Flashfire (24 page)

Then JP screamed in agony as Chen’s red-hot brand was pressed against his neck.

“
Now you’re mine,
” Chen murmured, his words echoing in JP’s mind as everything around him faded away. “
Now you’ll never defy me again.
”

JP had a vague sense of the elevator beginning to descend again, of the doors opening to the quiet hush of the lobby in the middle of the night. He heard those heels as Chen stepped smartly over him and marched across the tile floor.

And he knew that his life had changed forever.

Salvatore was trespassing.

He knew it, and he knew the price for his transgression could be high.

If he were caught.

Salvatore didn’t intend to be caught.

The potential reward, as his Angelina would have said, was worth every measure of the risk.

He trespassed for his son’s future.

In Salvatore’s dreams, his mind slid into dark recesses he had glimpsed long before. He had found this portal a long time ago and realized soon that it gave entry to the misty realm of the Wyvern. Somehow he’d stumbled upon it in his dreams. Maybe it was undefended, since the current Wyvern was just a child. Maybe it was accessible to him because he himself was close to death. Salvatore didn’t know, and he had no intention of asking questions.

He didn’t want anyone to realize the treasure he’d found. He eased closer to those hollows, knowing full well where they led. He’d entered them only once before, then retreated when he realized his location.

He’d known where he was because he’d had a glimpse of the future. He’d seen Drake—the leader of the Dragon’s Teeth Warriors and a mysterious
Pyr
in his own right—holding the darkfire crystal that was secured in Lorenzo’s hoard, wielding it and commanding it. Salvatore had understood that he’d seen this because it was his task to give the stone to Drake.

Maybe the current Wyvern had allowed him to enter her realm so he could do her will. Salvatore didn’t know, but he respected the power of this place. The point of access was a secret to hold in reserve.

Until now.

Salvatore let his breathing slow and his pulse weaken, hoping against hope that he could once again find his way. He had need of the Wyvern’s wisdom and vision. She was, after all, the prophetess of the
Pyr
, the one who saw into the realms of dreams and possibilities. He slipped into those dark crevasses, felt his way by instinct, and passed through a glimmer of quicksilver.

He recognized the realm of the Wyvern as soon as he entered it. It could be nothing else, a parallel world radiant in possibilities, in glimpses of past, present, and future, a glorious visual feast of shadows and might-have-beens. In this realm, they lingered, possibilities all.

Salvatore made himself as small as possible and tiptoed deeper into forbidden territory. He could have been surrounded by stardust. By snow. By the glittering, infinite light of the moon. He felt large and clumsy and that his presence was ridiculously obvious.

Perhaps she did know that he was in this place. Perhaps he’d found it because he’d been invited.

Either way, Salvatore dared not tarry. He dared not be caught.

He was in search of a memory.

Salvatore worked on instinct, assuming this was the way the Wyvern herself utilized this realm. He spied a veil of gossamer, one that rippled in a wind he could not feel. It seemed to snare his gaze and beckon to him. On impulse, he stretched for it, seized it, closed his eyes when it would have enfolded him. It was the memory he sought. He willed it to be a dream and felt something change in the hand of it.

Salvatore flung it through space and time, filling his mind with the intended recipient, hoping his aim was true.

Then he ran for refuge, abandoning the marvels of this realm before he was made to pay for his intrusion.

He could only hope with all his heart that he had succeeded in his quest.

Locked in Lorenzo’s car and wrapped in his leather jacket, Cassie dreamed.

She dreamed more vividly than she had ever dreamed before. She was used to dreaming in color, but this dream was astonishingly clear and lucid. She felt like she was living it.

Or remembering it.

Even though she knew it wasn’t her memory.

She might have been in the painting again, but this time, the room around her was empty. It felt more tangible, maybe because of that.

She could feel the floor beneath her feet and smell the salt tang in the air. She could feel the damp wind that made the curtains drift. She could smell the food that had been eaten and the wine that had been spilled. She could smell the candles that had been snuffed.

She heard the calls of the men echoing from below and went to the window. On the pier not thirty feet below the window, half a dozen men joked as they staggered into their respective gondolas. The water was as dark as ink, barely rippling, and the windows facing the scene were dark. High overhead, the silvery moon was no more than the barest crescent. It rode high in a dark sky lit with a thousand stars.

When the men pushed away, shouting farewells to each other, Cassie heard a woman’s voice.

Singing a lullaby.

Cassie moved through the abandoned house, following the sweet sound of the woman’s song. She entered a bedroom, one occupied by a large curtained bed and illuminated by the flames in the fireplace. The shutters were closed against the night, making the chamber appear to be an intimate refuge. The entire room looked to be gilded with the fire’s light, nothing appearing more precious than the woman who rocked a baby in her arms.

Angelina.

Her hair was unbound and she wore only her sheer pale shift. The makeup that had tinted her features was gone, and her bare feet were held out to the warmth of the fire. Her bed was turned down, but she was alone with her son.

Lorenzo.

He couldn’t have been a year old. Handsome even as a baby, he already had that dark wavy hair and that smile. He clutched at a tendril of her loose hair, locking his little fist around it as she sang to him.

Cassie hovered in the shadows, uncertain whether she could be discerned or not. They were so peaceful together, so joyous in each other’s company, that she didn’t want to interrupt. She could have stood there for hours, just watching.

Thinking. She felt the power of Angelina’s love, so fierce and so passionate. Would she feel the same way about any children she had?

Would their son be such a healthy and handsome child? Cassie had to admit that she didn’t mind the idea of having a baby—she’d just never thought to raise a child alone.

Angelina cooed to her son and sang to him, so obviously enchanted with him that Cassie had to smile. She did not doubt that his mom had adored him, and whether she had planned for his conception or not, she delighted in his presence.

Would the experience be similar for Cassie?

The tranquillity of the scene was suddenly shattered by a pounding. Angelina started and looked to the window. The pounding continued, as if someone demanded entry.

But it was the middle of the night.

This could not be good.

Angelina got to her feet, Lorenzo held close against her chest. She must have suspected trouble because she barely opened the shutter to peer at the canal below. She slammed it shut quickly, but not before Cassie glimpsed brilliant orange light.

A maid had knocked at the door, her expression terrified. Angelina gave her terse instructions, her eyes flashing, and the girl raced away. Angelina shouted at the girl, probably to hurry. Cassie heard men shouting in anger from the wharf below, and two words became clear in the cacophony.

Puttana.

Diavolo.

She remembered enough rudimentary Italian to translate those two words.

Whore.

Devil.

Angelina put the baby on the bed, fussing over him with agitation. She looked around the room in obvious fear, then seized a box on a table. She opened it and Cassie saw the glitter of gemstones. Angelina took a handful of gems and swallowed them, grabbing a glass of wine to wash them down. She had done this twice by the time the girl came back, then spoke to the maid, who repeated the act.

Meanwhile the shouts became louder.

The maid swore softly at the sound of wood shattering in the lower part of the house. Angelina flung the rest of the gems into the fire. She barred the door; then the two women pushed a trunk across it to barricade it.

Angelina then went to one of the paneled walls and felt along the edge. Somehow she opened a panel, revealing a narrow winding staircase. Cassie could smell wood burning, and she heard the reception room being trashed. The men’s shouts were louder.

Angelina and her maid fled through the opening, Cassie right behind them. Angelina shut the portal, urging the girl up into the darkness. Lorenzo was clutched to her chest. Moments later, the two women emerged on the roof. Cassie was awed by the view; all of Venice spread at their feet, the red clay roofs and domes touched by shimmering moonlight.

Angelina wasted no time on the view. She raced to the chimney on the far side of the roof, tugging a loose brick free. She removed half a dozen bricks and Cassie saw that there was a recess in this chimney, one bricked from all sides.

Angelina’s breath caught in a sob. The maid cried out and slammed the trapdoor closed at the top of the staircase. Angelina whispered something in Venetian, perhaps a prayer, kissed her son, and slipped him into the hidden space.

She replaced the bricks with shaking hands, tears running down her face. Then she looked skyward, crossed herself, and prayed again.

Cassie didn’t need a translator to know what Angelina was praying for.

The men burst onto the roof just as Angelina joined the maid. They fled to the opposite side of the roof, and stood together, defiant and fearful. Backed by half a dozen men, their leader spoke to Angelina in a tone that was far from flattering.

She gave as good as she got, making a show of being undaunted as the men circled. Cassie could see the flames leaping from the windows below, lapping at the stone facade of the house.

Angelina spoke quickly to the maid, then stepped in front of her. She said something daring to the man, gesturing to his crotch. Cassie assumed by his outrage that she had insulted his masculinity.

He swore. He flung his torch across the roof to let it burn wherever it landed. He unfastened his trousers and advanced upon Angelina. She never blinked. She never retreated. She just kept taunting him. Two men seized her and pushed her to the ground. They held her down as the other man mounted her.

She laughed when she saw his manhood.

Then she spat in his face.

He struck her hard, making her nose bleed, but she mocked him even more. He mounted her in a fury, beating her with his fists, and Cassie was horrified by how intent he was upon hurting her. When he was done and stepped away, a beaten Angelina smiled at him again.

“
Syphilide
,” she whispered, indicating that he would contract a venereal disease from her. Then she laughed and laughed. He kicked her. He beat her. He struck her so many times that every bone must have been broken. Her face was a bloody pulp.

But what none of the men had noticed was that the maid had fled.

She had jumped to the next roof and run while the men were occupied. Cassie saw her far away, at the end of the block of houses. She glanced back one last time, then dove off the roof. Cassie heard a splash and knew the girl would be safe.

Angelina had planned it that way. She had sacrificed herself to ensure the survival of those she cared about. Cassie was awed by the power of her love.

But the baby cried just as the flames began to emerge from the trapdoor in the roof. The men looked around, seeking the source of the sound, and Cassie prayed for Lorenzo’s survival.

Even though she knew he had survived.

It was all so real though, as if she were there in the moment, and she feared that Angelina’s plan would come undone at the last second. The men began to prowl the roof, seeking the child they now knew was there. She heard her heart pound in terror.

But that was when she saw the silvery dragon descend out of the sky, breathing fire and fury. His eyes flashed, and his talons were extended. He was magnificent and livid, his scales gleaming like silver in the night.

But Salvatore was too late to save his beloved.

For Angelina lay in a pool of her own blood, stilled forever.

Erik leaned over the makeshift cradle, watching his daughter sleep. The hotel room was secure enough, Erik supposed, his dragonsmoke barrier woven thick and deep around it. He could hear the traffic on the Strip and could see the flashing lights even through the curtains.

He couldn’t sleep.

He couldn’t leave.

He knew that Lorenzo believed he didn’t need the
Pyr
. He knew that Lorenzo was determined to do things his own way. But Erik had a niggling sense that Lorenzo failed to understand the full truth of his situation, of the dangers a firestorm could draw. He feared that if he left, Lorenzo would need him and he’d be too far away to help.

He’d smelled Balthasar’s arrival, but that
Slayer
had been defeated before Erik could get to Lorenzo’s home. Probably better that way. Still, he sensed other forces, forces that were less easy to identify.

Who else was in town?

Erik suspected he couldn’t feel the most dangerous ones. Those
Slayers
who had drunk the Elixir could disguise their scent at will, and Erik worried that he had no idea where they had all hidden themselves.

He paced the width of the hotel room, watching his partner sleep and casting glances at his daughter.

“
No point pestering her,
” a familiar voice said in old-speak and Erik jumped.

He pivoted to find his dead son, Sigmund, leaning against the wall. Actually, Sigmund’s shoulder slid partway into the wall, as if it provided no real barrier to him.

Erik sat down and braced his elbows on his knees as he confronted his son.
“I don’t suppose you’ve come to do more than annoy me.”