Hunted Warrior (18 page)

“I don't know. But if I ever meet the Dragon, I'll ask.”

CHAPTER

M
al had never been to Florence. He'd been to some of the highest reaches of the Himalayas, and to clan strongholds on the outskirts of Cairo and in the Highlands of Scotland. After his retreat from the outside world following the terror he'd inflicted at Bakkhos, he hadn't seen the point of travel beyond his explicit duties. He was the leader of Clan Tigony following his grandfather's death—his grandfather's execution, to be precise—which meant staying home in the Grecian mountains and the glittering Aegean Sea.

To travel for pleasure? He was a man of significant means, but the thought had rarely occurred to him. Too much responsibility. Too many reasons and resources to command from a distance. So, much to his embarrassment, he found himself gaping like a tourist at the scene laid before him.

They stowed the quality garments in the train station locker, where Mal was pleased to find its content in order. They changed into more casual clothes. Avyi was back in cargos and a gauzy blouse, while Mal took to jeans and a T-shirt again, as if reliving a comforting memory, and donned a black leather jacket. With brass knuckles and her switchblade stowed in a secret compartment in the sole of her boots, Avyi appeared at ease for the first time since leaving the town car behind.

Mal shouldered their pack as they walked to where travel by car was blocked to any vehicles other than those owned by locals. Every subsequent step in their journey to the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore, simply called the Duomo because of its unmistakable dome, was literally by foot. They followed the Via dei Calzaiuoli toward the cathedral, which was visible from miles off. Monochrome tiles of green and sienna decorated its facade. What had to be millions of bricks made up the eight-sided dome.

“It took more than one hundred and forty years to complete,” Avyi said, her voice hushed despite the hum of countless voices and pressing bodies. Almost every face was pointed up toward the dome or down toward children who had the potential to bolt or simply be consumed by the crowd. “Can you imagine? Even Dragon Kings born on the day of its groundbreaking would've been into their twilight years before it was finished.”

“With a significant break for the Black Plague.”

“Strange that we survived that devastation unscathed, yet now . . .” Her gaze fell on a nearby family. A man and a woman shepherded tired children along the cobblestoned street. One was old enough to walk—a boy of perhaps eight. Another was carried in a sling across the father's chest, while the mother pushed a stroller. They walked with the stooped posture of pending exhaustion, yet they were smiling, absorbing the history and majesty. “That will never be us. None of us.”

Mal stopped in the midst of traffic, then steered Avyi to a corner by a gelato vendor. He took her face in his hands, assessing, reading eyes made pale green in a flash of sunshine. “Do you
know
that?”

“You're asking me for a prediction?” Her tone somewhat exaggerated, which grated on his nerves.

“Do you
know
?”

She shook her head. Coal-black hair twisted down from her temples and hugged the curve of her nape. “I don't. Too many variables, remember? But every time I look toward the future, I see a human population expanding to the point of heedless destruction. And we're nowhere to be seen.”

Mal spread his fingers, as if doing so might permit access to her mind, to the future he desperately needed to steer onto another path—a path where the Dragon Kings still thrived. “You mean it. You're not hedging because . . . because—”

“Because you've been an arrogant ass?”

He blinked. Pulled back. His palms burned.

“No, Mal.” She sighed, her eyes returning to where that family had stood at the far edge of the Piazza del Duomo, but they were gone. A trio of what appeared to be college students had taken their place. “I'm not hedging. I would hide dangerous things from you if I wanted to act out of spite.” Reaching up, she adjusted the twisted strap of his pack. “I can only hope that one day, events will change. Perhaps I'll see days when babies are born to surprised, thankful Dragon King parents. I'll breathe easier knowing such a future is coming, even if it's too far off for me to witness.”

“Or to have children of your own.”

She shook her head. “You mistake me. I don't want children.”

“Self-defense,” he said, grasping the hand she'd used to hold his. He tugged her toward the cathedral's massive bronze doors, which were adorned with carved reliefs depicting the life of the Virgin Mary. A line of tourists wrangled by ropes meant a long wait. He and Avyi took up their place at its end and shuffled along with the mass of humanity. “You don't want children because it'll never be an option. Why want something you can't have?”

She disentangled their hands and shoved hers into her pockets. “No, I don't. Not for any reason. I'll touch them and I'll know too much about their futures. I'll see accidents, weddings, disappointments, arguments, first sexual encounters, and maybe even the circumstances of their deaths. All the while I'll wonder what events lead to the terrible things and how I can prevent them. For the good things, I'd drive myself mad working to further them along.”

“You say we have no free will,” he said evenly.

With haunted eyes, she looked up at him. “But wouldn't you try?”

“Yes. I would try.”

They reached the head of the queue and entered the dwarfing brass doors. He leaned closer to Avyi. “Most times, I don't take notice of human achievement.”

“You're one of
those
. So superior.”

“Maybe. But how is this any less magnificent than what we can do?”

“Perhaps that's our ultimate legacy, even if our race doesn't survive. We taught them the skills. They made . . . this,” she said, hands sweeping up toward the doors' bronze reliefs. “Astonishing.”

Upon entering the cathedral, Mal craned his neck to take in countless details, although he would've needed to be Garnis for his senses to keep up fully. Too many indescribable sights and ancient smells, all of which harkened back to the centuries when the Tigony dynasty had reached its zenith. The fresco that adorned the sloping interior of the dome was that of the biblical Last Judgment. Only, the painting wasn't distorted by the four-hundred-foot dome's sloping octagonal sides. The perspective was perfect, so that the scene appeared as flat as a canvas.

“How . . . ?” he whispered, his voice dipped to a reverent pitch.

“I don't know.” Avyi shook her head. “More than six hundred years old. No computers. No Dragon-given gifts. Just human ambition and imagination.” She gently elbowed him in the ribs. “Get your head out of the clouds and pay attention to the world.
You
have no excuse. You've not been trapped in a lab for twenty-five years.”

He had his answer. She'd been Dr. Aster's captive for twenty-five years. A shudder climbed his spine.

“So where is this bow? Some exhibit?”

“It's not in an exhibit. It's in the crypt.”

“There's a crypt?”

“It's a cathedral. Of course there's a crypt. And guess whose ruins were rolled over with rock?”

“Romans'.”

“Your people must take personal offense when the Greeks and Romans get all the credit.”

Mal was inclined by long habit to agree with her. But with a glance back up the dome, he reconsidered. “The Tigony don't deserve all the credit.”

Following the signs to the crypt, which was accessible by rather civilized carved stairs and wrought-iron railings, they shuffled along with the rest of the curious.

“We should've come at night,” Avyi said, her voice tight. “Fewer people.”

Mal glanced down. Her face was ash white. Beads of sweat dotted her hairline. “I thought crowds would be good for blending in. Are there evening tours?”

“No.”

“Then we made the right call. No sense adding to the dangers we've already faced by breaking into a national treasure.”

The first memorial in the crypt was that of Brunelleschi, who had engineered the dome's theretofore unheard of structure. He'd also been the first human to introduce the concept of perspective. Mal couldn't imagine a world where perspective was a new concept that needed to be instructed by a singular individual. He nodded in appreciation toward the marble casing, before they moved to saints, bishops, and other artists who'd worked those one hundred and forty years to construct and decorate the Duomo.

“Down here?”

“So much doubt.” Avyi took his hand again. He liked that. Too much. Every touch was a reminder of what they'd done and what they had yet to do—prediction or not. “The Giva must learn to trust,” she said, slanting him a censorious look, “and to have faith.”

“In you, the woman I shouldn't trust at all? And in the mysteries of your gift? So far the power provided to you by the Dragon is to get under my skin.”

“Don't invoke his name if you don't believe.” Her voice held genuine castigation.

“Long-standing habit.”

She stood on tiptoes and whispered in his ear, “Not habit. Deep belief. Now, a little distraction would be useful.”

“Distraction?”

“Short-circuit something. Lights. Fire alarms.” She nodded toward the ropes and barricades that marked the extent of the public's access to the crypt's excavation. “What we seek is not a tourist attraction.”

“
You
, Avyi. What
you
seek.”

*  *  *

“Rub your hands together,” Mal said. “I need some heat.”

“Flirt.”

He raised his eyebrows, which tempted Avyi to smile. She nearly did. They were buried beneath the earth and surrounded by too many human beings for comfort. Surely someone would look at them both and spy the uncanny glow that visually defined their people. Enjoying Malnefoley's half smile was better than the unpleasant alternatives that walked bugs up her arms. She knew the pain that could come from being identified as a Dragon King.

That thought made her look down. They
were
in a crypt. They were standing among the dead . . .

“Avyi? Focus, wild child.”

“Watch it. You already gave me one name.”

She slid her palms together and rubbed with increasing speed until her hands were warm. Nothing could explain the touch of Mal's gift as that turbine under his skin sucked her scant static. His eyes glowed. Literally glowed. Twin blue beacons. She gave up on creating an energy source for him, because he was going to give them away. Instead, she grabbed his shoulders and turned him away from the bulk of the crowd. Glimmering golden skin could be rationalized into nothing: a really good tan, or that other human impression—that they were in the presence of a man or woman of exceptional, literally indescribable beauty.

There would be no hiding blue eyes that shone a light across his features and made delicate shadows of his pale lashes.

“Yes,” he whispered.

The word was spoken with the satisfaction she'd heard in their ferry berth. Did he receive as much pleasure from his gift as he did from sexual release? Avyi would've been envious had she not been caught in the thrill. She grabbed his hands, holding on to a living electrical wire.

“On three.” His voice was distant and rough.

“One, two, three.” She said it quickly, intimidated by the strength of him, outside and in.

Mal grinned briefly. “Coward.”

“Just not an idiot.”

He released her hands and dropped his to his sides. With a quick turn, he released the gathered, amplified electricity and aimed it toward the nearest light fixtures. His precision was astounding. A bulb popped. Then another, and a third. The crypt went dark, before it was flooded with the bloodred of emergency lights. Warning sirens blared. People began to panic.