Firestorm Forever

  * * *

  Outside Traverse City, the Pyr were as ready as they could be.

  Erik had divided their forces, trying to determine key locations the newly hatched Slayers would attack. Having one team at Machu Picchu with Sloane, in the hope of catching as many as possible of them early, made sense. The second team was with Erik, as the clones would hunt him down. Marco, Quinn, Donovan, and Lorenzo had gathered at Quinn’s home with their mates and children. The third team was with Drake, at his new home with Ronnie in Virginia. Drake insisted that they were making a home there and would defend it, and Erik hadn’t been able to shake that Pyr’s resolve.

  Marco knew that the biggest fight would be at Machu Picchu, followed by the clones coming for Erik. He knew that Erik was determined to take down every version of Boris Vassily himself, per the honor code of the Pyr, but he also wasn’t alone in believing that the leader of the Pyr might need some help to take out as many as six Slayers in rapid succession.

  That didn’t even count Jorge, because no one knew his plan.

  Quinn’s rural property offered more privacy than Erik’s Chicago loft, and if nothing else, there would be dragon fights on this night that were better unobserved by humans. It was a fine clear night, and the mates and children were secured within the house. Lorenzo was ready to beguile as necessary.

  The Pyr gathered in a meadow and waited restlessly for the arrival of any clones of Boris Vassily. Marco could only hope that Sloane managed to eliminate a few of them at the source, or that Jorge summoned some of them to aid him. Quinn had convinced Erik at least, that he could only fight one at a time, and that so long as he was engaged in battle the other Pyr could fight any additional Slayers.

  Marco knew that Erik and Eileen had argued about the merit of tradition, but Erik was adamant. He insisted the true measure of a Pyr was his adherence to the rules in the heat of a challenge to his survival.

  He was right about that.

  He knew that Erik was thinking about more than his own survival, but of the good of his family, his kind and the world itself. He knew that Erik would, like Sophie, sacrifice himself to see all the others safe, and that worried him.

  He thought of the blood sacrifice mentioned in the prophecy and hoped it proved to be unnecessary.

  Marco watched the other Pyr and listened for any stray sound. He could feel the tension in his fellows. Lorenzo had a stash of huge syringes filled with Sloane’s antidote for the Elixir. Quinn and Donovan were breathing dragonsmoke, surrounding the house with a barrier that was thicker and colder than any Marco had seen.

  They all knew it wouldn’t stop a Slayer who could manifest elsewhere, but Marco supposed the process calmed their nerves. He also hoped that Lorenzo was quick with the syringes and that the Slayers lost their additional powers quickly. Erik, he noticed, was tweaking the dragonsmoke, pulling tendrils loose and extending them into the air. Instead of being woven smooth and tight, the dragonsmoke barrier looked like it was embellished with thorns when he was done. It resembled a brier hedge grown wild more than a wall, and Marco wondered at Erik’s plan. He doubted the choice was an idle one.

  He might have asked, but the eclipse began. He felt a shudder roll through his body as the shadow of the earth touched the moon. He was surprised and disappointed that there was no spark of a distant firestorm. They shifted shape in silence and in unison, but with one glance, Marco knew his fellow Pyr had noticed that as well.

  A firestorm was a promise for the future. Was the absence of a spark a sign that their time was over? A shadow touched Marco’s heart and made him shiver.

  The darkfire exploded within the crystal, illuminating the Pyr with its blue-green light. Something had happened! The Pyr spun to stare at the stone, the darkfire reflected in their eyes. Marco took a deep breath and smelled Slayer, just as a ruby and gold salamander appeared on the floor.

  Erik raged dragonfire at the new arrival, and Quinn moved to crush it with his hammer. Marco fired the crystal at the salamander and loved how the Slayer leapt when the spark hit him in the back. This version of Boris Vassily shimmered blue and became a dragon, then threw himself at Erik.

  Erik roared a plume of dragonfire into the night sky and reared back, swishing his tail through the air. The pair locked claws, colliding with savage force, and the first battle was on.

  The second Slayer came out of nowhere, resplendent in his dragon form against the darkness of the night. He breathed a plume of dragonfire fit to set the field alight. Clearly, he didn’t mean to play by Erik’s rules, because he jumped on the leader of the Pyr and bit his wings. Erik tore himself free, spinning in the grip of the first Slayer. He was a dark whirlwind between the two ruby and gold Slayers, and he spewed a stream of dragonfire long enough to burn them both.

  Marco pounced on the latest arrival from behind and bit into his shoulder. He tasted black Slayer blood, but bit out a chunk of flesh so that the Slayer screamed. He held fast to his prize as he flew high in the air to take this contender out of the game. He fired his darkfire crystal into the back of the Slayer’s brain, but the stone fizzled and the shot was feeble. The crystal went dark then, and Marco tucked it under his scales.

  He grappled with the Slayer, who was slippery and suddenly energetic. They twined around each other, biting and slashing, ripping and breathing fire. Every time the Slayer tried to slip free, Marco halted him, using whatever means he could. Only after the Slayer’s body had gone limp and his breathing slowed, would Marco carry him back to the Pyr. Until then, he’d fly as far as necessary.

  He took a blow to the head and saw stars, then raged dragonfire at the Slayer so hot that it burned his own talons. The Slayer was screaming and smoking when Marco ran out of breath, but he inhaled to repeat the feat. Lorenzo appeared beside him, a syringe in his claw. That Pyr grinned, then stabbed the needle into the injured Slayer.

  “One who isn’t immortal anymore,” he said with satisfaction as he emptied the syringe.

  But still not dead. The Slayer flailed in Marco’s grip, snapping off the needle with his movement as he screamed in anguish. Lorenzo swore, but to Marco’s relief the syringe was empty. The Slayer was as slippery as an eel, evaded them both and dove back to the fight far below.

  “He can be killed now,” Lorenzo said. “That’s a good thing.” They both raced after the Slayer, plummeting out of the sky like shooting stars.

  Donovan and Quinn were already locked in battle with the second Slayer, and Erik still battled against the first, the one who hadn’t had the antidote. Lorenzo would have joined the fight, but Erik growled in reminder.

  Lorenzo exhaled in frustration. He hovered then, flying tight circles around the battling pair, ready to intercede on Erik’s behalf. The Slayer found this distracting, probably because he didn’t know or share Erik’s resolve to fight fair. He twisted, trying to watch Lorenzo as he fought Erik, and Lorenzo laughed at him, taunting him to err.

  Marco reached for the vials, but the Slayer fighting Quinn and Donovan broke free of them both in a sudden move. He slammed Quinn into the stash and the glass shattered beneath that Pyr.

  All of the antidote Sloane had given to them was leaking out of the broken syringes. Marco tried to save some of it, but it ran though his fingers and soaked into the ground.

  Quinn roared with fury and erupted from the ground, seizing the Slayer by the throat. He locked his claws around the Slayer’s throat and squeezed, exhaling dragonsmoke as he crushed the life out of his opponent. Donovan summoned the elements and ice pellets began to hail down on the battle. They were as sharp as arrows and struck hard.

  “Why don’t you just manifest elsewhere?” Lorenzo taunted, then added his dragonsmoke to the assault. “Oh, wait. Don’t you have enough strength?” He laughed then sucked hard on the conduit of dragonsmoke, his action leaving the Slayer twitching in Quinn’s grasp. His color was visibly fading, his struggles becoming less vigorous with every heartbeat.

  “This one can die,” Lorenzo reminded Quinn. “F
inish him.”

  “With pleasure,” Quinn replied and squeezed so tightly that black Slayer blood ran over his talons. The Slayer screamed but it was almost a silent sound of anguish, one Marco felt rather than heard.

  The Slayer who hadn’t had the cure was fighting Erik with vigor. There were still four unaccounted for.

  Should Marco go to Sloane for more antidote or help with the fight? He looked between the battling dragons. Quinn and Donovan slammed the second Slayer onto the thorns of the dragonsmoke barrier so hard that they spiked through his body. Lorenzo murmured, and Marco guessed that he was ensuring that the smoke wound deeply into the Slayer’s guts. The dragonsmoke hedge shimmered, as if it had just been given an infusion of new power.

  One Slayer being destroyed.

  One Slayer fighting hard with Elixir in his veins.

  Sloane and more antidote it would be.

  * * *

  Sloane missed the first Slayer to hatch.

  It happened so quickly. They had all returned to gather around the Intihuatana as the eclipse drew near, because Snow had landed on its highest point that morning. Rafferty was watching the moon overhead and was the first to shift shape. The sight of him in the moonlight against the green peaks was magical, and Sloane heard one of the cameramen make an admiring comment.

  The crew couldn’t see the Pyr in their human forms and would only film them once they flew into the night in their dragon form. They must have seen the shimmer of pale blue light, though, and known what was going to happen. The ruins were lit with pale blue light as the Pyr changed shape in turn. Brandon and Brandt followed Rafferty, then Arach and Thorolf and Sloane took their dragon forms. The six dragons circled the ancient site in flight.

  “The eclipse will last an hour and thirteen minutes,” Brandon said. “Liz checked.”

  “And then it’ll all be over, one way or the other,” Brandt murmured. There was a beat of silence, and Sloane knew that no one wanted to say farewell.

  “I am honored to know all of you,” Rafferty said.

  “Good luck, everyone,” Thorolf said and gave a fist pump. “Let’s kick Slayer butt.”

  “May the Great Wyvern be with you,” Rafferty said.

  “And may another Pyr be always at your back,” Sloane agreed. They flew in a tighter circle, grasping each other’s right claws and drawing strength from each other. Sloane knew that no man or Pyr could have had better friends and companions.

  If there was justice in the world, they’d win.

  “Look!” Liz shouted. “It’s begun.” The first shadow of the eclipse touched the lip of the full moon high overhead. There were sparks shooting from Liz’s fingertip when she pointed skyward, and Sloane couldn’t even see her hands for the blaze of light.

  There wasn’t a spark of a firestorm.

  Sloane exchanged a glance with Rafferty, knowing that the older Pyr also feared the import of this.

  “We’re not done yet,” Thorolf muttered, turned and flew directly down to the ancient site. His scales shone in the moonlight, glittering like gems.

  And Sloane smelled Slayer. There was a rumbling deep in the earth beneath them, a potent reminder that Peru was susceptible to earthquakes. Suddenly the hill beneath the ceremonial stone cracked and a dark crevasse yawned open. The terraced steps on the outside edge began to slip away, crumbling into the valley thousands of feet below.

  Sloane saw the first clone of Boris Vassily take flight in a blaze of ruby red and gold in the same moment that he saw the underground antechamber revealed.

  Brandon and Thorolf raced after the clone, but their talons closed on empty air. Thorolf swore vigorously in old-speak and spun in place, his eyes shining with fury.

  Sloane was sure that clone had gone to Erik. He shot down to the ground and shifted back into his human form. It was the only way he could squeeze into the dark chamber. He could smell dampness and wet cloth, but couldn’t see the room’s contents clearly. The ceiling had cracked, but the eclipsed moon emanated only a rusty red light. Sloane heard something rocking and saw some large orb lit by that rusty red. The earth rumbled as if it would shift and cast them all down into the river valley far below. The stone overhead shifted, loosing a volley of dust on him, and the roof gaped open wider.

  Liz climbed into the space behind him, the light from her hands casting a golden glow in the space. There were a number of great round shapes on the floor of the cavern and one of them was rocking. It was the one touched by the eclipse’s light, which told him all he needed to know. Each of the shapes was as tall as he was, and probably three times as wide. They looked almost like hot water bottles, large and rounded with “caps” of wrapped cloth. Sloane supposed the ovals had once been aligned, but the motion of the earth had left them tumbled against the inner wall.

  “Falsas,” Liz said. “Funerary bundles,” she said at his confused glance. “Archeologists thought the fabric looked like false heads.”

  “This is how the Inca buried their elite,” Melissa said, busily filming all the while. “I did some research before we came here. There aren’t supposed to be any mummies at Machu Picchu.”

  “Maybe there aren’t,” Sloane murmured, moving toward the one that was shaking. He lifted a syringe, then wondered if the outer coating would crack the needle. It looked like dried mud or clay but when he touched it, it crumbled to reveal woven cloth.

  Chandra was in the space behind them, her nose wrinkled. “They’re huge!”

  “They mummified them and wrapped them in cotton with everything necessary for the afterlife,” Melissa said. “There’ll be food and armor inside, as well as the remains of others in the family.”

  One such bundle had been broken open, as if the cloth and clay had exploded on one side. The cloth and treasures from within were scattered on the dirt below, along with the broken bones of the original occupant.

  “This is wrong,” Melissa said. “It’s a violation of their eternal rest.”

  It would be a violation of a great deal more if these clones survived.

  “Sigmund must have tucked the clones into the sides,” Liz said.

  “They must have been in salamander form,” Chandra agreed.

  Sloane realized with horror that the needles on his syringes wouldn’t be nearly long enough to penetrate the wrappings, much less target a salamander hidden inside a bundle.

  He’d have to wait for them to hatch. Judging by the agitation of this closest one, he wouldn’t have to wait long.

  “They do look like eggs,” Liz said.

  “But there’s a dozen of them here, easily,” Chandra noted. “If there are six clones, where are they? There could even be two hidden in one falsa.”

  It wasn’t the most optimistic thought any of them had had. The one falsa rocked with greater vigor and cracked down one side. Sloane saw the flash of ruby and brass, but only because he was looking for it. The salamander raced for the gap in the wall, but Sloane snatched it up. He felt its cold slither between his fingers and gripped tightly.

  The clone of Boris twisted in his grasp, looking at him with fury in his eyes, but Sloane stabbed in the needle and emptied it of its contents in a gush. The clone bellowed and bit him hard. When Sloane flinched, the salamander dove for the crack. “Got him!” Sloane said in old-speak.

  “He’s mine!”

  Sloane heard Thorolf shout, but couldn’t reply. A third flash of ruby and brass sailed past him, the salamander too fast and too slippery for him to inject as well.

  “Missed one!” he shouted to the Pyr.

  “We’ll get him anyway,” Brandon roared and the sound of the dragonfight overhead carried to their ears. The night beyond the crack was lit with flashes of dragonfire, and the sound of dragons roaring as they fought was deafening. The earth was rumbling restlessly, and Sloane feared the whole peak would slide into the Urubamba River valley.

  “I can’t sing to the earth to stop this,” Rafferty said in old-speak, then groaned as he evidently took a blow. “This wound i
s too deep. Gaia will have her revenge on this night.”

  The karmic rebalance of the moon’s node wasn’t just about the Pyr, after all.

  The falsas were rocking all around them, the angle of the crack in the ceiling exactly right to let the light of the eclipse shine on another three. Sloane didn’t even want to blink in case he missed a Slayer. He spun slowly in place, watching for salamanders to erupt from the wrappings. The women didn’t even seem to breathe, they were so intent.

  Sloane was glad of their assistance, but worried about it, too. He would have loved to have been in his dragon form, because his vision would have been sharper and he would have been better able to defend the mates. He couldn’t have managed the syringes, though, and he wouldn’t have fit in this chamber.

  A salamander popped free suddenly, and Liz grabbed it, managing to singe it a bit with her fire and slow it down. The space filled with the scent of burning flesh. Sloane injected the Slayer and cast aside the empty syringe.

  “This one’s had it,” he said in old-speak as the salamander slipped into the night.

  “He’s mine,” Arach replied.

  “Do you see the other two?” Sloane demanded of Liz. When she didn’t answer, he pivoted to face her.

  Only to find Jorge in his human form, his eyes glittering coldly. The Slayer had Chandra’s hand twisted behind her back. His right hand had changed to his dragon form and his claw was closed around the baby’s head. Chandra had frozen in place, fury in her eyes. Liz wasn’t moving either, clearly not willing to risk Raynor’s welfare. Melissa was on the ground, her camera fallen out of her hand and blood on her temple.

  “Eleven of the thirteen clones hatched so far,” Jorge said mildly, then nodded at the last rocking falsa. “Which makes that ‘egg’ mine.”

  The falsa rocked harder and began to crack on one side. Jorge flung Chandra toward Liz so hard that she stumbled over Melissa. Sloane leapt forward to catch her so she didn’t fall on the baby, and Liz grabbed her arm. Jorge shifted shape in a blaze of shimmering blue, practically taking all of the space in the small chamber. He swung his tail and reared up, tipping the roof off the chamber and shattering a wall. He seized the last falsa and soared into the sky, exposing it to the blood moon like an offering.