his bones, and spit out the remains. He’d ensure that there was nothing left of the Slayer who had so injured Sophie. He’d obliterate him and not have a single regret.

  But before Nikolas could drop the twisting salamander into his open mouth, Boris changed shape back to a dragon again. His weight was too much for Nikolas to hold with two talons, his girth too big for Nikolas’s grasp.

  Boris fell on top of Nikolas with a bellow and the pair wrestled in the hot sand. Boris fought with surprising power. The pair ripped at each other and blood mingled in the sand, red and black mixing and mingling under the hot sun.

  Boris struck Nikolas with his tail and Nikolas caught the end of Boris’s tail. He swung the Slayer around when he hit the ground himself, spinning so that Boris couldn’t reach him.

  Then Nikolas tossed Boris into a large clump of cactus, impaling the Slayer on a thousand sharp needles. Boris shouted in pain, and as he twisted, he only made his situation worse. Gravity drew him deeper into the nest of spikes and his wings were of no help to him. He struggled and flailed, caught by the cactus spines.

  Nikolas hovered over the stricken Slayer, intent upon finishing him off. He breathed fire until Boris’s ruby red scales roasted to black. He loosed dragonsmoke that made Boris flinch and twist and whine. He pulled back to strike Boris with his tail, but the Slayer abruptly disappeared again.

  There was no salamander, red or black, anywhere to be seen.

  There was no scent of Slayer.

  Boris was gone.

  And so was the Wyvern.

  “Sophie!” Nikolas said. He turned in place, scanning the stillness of the desert. He saw nothing in any direction, no movement, no white salamander. Had Boris somehow captured her? How would he follow? How could he defend her?

  “Sophie!” Nikolas roared, more frustrated than he had ever been in his life. He flew low over the area, his search circles gradually increasing in radius and his fear growing with every beat of his wings.

  There was no sign of Sophie.

  The sun crept higher, burning brighter and hotter. Nikolas landed and shifted back to human form finally, exhausted and terrified.

  They were both gone, as surely as if they had never been there.

  Was that what happened when the Wyvern died? She disappeared completely? Nikolas feared it was so. The world would be abandoned until another Wyvern took Sophie’s place.

  But Nikolas didn’t want another Wyvern.

  “Sophie!” he cried one last time.

  Nikolas had failed the Wyvern after he had pledged himself to her defense.

  He was guilty of the greatest crime of all.

  Sophie was so terrified that she had a hard time manifesting at all. She was spooked by Boris and she had lost a lot of blood. She wanted to flee from all earthly concerns, to evade her responsibilities, to abandon the duties of living. She wanted to hide, as she and other Wyverns before her had hidden for centuries.

  But she couldn’t, not when she heard Nikolas’s cry of anguish. His pain drew her back, back to the scene of Boris’s assault, back to the obligations she had yet to fulfill. His conviction of his own defeat tore at her heart and awakened feelings she had never expected to feel. She heard him and wanted to ease his pain.

  She had journeyed down a road that she should have avoided. She had become entangled in the immediate concerns of the Pyr, and in so doing, she had awakened yearnings of her own. She knew that desire was too worldly for the Wyvern. She understood, too late, why the path of involvement was forbidden. Once engaged, she could not retreat.

  But she had taken the turn. She had made the choice and it had fostered change within her so that she could not return to her blissful detachment.

  Sophie no longer cared what was forbidden to her, not when this Pyr who had volunteered to protect her had lost his conviction of his own power. It was not right that her fear of Boris and death could break his pride.

  It was not her right to undermine his power so.

  She could not hide. She could not abandon Nikolas to his own conviction that he had failed her. His anguish tore at her heart.

  Sophie steeled herself and manifested as a white salamander in Nikolas’s shirt pocket. She trembled like a leaf in the wind, but heard him catch his breath when he felt her presence.

  “Sophie,” he whispered, her name falling from his lips like a benediction. He cupped his hand over his pocket and sat down heavily in the desert sand in his relief.

  His muscles were trembling from his fight with Boris, but his heart had skipped when he had felt her presence. He was pumped and ready to fight, agitated enough to destroy another, but he cradled her gently in his palm.

  Caught between the thunder of his heart and the warmth of his palm, cocooned by his strength and surrounded by his scent, Sophie knew that her battle against temptation was lost.

  She feared leaving him, but knew there were things she had to do first. There were places Nikolas could not follow her, but she would visit them only one last time.

  She had to dispatch a dream or two.

  Erik was exhausted, but relieved.

  The firestorm rolled through him, filling him with new purpose and strength. He was glad to have Eileen safe, glad she had encountered some of her past without risking her sanity. He would have liked to have had the secret of eliminating those Slayers who had drunk the Elixir, but time had conspired against him.

  The fact that Sigmund had tried to share it, though, meant that there was a way. Erik would simply have to seek it elsewhere.

  He would have preferred that Sigmund had rejected his Slayer choice, but perhaps he had come back to the light as far as was possible. There had been some red blood mingled with the black. Perhaps the Great Wyvern would show their son mercy for protecting Eileen.

  Either way, the matter was beyond Erik’s influence.

  It felt good to fly high, to stretch his wings and leave the past where it belonged. He was glad to be leaving Ironbridge again, glad to have no prospect of seeing snow on coal again. The despair he’d felt at Louisa’s funeral and the sight of her grave would always linger with him.

  But Eileen had lessened its potency. He held her a little tighter as he flew.

  Erik doubted that Sigmund’s death would fulfill the prophecy of sacrifice and dreaded the recovery of both Boris and Magnus. It wouldn’t take them long, since they’d drunk the Elixir. Erik had only the barest moment of opportunity and needed to use it to make a difference.

  There was one detail that had to be resolved immediately. Eileen nestled against his chest. He thought she might be dozing after he
r ordeal, but knew he had to awaken her.

  “Eileen, where are the Dragon’s Teeth?”

  “In the wooden trunk,” she suggested, her tone revealing that she knew otherwise. “Where is it?”

  “Broken and empty.” He met her clear gaze and knew that she had known as much all along. “Where are they?”

  “I don’t have them anymore.” Her lips set.

  “Whoever has possession of them is in danger,” he said bluntly. “Magnus will do anything to possess them.”

  “Isn’t he dead?”

  Erik shook his head. “Injured but not dead. His injury would have killed another Slayer, but both he and Boris have drunk the Dragon’s Blood Elixir. Apparently, it gives immortality.”

  “Is that new?” She sat up with interest.

  “It’s ancient, an old, old story. I always thought it was just a myth, but Magnus seems to have unearthed it.”

  Eileen snorted. “Even the most whimsical myths have their toes in a truth. Looks like I’ve got a few things to teach you.”

  Erik smiled despite himself, then sobered again. “Right at this moment, I need to know the location of the Dragon’s Teeth so that I can ensure their defense. Who has them?”

  Eileen exhaled. “No one.” Before Erik could argue, she shook her head. “I put them in a luggage storage locker at the train station and mailed the key to my sister. I told her that if I didn’t come back, she should take it to the antiquities dealer that Teresa mentioned.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Some guy named Rafferty Powell.” She kept talking as Erik grinned in his relief. “Teresa said he wanted the teeth, but she didn’t know why. I figured he’d know what to do with them.” Eileen watched him warily. “Why is that funny?”

  “Because he will know exactly what to do with them,” Erik said with satisfaction. “And if anyone can defend himself against Magnus Montmorency, it is Rafferty Powell.”

  “He’s Pyr,” Eileen whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “So that’s why he wanted the Dragon’s Teeth. I should have figured it out.”

  Erik changed course, heading back toward London instead of over the Atlantic. He liked the idea of making amends with Rafferty by surprising the older Pyr with the one thing he sought. He’d let Eileen’s sister take the Dragon’s Teeth to Rafferty, but he’d ensure her protection while they were in her possession.

  First, he’d lie to Magnus. He broadcast a message in old-speak, hoping it found Magnus wherever the Slayer had fled. The good thing about the Dragon’s Teeth was that, like Nikolas, they carried no distinctive scent. That made it comparatively easy to deceive Magnus about their location.

  Erik let his tone fill with triumph, as if he were gloating. “I have the Dragon’s Teeth, Magnus,” he said. “Which means you have lost on every front.” Then he chuckled, guessing that his message would infuriate the Slayer.

  Erik thought he heard a distant shout of rage.

  Eileen, meanwhile, had noted his change of course. “Where are we going?”

  “I need to guarantee your sister’s safety for those moments that she possesses the Dragon’s Teeth.”

  “Where should we meet?” Niall’s murmur of old-speak came abruptly to Erik carried by the wind. At the sound of the other Pyr’s old-speak, the weight of Erik’s burdens was diminished again.

  “London,” he replied. “I have a task for you.”

  “A question to ask of the wind?”

  “A human to guard.”

  “And I have a foundling for you. He can’t even speak old-speak.” Niall’s disgust was clear.

  “But he is Pyr?”

  “Yes. His flying technique could use some work, as well.”

  Erik smiled at Niall’s attitude, imagining that this young Pyr wouldn’t take well to it. If he could hear the discussion but not participate or defend himself, that would irk him further.

  It would be better for Niall to have a companion while he guarded the family of Eileen’s sister. Erik believed that Magnus would take the bait and follow him, but the other Slayers were an unknown variable. Erik descended toward the city, sliding through the chill of the clouds and into the cold rain that fell below. Eileen shivered.

  “So is that old-speak I’m hearing or thunder?” Eileen asked. She wrinkled her nose. “I’m thinking this wouldn’t be the best place to be in a thunderstorm.”

  Erik smiled slightly. “What do you know of old-speak?”

  “Not much. Sigmund just said it was how you communicated.”

  Erik scanned the suburbs of London below, orienting himself as he spoke. The rain slanted coldly down, painting the city in hues of silver and gray. He preferred the snow. “It’s speech, but at a lower frequency, one that is difficult for humans to hear.”

  “Those enhanced senses again.”

  Erik nodded.

  “So you hear it like we do?”

  “But some of us can detect it from farther away, even dispatch it over distances to one another. It’s an ability that comes with practice.”

  “And over the centuries, you’ve had the time to hone your skills.”

  “Indeed.” Erik located Kensington Gardens and adjusted his course. He felt Niall behind him, and caught the scent of the Pyr he didn’t know. Viking descent, he’d guess, a prospect that encouraged him mightily.

  “Why are you suddenly so happy?” Eileen asked.

  “My luck appears to be changing,” Erik said. He had a fleeting thought that Eileen’s presence was responsible for that.

  She shivered elaborately in the rain, pulling her scarf more tightly around her neck. “How can you tell? Magnus and Boris aren’t dead yet, and you still don’t know how to kill them.”

  “But Niall is arriving with a foundling, just when we need assistance to protect your sister’s family.”

  “Did you summon him?”

  “No, so I feel the hand of the Great Wyvern, and this time she is working in our favor.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Eileen said, then pointed at the house Erik was already targeting. “The dark roof, right there.”

  Rafferty paced the hall of his Highgate home.

  He didn’t miss the irony that he was pacing precisely as Erik had paced, precisely as he had asked Erik not to pace, and that he was deepening the furrow that Erik had already worn in his own antique Persian runner.

  He couldn’t stop, not any more than Erik could have stopped.

  He couldn’t stop thinking of the stories in the newspaper about the murders at the Fonthill-Fergusson Foundation. He couldn’t accept that Teresa MacCrae had been shot dead.

  She had been attractive and clever, irritating and fascinating. He had enjoyed matching wits with her, and regretted having lost his composure on seeing the Dragon’s Teeth.

  She hadn’t missed his response; he knew it. Teresa had been too observant for that. But what had she done about it? Had she acted upon his response?

  Was it his fault that she had died, and died so violently?

  As if his culpability weren’t enough to worry about, there had been no mention in the media of the Dragon’s Teeth. Were they still at the Fonthill-Fergusson Foundation, or had they been among the valuables stolen?

  He’d spoken to the foundation’s director, expressing his sympathy for Teresa’s loss and asking about a revised date for the sale of the antiquities. They’d had a strained conversation, and the director had promised to get back to Rafferty. There hadn’t been a word, and even though it had been only one business day, Rafferty was anxious.

  Were the Dragon’s Teeth lost, too?

  He’d asked the earth for her news and she’d declined to answer—or at least to answer in the time that he could persuade himself to lie still and listen. Rafferty was restless as he seldom was. The old prophecy echoed in his thoughts and he feared for Erik.

  What price would his old friend pay to aid the Pyr? Rafferty was afraid he knew. He feared that Erik would consummate his firestorm, then surrender himsel
f as the blood sacrifice the prophecy foretold. He feared that Erik would care more for the future and for the good of the collective than for himself.

  It would be perfectly in character. Once Rafferty had had that realization, it had been impossible for him to lie in the garden and listen patiently.

  Instead, Rafferty had gone down to Holgate to visit the scene of the crime. The smell of Slayer had been inescapable, even from behind the police tape. He’d identified Magnus’s scent and Jorge’s as well as those of several other Slayers he didn’t recognize. Not good. He’d even caught a whiff of Erik’s presence. He sensed dragonsmoke and dragonfire and feared for Erik.

  Had Erik captured the Dragon’s Teeth?

  Or had he been overconfident of the outcome?

  What had happened to Erik’s mate?

  Had Rafferty erred in speaking to Erik in anger? Rafferty regretted the silence between them, realizing belatedly how much he relied upon his regular consultations with Erik.

  He broadcast a message in old-speak, but Erik didn’t reply. Had some wickedness befallen Erik, or was he still angry with Rafferty?

  Rafferty didn’t know the answers to any of these questions and didn’t know what he could do about it. He felt impotent and old, used up and useless. He felt alone and abandoned, a sense all the more keen because he knew it was his own fault.

  He regretted the death of Teresa, so young and vital, and disliked that he could have had a part in that. He resented his sense that he was unimportant, that there was nothing good that he could do, and so he paced the day and then the night away.

  Chapter 19

  It wasn’t every night that Eileen lounged on the roof of her sister’s house with three dragon shape shifters in the pouring rain. Actually, she didn’t lounge per se: She hung on to the chimney, trying not to slide on the wet and steeply pitched roof, and tried even harder to enjoy the novelty of it all.

  The rain put a damper on that.

  Erik had landed with his usual accuracy, and Eileen had been impressed by how securely his talons had locked onto the ridgepole. He handed her toward the chimney, ensuring with his usual gallantry that she had a grip before he changed shape. Once again, he shifted so quickly that she could barely see the transition.