Plight of the Dragon (22 page)

The tent, it appeared, was empty.
 

Marcus roared and knocked the podium at his side to the ground. A gentle vibration hummed in the air. A sign that Kyra should be near.
Where is she?
And that damn carnie boy
. Marcus knew the little shit had come into the tent. “Where are you?” His voice erupted. “Not trying to slip away, are you?”

Fabric rustled on his right. He turned, inspecting the tent’s far wall, caught sight of a black boot moments before the side canvas dropped back into place.
 

“Carnie,” Marcus snarled.

24

ALL FIXED

Kyra

“Blazing dragons!” Kyra
leaped backward, smacking into Talia. Together, they tumbled to the ground. A ball of fire exploded into the top side of the tent before them, missing Kyra and Talia by a strongman’s throw of the lead weight. Black and white stripes, flapping red pennants, burst into flames. Screams erupted from within, adding to the singing chorus outside.
 

While they had been immersed in business within canvased walls, short amount of time as it may have been, the carnival’s climate had fallen from tense to pandemonium. At a far distance to the west and northeast, smoke rose in angry plumes of taupe and slate.
 

Fire and smoke and beastly roars.
 

Dragons. Dragons fighting dragons. Water Clan and Fire Clan warriors fighting Marcus’s traitorous dogs. Some dragons, some others: zilants. She wondered if her father or Drakhögg had taken to the fight in the sky. Or even her sister.
 

Kyra’s heart pounded against her ribcage and she pushed herself off the ground. “Come on,” she beckoned to Talia. “Let’s get this done. I need to get out there. Put a stop to this.” Beads of sweat rolled down the back of her neck.
 

“How are you going to do that?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll figure it out.” Pushed by growing urgency, Kyra ran to the back of the tent, as far from the blaze as she could get. Talia remained at her heels.
 

The sky broke into claps of thunder, lightning webbing across the growing darkness, and liquid night began to fall from the heavens.
 

“Mother,” Kyra whispered, then, at Talia’s face of confusion, clarified. “My mother must be the cause of the weather.”

Talia directed them over to a collection of abandoned storage crates, and sat Kyra down. “She’s so powerful she can control a thunderstorm?”

“Among other things.”

Talia didn’t ask what those other things might be. She merely wheezed and pushed and prodded at Kyra’s body, molding her stature like one would a clay doll. “Don’t move or I might seal you up wrong.”

The rain fell fast and hard, quenching the thirst of the fire in seconds. When flames no longer stormed, the tempest dissipated as fast as it had begun, the moon once again gliding free from gloomy cover.
 

Curious as the anomaly was, nothing about it surprised Kyra. Maybe it was her mother helping, or maybe she was simply showing off. Didn’t matter. Kyra hadn’t witnessed anything she wasn’t already familiar with, and this time her mother’s ability had served a great purpose in helping to protect and preserve Mystic’s. Yet despite her knowledge, her lack of awe, Kyra still ogled the sky. She found Talia doing the same.

Talia’s head snapped back down and she locked a stare on Kyra. “I thought I told you not to move?”

A scowl wrinkling her lips, Kyra returned to her former position. “I won’t, if it will get us done and out there quicker.”

“I know, you want to stop the dragons. You always have to rush in, try to be the hero. Have you ever noticed you kinda suck at that?” Talia snapped something at Kyra’s back, and she flinched. “Aren’t you the least bit worried about your own dragon?”

What kind of
dragonass
question was that? A thought flashed through Kyra’s mind and she realized she wasn’t feeling an outburst coming. Only a few months ago, she would have wanted to turn around and deck Talia for question stupidity. Now—now, she only wanted to move forward.

“Of course I care about Kalrapura, but I know that she couldn’t be safer than where she is right now. She’s going to be fine.”

“All fixed,” Talia said from behind her. Dropping the toothpicks to the ground, she began the task of fastening the many buttons up the back of Kyra’s dress.
 

“Great!” Kyra leaped off the wooden crate, an aura of zeal radiating from her soul and seeping into her motions.
 

Talia lurched forward, snagged the fabric on Kyra’s sleeve. “Where are you going?”

“First?” Kyra studied Talia with a wide-eyed intensity. Talia waited, blinking back in response. “Back to Sebastian. He loves me. He may not know it, but he needs me. We need each other.” She turned and ran around the corner.

25

SPLINTERS

Sebastian

The curtain was
falling on Mystic’s Carnival, or so it would appear to anyone standing in Sebastian’s position. Structures collapsing beneath beasts or magic fire, flames whisking into the sky, leaping from tent to tent, and swirling black holes opening and closing throughout the midway, sucking men, women, and monsters into oblivion. Valentina was working her vortex power to the maximum, and the battle was a horrific exhibition of supernatural talent at its worst. Warlocks, werewolves, species of all types took up the cause to protect their favorite meeting ground and sentient friend, Mystic’s. The sky cracked with a resounding boom, exploding with electricity, sending wind and rain from the heavens, quelling the furor, if only temporarily.
 

Unfazed by elemental conditions, Reapers continued to glide among the mob unnoticed, collecting soul after soul.
 

Sebastian locked his jaw and narrowed a tight stare on his father. He had to stop him. Somehow revoke the Grim’s work orders. This was his home. He couldn’t allow it, allow her to be showered in death and tragedy. He had to protect Mystic’s and put an end to all the bloody violence. But how?
 

Blades of crystallized ice grazed past him, frigid air sweeping through on the Reapers’ wake. Memories and emotions trembled through him, and he thought of Death’s whisper, fierce and frosty and fatal. Sebastian jerked and swerved out of the icy path, dropping to the ground for safety. A behemoth lay beside him, an impressive ice crystal having pinned the beast to the terrain. Rising like an iron post from where its face used to be, the ice misted and fizzed, mingling its cold with the hot, bubbling blood. Sebastian looked away—right at a jumble of feet coming his way, seconds from tripping into him.
 

And then a body fell over Sebastian’s back, groaning when it hit the ground. Sebastian was pushed into the sawdust of the midway, its smell of a thousand dirty trampled shoes, stale food scraps, and so many other things he didn’t want to think about scratching at his nose. A swoosh and thrust followed.
 

“Look at that.”

Sebastian twisted beneath the body to see Drakhögg’s smirk beaming down at him. The warrior pulled a bloody blade free from the body draped over the top of Sebastian.

“What?” Sebastian said, and shifted beneath the dead weight, pushing it away.
 

“Didn’t think you had it in you.” Drakhögg stared down at Sebastian a moment too long before offering him a hand. Drakhögg’s stare was more of a glare and warned Sebastian to remain ever vigilant. A smile splintered Drakhögg’s tight lips. “Tripping the bastard I was fighting before he could get away, that was quick thinking. I never expected a pretty boy like you to get his hands dirty.” Their hands clasped, and Drakhögg dragged Sebastian to his feet.
 

Pretty boy
was a curious term. One Sebastian believed did not apply to himself. Sure, he was not an overgrown, conceited oaf, rippling with bulging muscles all over his physique, but did his size qualify him as something worth mocking? He was still taller than Kyra.

He met Drakhögg’s even glare and, without waver, reached into his pocket, felt the deck of cards slide between his fingers. Their energy warmed to his touch.
 

And then the ground beneath him disappeared. Sebastian’s feet swung out from under him and his hands—cards forgotten—flew to Drakhögg’s tight hold at his neck, pulling and prying to free himself.
 

Drakhögg only squeezed tighter. “Pretty boy,” he said again, hard lines pressing into his forehead. “That’s why Kyra’s drawn to you, isn’t it?”
 

Sebastian couldn’t answer. His vocal chords were pinched closed, his larynx crushing like an old soda can. But if he could speak, he’d give Drakhögg an earful. Then again, he’d probably just walk away before he ended up killing the guy.

“In the end,” Drakhögg said, “she can’t have you. She needs me.”

Sebastian tried to shake his head, refute Drakhögg’s ridiculous remark, but his restricted movements turned his shake into more of a bobble than a stand against Drakhögg. Someday, hopefully soon, the large and irritating warrior dragon would understand that Kyra didn’t need another overprotective, overbearing man in her life. Someday all the clans would know that Kyra didn’t truly need any of them.
Everything she needs she will find within herself
. Sebastian hadn’t realized how true those word were until he thought them, and now he burned with the burden of such truth. Burned with a purpose and need to make her see that truth, too. Within his belly the dragon twisted, not in upset or disapproval, but in delightful understanding and impatience.
 

“Are you trying to burn yourself free?” Drakhögg growled in Sebastian’s face.
 

Sebastian wrinkled his nose and blinked. It was true, his hands were in flames, although not by choice. Kyra had had her whole life to learn how to control the urges. They came to her naturally. Not for him. Not at all. And today was only his first day.
 

A screech accompanied by the humming of thick wings blasted from above. The sound grew closer, like a battle cry at the run. Drakhögg examined the sky, dropped Sebastian, and turned to block the zilant descending upon them. Even Sebastian could see it was too late, the zilant was too close, and soon the massive flying snake would be munching on dragon Drakhögg meat.
 

“OoRah!” came a warrior’s cry. Leaping into frame, a dragon force wrapped in reds and coppers and hair pulled tight at the back, slammed into the zilant, pounding it with a face full of fist and knocking it off course. A pitiful pitch escaped as it flapped and lurched, attempting to return to the sky, but it found silence after one swift kick from the dragon girl’s boot. “Must I always save your sorry ass, Drakhögg?”

“Thought you liked my ass?” Drakhögg retorted.

Rubbing her battered knuckles, the girl swaggered closer, a carefree pretense about her. “It’s all right, when the picking is slim.” She gazed at his butt and smirked. Drakhögg laughed.

Sebastian failed to share their humor. “The fight,” he said, and scrabbled to his feet.
 

“It’s not going anywhere.” Drakhögg grabbed the girl and pulled her to his side, slapped her on the backside, then pointed to Sebastian. “Have you met your sister’s latest distraction?”

Sister
—the word echoed in Sebastian’s battered head. He couldn’t tell if it was surprise, frustration, or anger inching through his blood—a sense of betrayal at Kyra’s lack of disclosure. But then, she owed him nothing. He hadn’t exactly been forthcoming on the topic of family…or anything else.
 

The girl’s eye twitched, her steady gaze narrowed. “I don’t know what Kyra sees.” She peered up into Drakhögg’s face. “But if it keeps her away from Mobürn, I’ll endorse the infatuation.” Her hip popped to the side. “I’ll endorse anything that keeps her out of our business.” Her glare appeared to be examining Sebastian, scrutinizing everything about him. “Your species is unfamiliar to me. What are you?”

“Nothing you need worry about.” Chelsea, in her once-fluffy white robe, now dingy, blood-splattered, and torn, jumped between Sebastian and the two dragon shifters. Her hair a mess of tangles and knots and her voice a gravely growl, she stood in a protective stance with her back to Sebastian. Drakhögg and Kyra’s sister took a step back.