Vampire Dragon (32 page)
Darkwyn grabbed her hand, squeezed, and answered silently.
We’ve already fixed that, Mrs. Dragonelli.
We’ve already fixed that, Mrs. Dragonelli.
Don’t tell them.
Gotcha.
“Whadda ya know?” Darkwyn said to the goons. “Cameras on the roof. You gorillas aren’t as stupid as you look.”
“Whadda ya know?” Darkwyn said to the goons. “Cameras on the roof. You gorillas aren’t as stupid as you look.”
He got sucker punched for that.
That’s it, boys, make my dragon mad.
FORTY-SIX
As if they mattered not at all, Enrico Sanguedolce
barely glanced their way as he and Bronte were brought to the mob boss’s inner sanctum, a room that might as well be papered and upholstered with hundred dollar bills. The man carried the stance of a powerful ruler, tall, straight, wide shouldered, if not robust, his hair a silver white, his heart as black as those of the Mighty Joe Youngs who worked for him.
barely glanced their way as he and Bronte were brought to the mob boss’s inner sanctum, a room that might as well be papered and upholstered with hundred dollar bills. The man carried the stance of a powerful ruler, tall, straight, wide shouldered, if not robust, his hair a silver white, his heart as black as those of the Mighty Joe Youngs who worked for him.
Sanguedolce focused on stoking the fire in the hearth, probably with a solid gold poker, making the room about ninety degrees. That’s where he showed his age, his craving for heat in October.
Ignoring them, well, that was part of his job, Darkwyn figured. Being boss had to be all about control.
His goons were sweating, either from the temperature, or fear. Both good reasons.
Darkwyn figured the man needed fire to prepare for a perpetual stay in hell. He knew only that if Zachary lost his life, this man had ordered the boy’s execution. In the same way he’d ordered the death of the man whose name and soul Zachary carried.
Hit me again
, Darkwyn silently begged, raising his arrogant chin. Get my dragon roaring. Even with his wrists bound, his dragon wasn’t half mad enough to come out on its own. Darkwyn, the man, found himself too numbed by profound worry over Zachary to instigate the transformation alone.
, Darkwyn silently begged, raising his arrogant chin. Get my dragon roaring. Even with his wrists bound, his dragon wasn’t half mad enough to come out on its own. Darkwyn, the man, found himself too numbed by profound worry over Zachary to instigate the transformation alone.
He also needed a cool head in this life-and-death situation, so maybe remaining human for the time being would be best. Still he couldn’t help poking the scum. “You live like a king, Sanguedolce. You’re touted in your own newspapers as a smart and generous man. Surely you can talk to your stepdaughter without every brute in the house holding a gun on us.”
Those guns went higher. The old man made a motion for his men to lower them. “At ease,” Sanguedolce said, making another motion for them to put the guns away.
The thugs obeyed—of course they did—and stood looking from him and Bronte to their boss, and back, legs spread, hands at the ready, about ten watts of brainpower between them, and not a one “at ease.”
“So, my daughter, you wear a mask? Why now?”
“Always. I wear it always to hide, because I’m ashamed to be your stepdaughter.”
The old man clenched his fists.
The situation suddenly felt like a standoff, until a Monet flew from the wall to reveal a dumbwaiter behind it, open, and occupied.
“Zachary!” Bronte gasped.
“Don’t move,” the boy snapped, halting Bronte’s instinctive step in his direction. “Don’t turn your back on
them
and don’t block my targets.”
them
and don’t block my targets.”
“Why didn’t you stay out of sight?”
“For Mom.” ’Nuff said. Zachary focused on Sanguedolce. “Hey grand-killer, did you miss me? Call your bozos off, or I’ll show you everything I ever learned growing up here. I’ve got an arsenal, complements of Tucker, your old record-keeper, who personally showed me this rabbit warren and taught me its every secret. Yeah, I know, he died as I was born. Think about it. Meanwhile, if you hurt Bronte or Darkwyn, I have toys enough in here to make Castello Sanguedolce implode.”
“You would implode with it,” the old mobster said, paler and looking more fragile by the minute.
Zachary sneered. “I would go happily, if I took
you
with me, though I think we’ll go in separate directions.”
you
with me, though I think we’ll go in separate directions.”
“You sound bold for a twelve-year-old.”
Zachary said something that one of the goons identified as Italian and it made the old man gasp, stagger, reclaim his balance, and step back. His gangsters looked a little green around the gills, too.
“I didn’t know you could speak Italian,” Bronte said.
Zachary raised his eyes Bronte’s way, straight and serious, and his take-no-prisoners look said it all. In those eyes, Darkwyn saw a hardened old man protecting the boy who shared his soul, the boy who shared his enemy. That had surely been old Tucker scaring the crap out of Sanguedolce by using his own language against him, and didn’t the old man do a great job.
“Rico,” Sanguedolce pleaded.
“I hate that you named me after you,” Zachary said. “The thought makes me sick.”
“You are only a boy, you don’t know your own mind.”
“You made a joke,” Zachary said.
And quite funny
, Darkwyn thought, considering the fact that the boy practically had two minds, his own and old Zachary’s.
, Darkwyn thought, considering the fact that the boy practically had two minds, his own and old Zachary’s.
“No joke here, though,” Zachary continued. “I’ve got stink bombs, tear gas, triple tasers, faithful
old
guns—my favorite’s the machine gun—and bright, shiny high-techs. Every one you ever threw away.”
old
guns—my favorite’s the machine gun—and bright, shiny high-techs. Every one you ever threw away.”
“Rico,” Sanguedolce said again, unable to mask his plea, faking a cool that the twitch of his fingers belied. “Why do you turn on your grandfather like this? Look around you.” He indicated the room. “This is all yours. The purest of golds, marble from Italy, lapis lazuli and malachite from Russia’s Ural Mountains, French bronzes, Japanese pottery, the riches of the world, my boy. It will all be yours, if you stay.”
Zachary laughed as he pulled his Fangs backpack around to his lap.
One of the bozos made a move.
The boy grabbed something that filled his hand and held it out there like a threat. “Another move and I pull the cap.”
Bronte caught her breath. “Zachary Tucker, are you playing with a hand grenade?”
“Zachary Tucker?” Sanguedolce’s hands were stricken as if with a palsy.
Young Zachary looked amused, Darkwyn thought. As the boy flipped open his backpack, yellow smoke rose from inside, bright tendrils, a familiar whistle accompanying it, unmistakable.
“I think the kid’s got a bomb,” one of the thugs shouted, and four out of five gorillas hit the floor, though none of them saw the smoke.
The fifth remained standing and shook his head at their stupidity.
“The Sanguedolce dynasty ends here,” Zachary said, as Jagidy flew from the backpack to smoke test the occupants of the room, invisible to everyone but the three of them.
Sanguedolce failed, of course. His smoke rose thick, and black as hell. The goons smoked black, too, except for the fifth, the one still standing. He tested yellow, which meant he was safe, aka not evil, aka on their side.
A plant. Probably, RCMP.
Darkwyn had never appreciated Jagidy’s smoke testing more, until the pocket dragon got distracted by Bronte’s cleavage and hit a wall. It made Darkwyn wonder, again, how Zachary got here, and Jagidy became the obvious answer.
Sanguedolce took another step toward Zachary, taking their attention from the pocket dragon.
“The hand grenade is the least of your problems,” Zachary warned. “Not another step, old man. I changed my name. I disowned you. No family loyalty here, but plenty of brainpower.”
“We will see how good the word of a boy is, shall we? Lorenzo,” Sanguedolce said. “Take my daughter’s backpack, give it to Guido, and you take her away. Lock her up, you know where, and stay with her. Don’t touch her and don’t hurt her, yet.”
Darkwyn communicated telepathically.
Bronte, best behavior. We’ll fetch you, soon. You still have your gun?
Bronte, best behavior. We’ll fetch you, soon. You still have your gun?
I have the gun, but Zachary?
I’ll take care of him. My dragon’s ready to take over when the time is right.
Bronte raised her chin.
Take care of yourself, too
.
Take care of yourself, too
.
I will. I hope you’ll be safer this way.
And more afraid
, she admitted.
, she admitted.
I know.
He didn’t dare tell her he was scared, too, that he couldn’t save Zachary. As long as Bronte and the boy ended up safe, nothing else mattered.
He didn’t dare tell her he was scared, too, that he couldn’t save Zachary. As long as Bronte and the boy ended up safe, nothing else mattered.
Lorenzo disappeared with Bronte while fury radiated off Zachary in waves. He must be listening to his soul memories not to protest. Or he waited until Bronte was safe away from here.
Meanwhile, after losing Bronte’s escort, they were down to three gorillas and a good guy. The odds were getting better.
Guido, the tallest and dumbest of them, searched Bronte’s backpack, as told. In half a minute the book of evidence came out. Sanguedolce took it, leafed through it, said something in Italian, and had the hoodlum drop the book in the fire.
All this way for nothing
, Darkwyn thought, but Zachary didn’t so much as blink at the destruction of his evidence. “Now what?” Darkwyn asked.
, Darkwyn thought, but Zachary didn’t so much as blink at the destruction of his evidence. “Now what?” Darkwyn asked.
“Now, my men, they are going to beat the crap out of you. My daughter and grandson, they will sleep in their own beds, tonight. Tomorrow, they will agree to my terms, I promise you.”
“If they do not, are you going to kill the boy? A child?”
“I wouldn’t be the first,” Zachary said. “Old Zachary’s wife, Gina, died pregnant.”
Sanguedolce straightened in surprise. “Gina? What do you know of Gina Fioranelli? She died years before you were born.”
“Gina Fioranelli Tucker. How did you force her car off the road?”
“I never need to know the details. I am not a . . . how do they say . . . a . . . micromanager.”
Zachary charged from the dumbwaiter—bad move—and beat on the mobster, likely for the sake of the old man inside him. “Murderer!”
The mobster reared back and slapped the boy across the face.
Darkwyn roared, his claws came out, his body weight shifted, and with one swipe, his tail took out the entire row of gorillas behind him. Strike!
FORTY-SEVEN
The old man’s hands shook, his balance none too steady
as he backed toward the door, and away from the dragon suddenly stalking him. “You’re not real,” Sanguedolce said.
as he backed toward the door, and away from the dragon suddenly stalking him. “You’re not real,” Sanguedolce said.
Zachary laughed. “Why, what do you think you see, grand-killer? You look scared, like you’ve seen a ghost. Is it my mother? Or is it all of them? Every man, woman, and child, you ever killed. Now that
would
be scary.”
would
be scary.”
Sanguedolce peeked around his dragon form and toward the room at large, focusing on his thugs. “Do you not see a dragon?”
Although they’d backed practically into the next room, so far back as to be laughable, they shook their heads in collective denial. The cop, however, wore a speculative expression, but he did stand with the thugs—as far away as he could get.
Dragon or not, Darkwyn had never wanted to laugh and kill a man at the same time. Well, to be truthful—to himself, at least—he had never before wanted to do either, though as a Roman warrior, he’d had a similar job.
Zachary stood right beside him, Darkwyn noticed, and acted as if he didn’t exist.
Smart.
“You doing drugs old man?” the boy asked.
Smart.
“You doing drugs old man?” the boy asked.
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