It was Sloane’s tattoo. A caduceus with dragons instead of snakes.
Veronica Maitland had been abducted by dragons.
A dragon had spread the Seattle virus.
The big blond guy helping out in Sloane’s shop had a dragon tattoo.
The trailer on the black truck in Sloane’s driveway said ‘Here Be Dragons’.
Sloane’s father had been called the Apothecary and that Asian man had called Sloane by the same title.
Sloane had gone to Chicago and then New York, in rapid succession. Sam threw herself out of bed and turned on her computer, navigating straight to the videos that had been uploaded recently featuring dragons. Six months before, there’d been a dragon fight in Chicago, then one immediately afterward in New York, both of which had left dragons badly injured.
The dates matched Sloane’s sudden departures from California.
After her dream, Sam could guess why. Sloane was a very specific kind of Apothecary, one who treated dragon shifters.
Having injured dragon shifters drop by without notice would explain why Sloane was so private.
She didn’t understand why it should be so, but her dream meant that dragons had taken Veronica to Sloane. Once she would have scoffed at this conclusion, but Sam trusted her intuition more than she had. As soon as she connected the dots, she knew it was true. No doubt, Sloane was going to try to heal Veronica Maitland but even with his extensive reading, his treatment might make her worse. Maybe he wasn’t even doing it by choice. Maybe the dragons were making him do it.
But Veronica Maitland was Sam’s patient and Sam’s responsibility. Sam wasn’t going to just step aside and let dragons do whatever they wanted to that woman.
Sam called the airline on her way to pack. She needed a flight to San Francisco and she needed it now. Sloane Forbes had been less than honest with her, and it was past time he explained himself.
Sam refused to consider the tingle of excitement she felt at the prospect of seeing him again.
This was business.
* * *
Marco needed a plan.
Preferably, it would be one that didn’t feature him or Jac dying during their firestorm.
He was a bit spooked by how readily his body shifted shape as soon as he discerned a threat, and how the firestorm made him feel less in control of his own body. His need to protect Jac was strong but the firestorm made it all-consuming. He couldn’t think of anything else, not when there was a Slayer in close proximity.
He was in the living room without realizing he’d gone there, in dragon form, confronting a Slayer who had drunk the Elixir. The intruder was in human form and stood by the sofa, as if waiting for an invitation to sit down. He smiled at Marco, something glittering in his eyes that might have been envy, then sat down with care. “Ah, the heat of the firestorm,” he said in old-speak. He smiled coldly. “Is she worth it?”
A Slayer had come to talk to a Pyr during his firestorm. Who said the darkfire was fading? Marco couldn’t think of another incident that would be less likely.
And that intrigued him.
If the Slayer wanted help from him, he might be able to create a strategy that protected Jac.
Marco shifted shape, returning deliberately to his human form. The golden heat that revealed Jac’s presence warmed his back. “You’re one of the hatchlings.” He spoke aloud, wanting Jac to be able to hear the conversation. He hoped she stayed in the bedroom but doubted she would stay out of view. In another time and place, her fearlessness might have made him smile.
Now it made his pulse leap with trepidation.
The Slayer winced slightly, apparently thinking that Marco smiled at his expense. He then nodded. “I’m Boris Vassily. I know I died, and I remember everything since then.”
“Since dying?” Jac asked from the doorway.
Boris surveyed her with a hunger that made Marco want to injure him. Then he averted his gaze and seemed to compose himself, taking a light tone. “It’s been most interesting.” He appeared to spot Sigmund’s book on the coffee table and smiled, reaching to flip it open. “So, this is where it ended up. No wonder your mate knows so much about us.”
Jac and Marco kept silent. Marco wished he had a way to communicate with her without Boris being able to hear. He continued into the room then sat in the nearest chair, sparing her a glance.
Jac understood and came to his side.
Boris wasn’t reading the book, just turning the pages idly. “It was Sigmund’s idea, you know. Well, my idea, but he acted upon it.”
“What do you mean?” Jac asked. Marco decided to let her do the talking. If he said little and appeared enigmatic—or undecided—he might be able to trick the Slayer.
“During the firestorm of the Smith, we were stretched thin. I commented to Sigmund that it would be useful if he could clone me.” Boris lifted his gaze to Marco. “To my astonishment, he did.”
“But isn’t Sigmund dead?” Jac asked.
“Of course. He died before seeing his experiment completed, just as I died before knowing what he had done. But the pieces were in place and the experiment set in motion. It simply needed time and the exposure to the right influences to come to fruition.”
“The light of the blood moon,” Jac said.
Boris smiled then glanced at Marco. “How interesting for you to have a mate so schooled in our lore. Is that a coincidence?”
“It’s darkfire,” Marco said flatly. “Turning all assumptions on their heads.”
Jac revealed that she held the crystal Marco had brought to her, and the darkfire spark leapt inside the stone.
Boris’s eyes narrowed as he studied Jac and the crystal. “She was quite intrepid in Australia at the eclipse.” He leaned forward. “Who fired the crystal at Easter Island?”
“I did,” Jac said, taking credit for what she’d done so quickly that her honesty couldn’t be doubted. “We went there to hunt dragons, after all.”
Boris closed the book. “My own father turned Slayer after having his firestorm.”
“Obviously,” Jac said.
Boris chuckled. “Yes, I suppose it is obvious, given my existence.” He stood up and brushed some invisible lint from his sleeve, obviously choosing his words with care. Marco watched the Slayer closely. What did he want? Why had he come? They could have been locked in battle already, but the Slayer must have an alternative plan.
Marco guessed that Boris was working up to sharing it and chose not to interrupt. Jac came to sit on the arm of his chair, holding the crystal on her lap. He almost smiled when he noted that she sat on his right, so that his dominant left hand was unobstructed. He liked that she was asking the questions.
It would give them more choices.
Again, they were working as a team. That realization combined with the firestorm to make him feel optimistic about their future.
“My father, however, could be said to have been not just the first leader of the Slayers but the most effective,” Boris continued. He began to stroll around the room, pausing to look at items as he went. Jac bristled but didn’t move. Marco put his hand on the small of her back, savoring the flurry of sparks that erupted from the point of contact.
“At the next blood moon, there will be six more clones hatched,” Boris said. “Creating an elite corps of fighting Slayers, each one with my skills, training and memories. Each one carrying the Dragon’s Blood Elixir in his veins. Each one my own mirror image.” He turned to confront Marco. “I never had siblings. I never had to compete for anything within my family and I don’t intend to start now. The way I see it, I have the opportunity to assert myself as the leader of choice within this band of brothers.”
“You want to kill Jorge,” Jac guessed.
Boris smiled and shook his head. “I want to enlist him as one of my troops. Even that won’t win the respect of the other clones. There’s only one way to do that, and if you help me, I’ll ensure that you’re rewarded.”
“How?” Jac asked.
br /> “Marco and I could rule the Slayers together, after the Pyr are defeated and exterminated. In doing that, we’ll rule the world. We’ll be immortal, with Elixir coursing through our veins, and we’ll make this earth a paradise for our kind. With two of us, we can watch each other’s backs and control whatever other Slayers survive.”
“How?” Jac asked again.
“By deciding who gets a sip of the Elixir, of course. Once the Pyr are gone, we’ll be able to reduce the other Slayers to groveling slaves, even Jorge. We’ll replicate Sigmund’s feat and make more, entire armies who look just like me. We’ll sacrifice one at intervals, giving the others a small sip of Elixir, just enough to ensure that they survive. We’ll pour all of our resources into creating the Elixir’s source again, then keep it for ourselves.” Boris lifted a photograph of Jac’s parents from the mantle, then replaced it after the barest glance. He turned on Marco with gleaming eyes. “Did you know Cinnabar?”
Marco shook his head.
“I thought you might have been contemporaries. Your uncle took him in from the streets of Rome.”
“Your uncle?” Jac asked, turning to Marco with a question in her eyes.
“Magnus Montmorency,” Boris provided. “A Slayer of uncommon resource and knowledge, and my successor as leader of the Slayers. Your dragon has a strong Slayer legacy, which is why I’m here.”
“Cinnabar,” Jac said and reached for the book. “I don’t remember a mention of him.”
“You might find him under Sahir, which was his original name, or under Sylvanus Segundo, which was the name Magnus gave him.” Boris cleared his throat. “But I doubt, actually, that Sigmund recorded those details, even if he knew them. Cinnabar, you see, was the most recent source of the Dragon’s Blood Elixir, as concocted by Magnus. It was too great a secret for Sigmund to reveal.”
“But the source of the Elixir was destroyed,” Marco said.
“One of the first epic losses of the Dragon’s Tail Wars,” Boris mused, then eyed Sigmund’s book. “I think that a dragon of your lineage might best be able to replicate your uncle’s feat.” He looked up, eyes shining. “Magnus, after all, had also learned the songs of the Cantor.”
So this was what Boris wanted. More Elixir, concocted by Marco. For once, Marco was glad that Pwyll had been so secretive about the songs of the Cantor.
There were only two Pyr surviving who knew any of them, and Marco knew more of them than Rafferty.
“And what’s in it for me?” Marco asked, keeping his tone defiant.
“Shared leadership. Survival. Satisfaction.” Boris glanced over Jac. “The opportunity to see your son born and grow up.” He shook his head. “If you remain Pyr, you’ll be dead in a matter of months. The Slayers are going to triumph in the Dragon’s Tail Wars. We’re immortal. We’re almost impossible to kill. And there will be six more of us on the blood moon, thanks to my suggestion and Sigmund’s skill.”
Boris needed him.
Marco shrugged. “What makes you think I want to share with you?” he asked and Boris couldn’t hide either his pleasure or his surprise.
“Destiny is bred in the bone, then,” he murmured. “You’ve begun?”
“I’ve snared Rafferty,” Marco lied. “Another excellent candidate to be the source, since the last Cantor was his forebear. He’s trapped and being exposed to mercury right now.”
Boris leaned forward, shimmering a little in his anticipation. “When do you think the Elixir will be ready?”
“It’ll take a few years to brew,” Marco said. “And frankly, I have my doubts about Rafferty as a good source, given that he’s resolutely Pyr.”
“Jorge,” Boris whispered with excitement. “Jorge would be ideal.”
“Jorge will hardly volunteer.”
“But using him could jumpstart the brewing,” Boris said. “Given the amount of Elixir he’s already consumed.”
Marco considered this, well aware that Jac was watching him. “You’re right, of course. That could make a difference. The Pyr, though, are still an obstacle, and your leadership of the Slayers is hardly assured. It might be better for me strategically to stay in the shadows, work on the Elixir, then negotiate after the last eclipse.”
“No,” Boris said with surprising finality. “Strategically the best plan is for you to help me ensure my position as leader.”
“How will you do that? They aren’t even hatched yet.”
“But when they are, they will all burn to complete one deed.” Boris held up a finger. “One mission that was unsatisfied when I died. If I’ve completed it already, I’ll be established as first among them, without question.”
“What deed?” Jac asked.
“Killing Erik Sorensson,” Boris said. “We exchanged challenge coins years ago. I would eliminate the leader of the Pyr, for once and for all, and that would secure my claim to leadership of the Slayers.”
Marco’s thoughts flew like quicksilver. He recalled that two of the clones had already attacked Erik, after the eclipse in October, and they’d injured him badly. He’d been outnumbered, but saved by the intervention of other Pyr. That indicated that Boris was telling the truth about the memory and the desire of the clones.
If this clone of Boris plus the remaining six attacked, Erik might be killed—and the Pyr might lose focus without a leader. They might lose the final battle as a result.
“You should do it soon then,” Marco said.
“We should do it soon,” Boris corrected and extended a hand to shake on their agreement. His thumb changed to a dragon talon, then back to a human thumb, and he smiled, showing all of his teeth. It wasn’t hard to believe that he was a dragon shifter.
Nor was it hard to remember that his interest was solely in himself.
“You’ll have to swear to never injure my mate or my son,” Marco said.
“You don’t have a son yet.”
“Like you, my mate wants to ensure I survive the war.”
“So you won’t fully turn Slayer until your firestorm is satisfied,” Boris mused. “You might be the first Slayer to have a son delivered.”
“That would be the mark of the darkfire.”
“The force that colors your life.” Boris watched the blue-green spark. His smile widened and he extended his hand a little further. “Then of course I will defend her, prize that she is. She might even use her skills for our side.”
“If taking Jorge down is part of your plan, I’m in,” Jac said with such gusto that Boris laughed aloud.
“It will do my old bones good to feel the heat of a firestorm for a while,” he said, and Marco shook his hand.
A Slayer’s pledge was worthless, but Boris seemed to believe that their contract was sealed. Marco had no intention of keeping his apparent agreement for one moment longer than was useful.
Boris had already told him a great deal, and he’d admit more before he died.
Marco would make sure of it.
He would also guarantee that Erik survived. The darkfire was giving him the chance to influence the outcome of the war.
* * *
Jorge couldn’t figure out Maeve O’Neill.
He wasn’t in a hurry to do so. He lounged in her bed, listening to her in the shower in the adjacent bath. They’d already had sex three times, and she’d disappeared into the bathroom after each coupling. Each time, he thought she’d return to sleep but each time, she’d reappeared in different lingerie and revealed her plan to seduce him again. It was the middle of the night, but he suspected she’d soon be back for more. Jorge had to rest while he could.
He’d looked for a sanctuary and found a slice of heaven.
Seeking haven with Maeve had been a brilliant choice on his part. Jorge couldn’t sense any Pyr in his vicinity at all. His body was healing with its usual speed. Maeve’s home was secure and luxurious, and the sex was phenomenal. She was insatiable, which he liked enough to have been distracted by her powerful influence on his senses. She wore a lot of perfume and it muddied
his thinking in a way that was unusual.
Was he just unaccustomed to perfume?
Or was there something more in the mix?
His eyes opened suddenly. Why exactly couldn’t he smell her mortality? She was human, after all. There should have been a whiff of decay about her, one perceptible with careful study. Jorge inhaled slowly, filling his lungs with Maeve’s scent, but could identify only perfume, the scent of her desire, and something that made him dizzy.
“All rested up?” she asked from the doorway to the bathroom. Her dark hair was coiled up this time, revealing the pale soft length of her neck and shoulders. She was wearing a sheer red nightgown that swirled around her knees in a froth of lace. The fabric cupped her breasts, as if displaying them for his pleasure, and the light from the room behind shone through the sheer fabric to silhouette her figure.
Jorge sat up, more than ready for another interval with Maeve. Her lips were painted a glossy red this time, as were her nails, and she strolled into the room in lacquer red heels. Jorge thought of blood and death, which was an unexpected association with an alluring temptress.
Maeve smiled, as if she’d read his thoughts.
“What are you?” he asked and her smile broadened.
“A hunter, just like you.” She crooked a finger, beckoning to him then strolled across the bedroom, leaving him behind. Her hips swayed in invitation, and Jorge realized he would have followed her anywhere.
He should have been concerned about that.
Instead, he pursued her. Maeve made her way up the stairs of the townhouse to the top floor. Jorge was transfixed by the movement of her legs and the flex of her muscles, as well as addled by that perfume. When she reached the summit, he realized he wasn’t even aware of having walked up the stairs.
He frowned. He had assumed there was only an attic below the roof of the house, but Maeve produced a golden key and turned it in the lock of the door there. It was a heavily studded wooden door, as if she admitted him to a fortress. She cast him a playful glance, then flung open the door, gesturing for him to precede her.
Jorge felt his body prickle on the cusp of change. He sensed danger and saw the pale blue halo of light emanating from his body. He was fully alert, but curious, too. What could she do to him? He boldly stepped past Maeve into the attic as she flicked the light switch.