Scorched (41 page)

Alessandro felt a glimmer of hope. They were behind the dragon, safe from its flames, and it had stopped. So far everything was going according to Alessandro’s hastily sketched plan. The next step was to attack it from both flanks at once.

He communicated the plan with a gesture while they ran. Ashe seemed to understand.

But the dragon started forward again, catching a stray scent.
Not good
. If it reached the end of the corridor, the hellhound families were as good as dead.

Alessandro leaped into the air, using flight to close the gap before the dragon could take aim with its jaws or its fire. He slashed with his sword, trying to catch its throat, but it twisted away. Alessandro dodged, and it snapped the air where he had been a second before.

Ashe fired into the creature’s side, making it flinch. The short hail of bullets didn’t penetrate its scales, but they must have hurt. The dragon, with a sinuous, writhing movement, turned, jaws open like a trapful of knives. It loosed a blast of flame, fire flowing over the stonework with lascivious tongues.

She hit the ground as the flame roared over her head, the gun clattering as it hit the stone.

Alessandro dropped from the air, his sword driving into the side of the creature’s neck in a two-handed thrust. He wanted to aim for a more vulnerable spot, but there had been no time for strategy. Immediately, the flame stopped, scraps of it breaking loose and flying into the air before vanishing to nothing. In its place, a roar ripped the dark passageway, jagged with fury and pain.

A jerk on the sword told Alessandro it was stuck fast. In his desperate attempt to save Ashe, he had pierced the scales, bit into muscle, but had done no real harm. He’d just made it mad.
Merda!

The dragon convulsed, a shudder passing over its snakelike body down to its thrashing tail. The force of it threw Alessandro off, leaving the sword stuck fast in the beast’s neck.

He hit the ground hard, feeling as if his spine connected with his back teeth. A wave of shock short-circuited his muscles. The dragon wheeled, shaking its head against the lopsided weight of the sword. One paw landed on Alessandro’s chest, the long, black claws puncturing leather, cloth, and flesh.

Pain of several colors sang through Alessandro’s body. He could smell burning flesh and knew it was his own, and felt his dark, sluggish blood sliding down his ribs. He heaved, but the beast was too heavy.

Movement caught his eye. Far to his left, Ashe peeled herself off the floor and rolled to her knees. She was coughing convulsively, barely able to sit up, but she was aiming her weapon.

The dragon looked down at him with the fixed, intense stare of a hunting cat. The tables were turned. After centuries as a predator, Alessandro was at last the prey. Wild denial gave him one last burst of strength, but it was useless.

Gunfire lit up the corridor. A sudden tearing sensation stole Alessandro’s wits as the dragon lifted its foot, the claws hooking and shredding as it pushed away. Ashe fell back on her heels, firing again and again, but the tough armor protected the beast.

Alessandro’s round of curses matched the gunfire. Anger alone was going to get him off the unforgiving stones and back into the fight. He staggered to his feet, refusing to acknowledge the shifting, crunching feelings in his chest. He was a vampire. He would heal.

Once up, instinct took over. He launched into the air, grabbing the sword again. With the strength of desperation, he tore it out of the dragon’s sinewy neck. It hadn’t penetrated much past the scales. It had probably felt like a bug bite. The creature roared its annoyance, its mouth stretching wide. The teeth framed its jaws in wicked symmetry, each canine as long as Alessandro’s forearm.

He swung for the eyes. The dragon snapped, rearing up as high as the ceiling would allow. Alessandro flew up, but had to dodge as the dragon’s tail snaked around. Injured, he wasn’t fast enough. It caught him in the side, tossing him against the wall.

The dragon fell back on all four feet, but not before Ashe grabbed the sword from Alessandro. As the dragon opened wide for another blast of flame, Ashe went for the throat. From the inside. Right for the soft flesh above the tongue.

The dragon gnashed down before Ashe’s lunge was complete. She jerked aside, barely saving her arm. The sword was not so lucky. The dragon spit it out like a munched-up stir stick, then shook its head like a wet cat.

Ashe raised her automatic again, spreading her feet in a belligerent stance. “Get outta here!” she screamed. “Shoo!”

The automatic spattered bullets right at the dragon’s feet, spraying up chips of stone. It inched back, the ruff around its head flattening with distaste. It reared up again, the short front legs pawing the air, and turned its long body away from the annoying stings. Between fits of coughing, Ashe fired again, striking sparks off the stone right where the creature was trying to put its feet.

It hopped and scampered away from them for a dozen yards, its tail slithering in a long, snaking arc behind it. It stopped, back hunched. Only the tip of the tail moved, swishing back and forth in short, irritated jerks.

It’s working!
Alessandro stared in amazement. Subtlety was accomplishing what brute force could not. He picked himself up again, feeling like a marionette missing his strings.

Even more miraculous was the source of the solution. He wouldn’t have expected subtlety from Ashe. She fired again, right at the dragon’s heels. With a mighty, frustrated roar, it ran, the waddling, side-to-side gait taking it quickly out of sight.

The torches sputtered and came alive again, almost as if a stagehand had flipped a switch. The dragon had gone far enough away that the magical field surrounding it had dissipated.

“Ugh.” Ashe sagged, the automatic hanging loose from its neck strap. Then she coughed again, a wet, wracking sound that told Alessandro she’d inhaled too much of the dragon’s fumes. She clutched her ribs like the cough hurt.

Alessandro looked at her, finally noticing her condition. Her long hair was singed away, her jacket blackened from the dragon’s flame. It looked like the skin on her hands and one cheek was starting to blister. Her eyes and nose were red and dripping. She was a mess.

“You’re injured,” he said.

“Could be worse.” She shrugged. “You took the brunt of it.”

He reached out a hand to touch her shoulder, cautious in case she would revert to killing vampires now that the dragon was gone. He didn’t feel like a rematch right then. Or ever.

She didn’t flinch at his touch, but she didn’t reciprocate, either. “I’m glad we didn’t have to kill it. In a weird way, it was kind of pretty.”

He couldn’t stop a chuckle that was mostly relief. “Ashe Carver, dragon tamer.”

She suddenly gave a laugh that was, for once, real. “Wait till I tell that to my daughter. You okay to walk? We still have work to do.”

R
eynard should have been dead.

Not that Constance wanted it that way. It was just a fact based on the probable odds—except Mac carried the captain with them, dusting from point to point. Reynard would be saved, no matter what kind of strength Mac had to pull from the marrow of his bones.

Demons were apparently very stubborn.

Constance ran behind the dark, twining cloud that skimmed through the shadows of the Castle. Mac was moving quickly, conserving energy by staying low to the ground.

She quickened her pace, closing the distance between them as the cloud seeped to the ground, splitting into two, and coalescing into the forms of two men. Mac was stopping again, the distances between resting points growing shorter. He was tiring.

Reynard fell back with a groan. Constance winced in sympathy. She remembered when Mac had transported her from the restaurant the other night. Pain had disappeared in dust form, only to come back twice as hard when she became flesh again.

Impatient at the delay, she dropped to one knee beside Reynard, checking the temperature of his skin. He was clammy and cold.

“He’s fainted. He needs help,” she said. “All the guardsmen heal faster than mortals, but that’s not enough to save him.”

Mac was sitting with his back to the wall, his knees drawn up. He’d not allowed himself to stop for more than a minute at a time. Eyes closed, he’d propped his head against the stones. He didn’t complain. No man of Mac’s character would.

She crossed to him, slid down the wall until they were hip to hip. She could feel his heat through their clothes. It was more than just exertion. He was always warm to the touch now, not just when angry or aroused. “It was only a handful of days ago that we sat like this at the Castle door. I told you that you were impossible. I had no idea then that meant you were impossibly brave and good.”

“You just wanted me for my blood.”

“You just wanted to get under my skirt.”

He opened one eye. “Yeah, so what’s your point?”

“I’m glad you did.” She leaned over, kissed his cheek.

He laughed, kissed her back, then sobered. “How far have we got to go?”

“If we turn south, the passageway will take us to the route we want. If we turn west there, we’ll reach the courtyard with the dark pool.” Constance looked from Mac to the unconscious guardsman, and then spoke her mind. “How far do we take him? You can’t carry him much longer. Not if you want to keep any strength for yourself.”

Please forgive me
, she said silently to Reynard.
I have to speak up. Mac won’t spare himself.

Mac shook his head. “Reynard’s closer to help than he was before. I can take him a little farther. I won’t give in yet. Something will turn up.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but her emotions tore at her. Pity and fear.

“What’s that stink?” Mac said suddenly.

Constance heard a footfall, so faint it might have been no more than the shadow of a sound. She jumped to her feet, listening, her fingers curved into claws. “Who’s there?”

“That stink would be eau de dragon.” Ashe Carver swaggered—or perhaps staggered—out of the shadows, her weapon propped casually on her shoulder. She looked terrible—dirty and blistered, like she’d been through a fire. “You wouldn’t believe the adventure Caravelli and I had a little while ago.”

She stopped, looking down at Reynard. “Who’s this?”

“A friend,” said Mac.

“I’d hate to see your enemies.”

“What happened to you?” Mac asked.

“Not as much as what happened to this dude.”

“Captain Reynard needs a surgeon,” Constance said.

“Now, there’s an understatement.” Ashe bent, taking a look at the wounds. “Holy chain saw.”

She set her gun down and dropped to one knee, examining the bandage Mac had ripped from Reynard’s shirt. “He’s bleeding through. How clean was the wound?”

“Not very,” said Mac. “His guardsmen locked him in one of their cells.”

“Ah, so this is the mutiny guy. I thought the guards’ quarters were far to the east of here.”

“They are.”

“And you’ve brought him all this way?” Ashe stood and looked at Mac, her brow furrowed with surprise. “Aren’t you supposed to be, like, saving the world or something?”

“That’s after coffee,” Mac returned.

“Whatever.” Ashe pulled out a water flask. “Caravelli’s gone to fetch his puppy dogs, but they’ll be back this way in minutes. I’m just here to chase the dragon away if it comes back.”

“Dragon?”

“Long story. Leave your captain with me. Caravelli and I’ll take him along when we move the hounds out.”

“Are you sure?” Mac said dryly. “There’s not much action in watching a man bleed to death.”

“Maybe if I’m lucky the dragon will come back. Relax. My husband was a bullfighter. I’m used to pulling medic duty.” She knelt, wetting the captain’s lips with the water. His eyelids fluttered.

Constance felt a sudden flood of relief, indescribably thankful. The woman had arrived like a knight from a fairy tale. A very strange knight, but Constance wasn’t about to argue. She’d take what good luck they could get.

She watched Ashe raise the captain’s head, giving him another swallow. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but we don’t need to eat or drink here.”

“Uh-huh. Well, aside from the whole blood volume thing, there’s the fact that this guy looks like he could use some TLC. We’re not all immortal.”

Although Reynard was even older than Constance, she let it go. She wasn’t going to argue about that, either.

Mac rose. “Then if you’ve got this covered, we’d better get going.”

“Go get ’em, Sparky,” said Ashe, standing over the captain like a feral cat guarding her kitten.

 

Connie and Mac ran until they began seeing guardsmen in the corridors. Mac recognized the area by the fact that the stone of the walls had been polished to a faint sheen. He had approached this place from the other side before, climbing up a staircase slippery with moss.

They ducked into the shadows as a pair of guardsmen passed. They looked Roman, with short red capes and leather armor with plates of dull metal sewn on. He held his breath as they marched by, sandals clumping on the stone.

Both vampires and demons had a talent for hiding in plain sight, but he wondered whether his body heat would eventually give him away. Ever since the council meeting, his core temperature fluctuated between mild curry and extra-strength jalapeño. It wasn’t uncomfortable—he wasn’t even sweating—but he was conscious of radiating warmth like a bipedal pocket warmer.

The guardsmen passed. Mac and Connie slipped back into the corridor, silently ghosting through it. The hall with the black pond lay just fifty yards ahead. He could just see the outline of steps angling away from either side of the arched entry, leading up to the balconies above. The guardsmen that had passed them turned to the left, mounting the steps and disappearing from view.