Dragon Fate (18 page)

“No thanks to your damn dragon trap,” she said. “Look, I’m barely keeping it under control. Are you going to give me a refill or not?”

He braced himself against the sway of the boat, bumped by the wind-driven waves rolling back from the causeway rocks. “Where is the dragon you’ve caught?” There was an extra crispness to the carefully honed diction of his voice that underscored his irritation, as if he couldn’t credit that she’d done what he couldn’t.

She rolled her eyes. “Why would I tell you that when he’s all I have left?”

Torch was all she had.

He was all she wanted.

The thought made her sway as if she was on the water herself, and her blood seemed to slosh drunkenly in her veins. Her eyes stung from the wisps of saltwater spray flying off the tops of the waves.

Torch was the last of his line with only an empty aerie to his disgraced name. But he didn’t mind when she snapped; he
liked
when she bit. He’d caught her when her life was in freefall. Now she wanted to be the one to fill the emptiness for him.

Ashcraft slapped his hand on the steering wheel, jolting her out of her thoughts. He scowled. “You are going to lose it with your stubbornness.”

“No,” she said, probably too softly for Ashcraft or Torch to hear her. “I won’t.”

Ashcraft seethed. “Do you have any concept of the value of dragon blood? With one talon, I could rule China. With its eye, I can formulate a tonic that enhances ESP.”

Okay, so he couldn’t read minds yet; that was good to know, considering she was lying to his face. “And the ichor?” She put her hands on her hips, making sure the pocket with the phone gaped open. “What good is pure dragon ichor?”

“It’s the key to immortality. And more than that. I can bring back what was lost.” He peered at her slyly. “Would you like to see your mother again?”

Her arms slipped to her sides in shock but she kept her voice light, refusing to let him see how his nonchalant offer had struck her to the quick. “Well, since you’re dreaming so big, you won’t mind sharing a little with me. Give me what I asked for so I can bring you the dragon before it gets away, but then I expect my cut. Figuratively and literally.”

He reached down for something beside him, and she tensed until he straightened again with a case in his hands.

She wondered nervously if it was shark-skin.

He popped open the top and angled the case toward her to display the glass orb nestled in white packing peanuts. A handful of the plastic pieces whipped away on the rising wind, and he snapped the case shut again, but not before she saw the extra vial beside the orb.

“That’s the black smoke trap?” she prodded. “That’s the same thing you gave me last time?” It looked the same, but one glass orb of mysteriously roiling black smoke was pretty much the same as any other to her.

“Yes. And the tube has the antidote.” He held the case out. “I formulated the original trap thinking you’d just have to break the orb in the vicinity of the dragon, and the smoke would do the rest. But if you are as close to the dragon as you’ve implied”—he peered closely at her—“you’ll have to administer extra antidote immediately to prevent an overdose which would render the ichor unusable. And I should be there so I can begin harvesting before the paralytic wears off.”

He would chop up a living creature. Anjali steeled herself against the shudder of horror that ripped through her and hoped Ashcraft chalked it up to the chilly wind.

When he held the case out over the side of the boat, she carefully descended the last few salt-crusted rocks to the water’s edge.

“The black smoke doesn’t last terribly long,” he warned. “In fact, I’m surprised you’ve managed to keep control of the beast until now.” When the boat rocked, he straightened a little, withdrawing the case.

Seeing it slip even that little bit farther from her grasp, Anjali ground her teeth, tasting the salt spray. Did he know she was lying? It wasn’t like he’d had a chance to actually experiment on a real dragon before. With a little wave of her hand to distract him and get her closer to the case, she said, “Uncle Gwain explained how my mother seduced a dragon, remember?”

“Yes,” Ashcraft drawled. “He said she sparked its interest. Inflamed a mating fever.”

Anjali leaned out from the rocks. The clouds had gathered across the sky, blocking the sun, turning the water as gray as old bone. Shivering in the icy bite of the wind, she didn’t feel fevered.

Her fingers wrapped around the handle of the case, next to his. The thrill of having the case in her grasp countered her flinch at the cold smoothness of his skin, like a serpent; not the hot, rough caress of Torch’s hand.

“A mating fever,” she mused. “Yeah, I guess that’s what it is.”

“In that case,” Ashcraft said, “I don’t need the dragon.”

His snaky fingers clamped around her wrists, manicured nails stinging, and he yanked her off the rocks.

She yelped, not just at the cold shock of the water instantly drenching her lower legs, but at his surprising strength.

He fisted a hand on the back of her coat and hauled her over the side of the boat. He tossed her to the floor.

His eyes, which she remembered from their last encounter as a flat, unremarkable brown, were pitch black and rippling like molten tar. “You fucked a dragon. Which means you have the ichor I want. In you.”

Chapter 17

She screamed. No reason not to at a time like this.

She knew Torch was watching and listening, but she screamed again, just in case. And she kicked too since Ashcraft was stalking toward her.

“Quiet,” he snarled. “You know you can’t stop me.”

He’d said the same thing when he’d revealed what he’d done to Esme, that he’d kill Uncle Gwain if Anjali didn’t do what he said.

She might not be able to stop him this time either, but there was nothing stopping
her
from trying. Torch had spent centuries proving himself. She could take a few minutes to kick and scream.

She crab-walked backward, her hands and feet sliding on the slick deck. Ashcraft lunged forward and stepped on her arm, pinning her to the hull of the boat. Fuck, he was so strong. He wasn’t that much heavier than she was, but his stylish half boot ground into her shoulder. Was he
on
something?

He reached into the inner pocket of his coat. Fuck, fuck. Would he bring out the drugs or his knife?

She still had the case in her hand, and she swung it hard at his kneecap.

It connected with a crack, and he staggered sideways, releasing her arm as he swore up a storm.

Spinning around, she launched herself upright and scrambled for the edge of the boat. The handle of the case was slick in her sweaty palm when she saw how far from the causeway the boat had drifted. She wasn’t the best swimmer, and this far out, the lake was deep enough to drown.

But drowning was less certain than what Ashcraft had planned for her.

A grip on the back of her coat brought her up short. Her legs went out from under her, and she slipped on the deck. She landed hard on her back, staring up at Ashcraft.

Livid color suffused his face, making his churning black eyes all the more hideous, like button eyes on an over-painted clown. The sky above him seethed with clots of gray on gray.

He kicked her hard in the ribs, and the air rushed out of her on a grunt. She curled sideways into the pain.

He swore again, as if
she’d
hurt
him
. And maybe she had, judging from the way he limped on the leg he’d kicked her with, the same one she’d hit with the case.

“I don’t have to kill you to take the ichor,” he said. “But I will just for convenience if you don’t stop fighting me.”

A part of her wanted to listen to him, to just give in. She’d
never
gotten far on her own, so what made her think this time would be any different? And worse, this time she’d managed to get herself stuck on a boat in the middle of a dead lake.

She only wished she could believe Ashcraft was using some sort of mind control on her, to make her think such defeatist thoughts, but she feared it was all her own doing. Just like all her mistakes.

Cautiously, she uncurled. Her ribs creaked a protest, and she touched her side. Something hard bent under her fingers, broken. Shit, not her ribs—the cell phone was cracked in half from his kick.

Ashcraft was at the wheel of the boat, but he was watching her narrowly. “Mixed with your blood, the dragon’s essence won’t be as pure.”

She groaned. “Not more of that purity bullshit.”

“I suppose I will have to drain you blood to separate the ichor.”

“What happened to not killing me?” As stalling tactics went, her technique probably left something to be desired.

But Torch was coming…

Wasn’t he?

The boat was speeding into the wind and jouncing roughly over the rising waves, which only made her eyes tear harder from the chill and the pain.

But she had nothing to lose, so she edged toward the stern.

Ashcraft had his hands full with the approaching storm, but he saw her move. “Dammit, Anji. You’re making this harder.”

“Am I inconvenient? So sorry.” She threw herself toward the edge but staggered when he cut the engine to grab for her.

She just had to last long enough for—

A whoosh and a roar made them both duck, and for a confused heartbeat she thought a train had derailed from the causeway.

Torch had come for her!

His wings spread dark across the sky, the draught of each beat flinging up salt spray and spitting rain. She wanted to yell an answer back to him.
I knew you’d come!
But her chest ached; almost as much as her face from her wild grin.

Ashcraft flung up one arm to protect himself.

Except his hand wasn’t empty.

He had the black smoke trap from the case.

The oily slick in the glass orb churned as disgustingly as his eyes. If he hit Torch, the paralysis could send the dragon to the bottom of the lake.

Instead of trying to get away from Ashcraft, she reversed course and charged toward him.

He jumped behind the wheel and revved up the engine, swinging the boat in a sharp arc to follow Torch’s banking flight. The abrupt change threw her sideways. No, she couldn’t fall overboard now, not when Ashcraft was aiming for Torch.

As she scrambled on all fours toward the front of the boat, she caught a glimpse of the case sliding across the plunging deck.

The antidote! She lunged for the case. A plume of plastic packing beads flew up, but she felt the smooth curve of the vial still nestled inside. She slammed the lid shut and clutched the case to her chest.

She had to get it to Torch. But he couldn’t come too close, not with the black smoke ready to entangle him.

“Torch!” she screamed with the small breath she could force from between her cracked ribs. With the strength of years spent in her uncle’s stock room, she whirled and flung the case out across the water.

He couldn’t know what it was. What if he thought it was the trap, that she was going to betray him?

But he didn’t hesitate. He swooped and snagged the case at the peak of its arc.

Just as Ashcraft brought the boat swinging around. She tumbled to the deck again, crying out as she slammed into the low rail. There went another rib.

No. It was the gun in her other pocket.

Ashcraft aimed the glass orb. Torch’s descent had brought him too low, within reach.

She dragged the gun from her pocket, fumbling for the safety.

The ash-hole was focused only on the dragon overhead, as if she’d never mattered at all.

She fired just as the boat heaved on another wave, and the shot went wide. Ashcraft whirled to face her, his oblivion eyes wide with shock—oh,
now
he cared about her.

She glared at him and let out a slow breath as she pulled the trigger, but maybe the fall had damaged the barrel—or maybe killing someone was way harder than it looked on television—because she missed again.

“Anji,” he hissed. “If you think you can just—”

She fired again—how many bullets were in this stupid thing?—and the glass orb shattered in his hand.

He screamed, though she wasn’t sure if it was surprise, pain from the glass, or knowledge that she’d just stolen his dragon.

It all happened so fast. She laughed. The black smoke boiled out of the decimated orb.

The swirl of the wind brought the smoke toward her, and she caught a whiff of the sweet-rotten stench she remembered from throwing one of the traps at Torch and Rave. She’d wanted to kill a dragon to save her friends.

Now she was saving the dragon who was her friend.

And—maybe—more.

Then the smoke touched her.

Her laugh turned to a shriek as the smoke tangled around her like a venomous snake, sinking its fang deep. She stiffened, her muscles going numb except for the agony that crashed through her in amplifying waves.

The ichor was in her.

And it was turning to stone.

As if acknowledging his failure, Ashcraft spun the wheel away from Torch.

She teetered sideways and couldn’t catch herself.

She went over the side of the boat, and the cold salt water closed over her head.

***

Torch roared. Furious flames burned in his throat but he couldn’t let them loose, not when he’d lost Anjali in the billowing black smoke.

Ashcraft spun the boat toward shore, toward curious eyes that would see the winged shape over the water and not be able to tell themselves it was a trick of the clouds.

The boat’s trajectory cleared the smoke.

And she was not there.

Torch wheeled over the last spot she’d been, the dragon’s sight trying to pierce the rain, the salt, the fear in his heart.

There!

Through the surging waves, he caught a glimpse of her bright hair.

Dropping the case, he dove. He split the water hard, wings flattened to his sides. With all talons extended, he found her body in the murk and clasped tight.

Straining every muscle, with nothing but the empty depths below him, seeking to suck them down, he launched skyward again.

Rain lashed them, rinsing away the salt and lingering black streaks on her skin, but when he snaked his head down to look at her, she stared back with fixed, bloodshot eyes.