Dragon Awakened

 

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C
yntag's phone rang. He set down his glass of whiskey and grabbed the phone. The screen showed a restricted number. His boss.

“Valeron here,” he answered.

“I have a sensitive job of an urgent nature.”

Guard talk for an assassination to be carried out now. Over the years, Cyn had progressed through the Crescent police agency, going from an Argus to a Vega, the highest classification of officer. It meant taking jobs without explanations, without question…and without conscience.

Cyn grabbed a piece of paper. “Go ahead.”

“I'm handing you over to someone else for the details.” Of which there would be few.

Another man came on the line. He didn't introduce himself, only gave Cyn ocean coordinates. “There's a yacht named
PHYSIKAL
roughly in that area. Male is a Deuce, female a Dragon. Take out everyone on the yacht.
Everyone
. Understand?”

Irritation bristled, but Cyn kept it from his voice. “As always.”

“I've heard much about you, Valeron. Carry out this task and you will be rewarded well.”

The phone went dead. Cyn went into his office, pulled out the maritime map from his collection, and pinpointed the coordinates. Far enough out that boat traffic would be minimal at this hour. He headed outside to his back deck, looking at the ocean and orienting his position with his target. A trail of moonlight glistened on the waves like a thousand glittering diamonds, pointing in the right direction like an arrow.

He turned around to take in the warm and welcoming fireplace through the wall of windows in back. More money didn't motivate him, and he was as high in the Guard as he cared to be. What drove him was the thrill of the hunt, the kill…to feel
something
after all this time.

He walked to the seawall, stripped out of his clothing, and dove into the ocean. Water sluiced over his body as it transformed and magick tingled through him. His nose and mouth pulled away from his face, and his lengthening teeth tugged against his gums. His torso stretched, growing large and strong. His tailbone extended, becoming a whip in the water behind him. Scales emerged from his skin, the final transformation to Dragon.

The oceans were vastly uncharted, unmonitored, and mysterious, the last frontier. Emerald Dragons could fly beneath the water, a luxury envied by the other types. Cyn wasn't Emerald by nature. He'd come by the ability in a less than honorable way.

There was nothing like the thrill of gliding free through the water, other than what awaited him. He tuned into his innate sense of direction, shifting south. Fish darted away in crazy zigzags. He skirted the sound of a boat's engine, staying deep. A fish finder might pick up a horse-sized object that the captain would attribute to a school of fish or Goliath grouper.

He came up, saw lights in the distance, then swam close enough to ascertain that the yacht was his quarry. A man and woman sat in the cockpit, though even with his night vision Cyn couldn't see much more than their gender.

His heart beat faster, adrenaline racing through his veins. He submerged again, moving close enough to see the hull cutting through the water. His muscles tightened and released, shooting him toward the bow. He gathered his magick and tore through the hull and out the other side. The impact hurt, bruising and jarring his body, but he powered through it.

Cyn surfaced, only the tip of his snout and eyes above the water. The couple shouted to each other, panic in their voices as they scurried to the deck to see what had hit them. The yacht was tilted, water gushing into the hole he'd created. They were obviously on the run. No other reason for tearing across the ocean at this time of night or to warrant a Guard-sanctioned hit. The targets would immediately suspect an attack.

The man ran down into the cabin. The woman grabbed a rifle and started shooting in a wide arc into the water. She couldn't see him so her shots flew wild. The man returned to the deck carrying a large bundle. Some kind of bomb launcher? But he screamed into the darkness of the ocean, “They don't know anything about this! Leave them alone, please!” He ran to the dinghy and laid his package in it.

Cyn hated when they begged. No matter, he had his orders.

The yacht was sinking fast. The female discharged all her shots, desperately searching the water. Cyn remained just below the surface, his view distorted. She Catalyzed, becoming a Carnelian Dragon. Red, passionate, and pissed, her Breath weapon was a stream of fiery spikes. With her night vision and fine-tuned instincts, she zeroed in on him. Her eyes flared with hatred and fear just before she dove in.

Come and get me, sweetheart.

He'd learned long ago that females, at least Crescent Dragons, were as vicious and capable as any male. He would give her no deference. No mercy. He shot toward her beneath the water, knocking her aside. One of her talons scratched across his scales but not deep enough to penetrate.

She came at him again, her fangs aiming at his throat. His tail whipped out and lashed her side, but she grabbed for him anyway. He let her get close enough to think she had a chance before locking his arm around her neck. Pinned against his side, she kicked and tore at him with her claws. A spray of leathery spines fanned out from the sides of her head, brushing against his face as she tried to thrash back and forth.

Her tail
thwacked
him in the back of the head so hard that he momentarily loosened his grip on her. She pushed off and started to swim away. He grabbed hold of her tail and snapped the bone. She howled in pain as she swam back to the boat and scrambled onto the only part of the yacht still above water.

He climbed onto the back edge right behind her. She blew fiery spikes at him. He ducked but had little room to maneuver. Fire prickled along his scales, and one spike lanced the unprotected flesh near his eye. He lunged at her, knocking her down and clamping his hand around her snout as she prepared to blow more of that lethal Breath. She kicked, her claws tearing at his scales. He jerked her head back and tore into her throat, finishing it.

Hot blood coursed down his chin. She fell limp and slid into the water with a splash. He followed her down, clamping onto her, Breathing Dragon…taking her essence. It was how he held the power of many Dragon colors. Her Carnelian nature surged through him like a thousand volts of electricity. The water flickered and glowed red as the last of her power transferred to him. She Catalyzed back to human upon death, and he released her to sink to the murky depths.

The ocean suddenly sucked at him as the yacht sank, pulling him down in its current. He pushed away, fighting the vacuum to get to the surface. The far-off sound of an engine caught his ear, the man trying to get away in a dinghy. When Cyn caught up to it, the man leaped into the water. Cyn had no idea what kind of magick the Deuce possessed. He knew Dragon skills by their color, unless they were adept killers who had absorbed their opponents' powers. Deuces wielded all kinds of weapons and abilities, with no indication by their appearance.

The man's hands glowed blue, creating a force field around himself. He sputtered as waves splashed into his face. “We're innocent,” he said on a gasp.

“It's not my place to judge.” In Dragon form, Cyn's voice was deep and gravelly.

“Please, don't kill my daughter. I beg you—”

Cyn dove through the painful field and cut off the man's words—and his life. He surveyed the area as the man's body sank. No one thrashed in the water. If anyone else had been on board, they were dead, too.

The dinghy kept churning into the night. He grabbed onto the side once he'd caught up and nearly tipped it over as he tried to crawl inside. He Catalyzed to man and pulled himself in. The sight of a blanket wrapped around a sleeping child smacked him in the chest. Ah, the man's daughter. Her feet were bare, nightgown wrapped around her legs like seaweed. Blood marred her temple. Cyn knelt down next to her and found a pulse.

Take out everyone on the yacht.
Everyone.

The man who'd given him the order knew the child was on board, knew Cyn was ruthless enough to kill her. He rubbed the back of his neck as he contemplated her. They must have a good reason for wanting her dead. And he
was
cold-blooded enough to carry out any task they required.

Wasn't he?

A
h, the smell of fresh paint in the morning.

Ruby stepped out of the office and squinted at the sun reflecting off the windshield of a '57 Chevy. For a few seconds, a bright mark marred everything she saw, including the Gottlieb Grand Slam 1953 pinball machine that was further along in the restoration process. Beyond that, five acres filled with memories of climbing cars, dismantling bicycles, and the sound of her mom calling, “Ruby, get off there. You're going to fall and crack your head open!” To an adventurous seven-year-old: annoying. Now, a sound she'd kill to hear again.

What she didn't see was her business partner. Typical. She stalked across the gravel, searching the sections of vintage toys, old signage, and then Coca-Cola machines for him.

“Seen Nevin?” she asked Jack, her expert on motorcycle restoration.

He nodded toward the back. “Chewing the fat with a friend.”

“Augh.”

Jack hefted his wrench. “Want me to bust his chops, Miz Ruby? I'll kick his ass all over the place…if you'll pardon my French.”

“That's not French,” she said, trying to ignore the “Miz Ruby” that he wouldn't stop calling her, along with his flirtatious smile. “Thanks, but he's my problem.”

She continued on to Nevin's disorganized side of the yard and found him leaning against one of his junk sculptures, laughing it up with some guy.

“Nevin.” She kept her gaze on him, plastering on a pleasant-but-fake smile for his friend's benefit. “Our client is picking up the Wayne gas pump at the end of the week, the one that doesn't look anywhere near ready.”

Nevin rubbed his belly where his shirt rode up and exposed pale, flabby flesh. “You're good at finding deals and making old stuff look new again.” He gestured to the roof of a 1976 Cadillac Fleetwood he'd fashioned into a table. “How 'bout you do the resto stuff and let me focus on my art?”

“Resto is paying the bills. You haven't sold one piece yet.”

“Aw, Ruby, you said business is good. Can't we take it easy for a bit?”

No, she needed to push herself, to fill some need for…something. Her pseudo-uncle Moncrief inherited the Yard, along with her, when her parents were killed in a boating accident fifteen years ago. Because he traveled often performing his magic shows, he couldn't deal with running the Yard. Ruby had sobbed at the prospect of losing the last tangible tie to her mom, so he made a deal with Nevin's parents: a half share for managing it.

After graduating high school, she wrested control from Nevin's father, who proved that being a lovable lackey was in his gene pool. When he passed, Nevin's mom insisted he step in, hoping to give him direction. He'd been one of the early strays Ruby attracted. While she had the kind of affection one might have for a dumb-but-sweet cousin, she wasn't going to let him run the business into the ground like his father nearly did.

The man with Nevin said, “Ruby Salazaar, don't you recognize me?” The wiry guy in a white cotton T and faded jeans gave her an expectant smile. Smoke trailed from the cigarette clamped between his fingers.

“Leo Canton?”

He looked nothing like the Afro-haired kid whose parents were part of Mon's touring troupe. His hair was trimmed short now, round glasses gone. “Been a long time.” He approached her with outstretched arms.

She warded him off. “You are
not
going to hug me like we're long-lost friends. Unless you count cutting off my braid and terrorizing me as friendship, which I do not.”

He chuckled, dropping the cigarette and grinding it into the gravel with his heel. “You still got a braid.” His gaze followed it all the way down to her rear. “The color of honey. You nailed me good after I cut it off. I had that black eye for weeks.”

“You deserved every hour of it.” She'd pounded him, the rage so overwhelming it scared her. She pointed to the cigarette. “Didn't you see the sign? Anyone who drops his butts has to pick them up and put a dollar into the ‘Jar of Bad Behavior.' Which I use for the cat neuter fund.” She nodded toward two kittens who were racing over to rub against Leo's ankles.

Leo pulled out his wallet and handed her a fiver. “Still feisty as ever, and a hell of a lot stronger.” He had the gall to clamp his hand over her biceps but pulled away at the murderous glare she gave him.

Nevin made a tsking sound. “She hates to be touched, dude. Some guy grabbed her buttocks once, and she dropped him right to the ground. Dude clutched his
cojones
all the way outta here, yowling like a girl.” His pride warmed her heart.

“That doesn't surprise me.” Leo slumped back against the car and crossed his arms over his chest. “You did get the best training on attack and evade, thanks to me.”

“You mean the Hunter/Prey game you and Jimmy used to force me into playing?” The two would start hunting her, prowling the tour buses or the stage equipment. She was always the reluctant prey. Except something inside her actually liked it while the rest of her hated it.

He shrugged. “We only did it 'cause your uncle paid us to.”

“
What
?”

Leo plucked a kitten from midway up his pant leg and set it down. “Five bucks a week. Skills building, he called it.”

“You're serious?”

“Your uncle did things to protect you. He was super paranoid for some reason.” He peered into her eyes. “You
still
don't…” He clamped his mouth shut and waved as he sauntered off. “Nevin, gimme a shout if you find the part for my truck.”

“I still don't what?” she called after him.

“Have a sense of humor,” Leo said, though she knew that wasn't what he was going to say.

She pinned Nevin with a glare. “Is this true, about Mon paying kids to torment me?”

He assumed the blank look of the guilty.

Her cell phone rang. “Speak of the devil.” She skipped right past
hello
. “Were your ears burning? I've got—”

“Ruby, there's trouble.”

“Did you piss off your new neighbors already? I told you not to hang those weird artifacts all over your front porch. Creeps people out.”

“No,
big
trouble, ducky. Get over here, quick. There are things I have to tell you, things I should have told you long ago.”

Her throat tightened at the agony in his voice. “Be there in about forty minutes.”

“Speed.”

Speed in Miami traffic. Yeah, right. Especially since a storm had recently passed through, leaving the freeways wet and slick. Which made drivers either go too slow or too fast. The black mass of clouds now squatted roughly over the upscale neighborhood where Uncle Mon lived.

By the time she reached his house, the storm had moved on. Everything glistened from the recent rain. South Florida storms were wicked but brief. Mon chose this area for its secluded lots. Not that fans clamored over him. He had built his fame as a master illusionist overseas. He was almost a rock star in Germany. Deservedly so. Even as she'd watched from backstage, she had never once seen the trick, the hidey-hole, the sliding panel. When she begged to know just one secret, he always said with a conspiratorial wink, “It's real magic, ducky.”

Her work boots scraped on the flagstones leading to his front door. Nothing seemed amiss, so his trouble was likely some exaggerated fear spun from his eccentric mind. She brushed past the animal bones, crystals, and silver stars hanging from the porch roof and lifted the knocker. The brass moon banged against the heavy wood door, echoing inside the marble-floored foyer on the other side.

“Uncle Mon?”

She heard a strangled warble that sounded like, “Go!” Which didn't make sense since he'd ordered her to come.

She pushed the door open and stopped cold at the surreal sight of Mon several feet above the floor, his feet dangling. A bolt of green lightning speared him to the wall, right through his chest. She felt encased in a solid block of ice, unable to breathe.

His horrified eyes found her. “G-get…
out
, child.”

Run. Obey Mon.

Leave Mon to die from this thing? Hell, no.

She ran forward and grabbed the flower arrangement from the table in the center of the foyer, her gaze on the bolt.

Pain wracked his wizened face. “Don't let it see you.”

Which didn't make sense either. She threw the vase with every ounce of strength she could muster. It fell short, but she was already searching for something else before it even crashed to the floor. She had to knock the bolt away from him, but with what? The knives Mon collected that she was never to touch, except for throwing practice.

She ran into the den where several were mounted on the walls. Two knives slid free of their fancy sheaths in her clumsy grasp. She raced back, skidding to a stop and aligning herself so she wouldn't accidentally hit him. His arms now hung at his sides. His fingers flexed, the only fight he was putting up now.

No.

Before she could throw the first knife, the bolt formed into a ball of light and shot upstairs. Mon fell to the floor in a bone-jarring
thump
, and she threw herself at him, sliding on her knees the final two feet.

“Mon! Talk to me.”

She gasped at the hole burnt into his chest, nearly gagging at the smell of seared flesh. His eyes lacked the light of life, dull yet still fearful.

He uttered, “Get out. Will…kill if it sees you.” He was talking at least, even if he wasn't making sense.

“Lightning can't
see
. And it doesn't come back. It's random, ‘lightning doesn't strike twice in the same place' and all that. I'm calling nine-one-one.”

“No.” He raised a shaky hand and let it drop on top of hers as it went for her phone. “Can't tell police. Rule Number One.”

“Mon, you're in shock.”

“Tell them…lightning.”

“It
was
lightning. Ball lightning, I'm guessing, which I've heard can act really freaky.”

“Not lightning.” He took a stilted breath. “Magick.”

“An illusion?” But no, illusions didn't inflict mortal damage. He was talking nonsense. “Mon, please let me get you help.”

“No use.” He sucked in a noisy breath. “Get the envelope I told you about…bottom desk drawer…and go.”

She sputtered a hysterical laugh. “Are you crazy? I'm not leaving you.”

“Stupid, but not…crazy.” He gasped, his hand tightening on hers. “The person who sent it…danger, ducky.”

His words sank in. “You're saying someone
sent
that lightning bolt to kill you?” The thought squeezed her throat, especially when he nodded.

“Read my…letter…explains everything.” Mon spoke with what looked like every ounce of his remaining strength. “Do not see your grandfather. Too…dangerous.”

“Brom's been in that mental hospital in Alaska for years. Wait, are you saying he did this?”

Mon's eyes widened with determination. “Cyntag, he…” He shuddered, then fell limp.

“No. No!” She put her fists on the uninjured part of his chest and pumped. “Come back. Come back, damn it.” Even in her disbelief, grief tore at her.

A sound whispered behind her. She spun to find the green ball sailing down the curved stairs and into the den. An acrid smell hit her nostrils. Smoke rolled out of the upstairs hallway, and she heard a
whoosh
in the den. The ball shot back out and hovered a few yards in front of her. She stared at it, almost mesmerized by the green sparks inside—until it came at her.

With a yelp, Ruby ducked as it whizzed so close that she felt a sting on her forehead, then smelled burnt hair.
Her
hair. She grabbed one of the knives she'd dropped as she launched to her feet. It tingled in her hand, emitting faint electrical shocks. She couldn't take even a second to look at it. The ball floated a few feet away, following her movements.

Following her movements?

Like Hunter/Prey. “What are you?” she screamed.
Orb
popped into her mind.

Flames licked inside the den and along the stairway banister. The orb had set the house on fire. Now it wanted her. What the hell?

It zinged toward her, and she threw the knife. It flew faster than she thought possible, stabbing the orb. It shuddered, vibrating so fast that she could barely discern the movements. It disgorged the knife, which disintegrated like friggin' dust. But it had done something. The orb was smaller now. She needed to get the other knife.

The orb flew at her, and she ducked around the backside of the heavy foyer table. Hunter/Prey. It was all coming back. Wood crackled behind her, and smoke filled the house. Noxious fumes tickled her throat, hot and cloying, and she fought the cough burning up her throat.

Flames filled the den now, licking into the foyer as though they were testing the air. She lunged for the other knife but the orb cut her off. It had intelligence, all right. The knife seemed to glow, though it was probably reflecting the green sparks. Or maybe not. Obviously it wasn't a normal knife.

The orb circled the foyer. She could barely see it now because of the smoke and the tears in her stinging eyes. Coughing spasms wracked her body, and smoke strangled the air from her.
Have to get out of here
. She backed toward the door.

The orb flew behind her, sending her jerking forward. Ruby feinted right, then ran toward the kitchen. It beat her to the door. The kitchen was already in flames, but a clear path to the exterior door remained. She took several steps back, facing the orb as it followed. Pretending to head to the front door, she twisted around and slid across the floor toward the second knife. She and Mon had played a form of paintball in his old house, which had marble floors and long hallways. She got good at sliding on the slick surfaces.