Desolation (Dragonlands Book 4) (5 page)

Connor took a deep breath, reminding himself there couldn't be anything in the fog that could harm him. Gaia, the tree guardian, and her brothers had promised to keep them safe. He stood still, silent.

Crack.

There it was again. Something was out in the woods.

Connor advanced on the fog. As he stepped into it, a memory flashed in his head. Holding hands with Tressa. Everything going dark. Losing his grip on her hand. They were separated.

Connor shook his head. It was the same now. He couldn't see. The fog was so thick it covered him like a shroud. He remembered Hazel calling his name. Except it hadn’t been Hazel. It had been a beast using her voice.

Connor! Connor!

No. Not now. That was before. Past and present melded together. Connor stepped backward until he left the fog and stumbled back into the flower patch.

"Hazel!" he called out, but she had moved past shouting distance. He wanted to tell her what he remembered. It wasn't much, but it was something. A start. And if that memory was still in there, maybe the rest of it was, too.

Crack.

It had to be an animal. Maybe a squirrel. Or a raccoon. It certainly wasn't a kilrothgi. Bastian and the villagers had slain all of them. Nothing else could have gotten through without a warning from Gaia. No, Hutton's Bridge was still safe. It had to be.

A shadow moved across the ground. It paused next to Connor's feet. He looked up in the air, but saw nothing. Connor looked down again. The shadow was gone.

Strange. It must have been a bird. Or a trick of his mind. Maybe another piece of memory slipping into the present.

Connor shrugged and headed back to the village square, following the joyful shrieks of the children playing ball. He jogged up to the edge of the square next to Hazel. She smiled and slipped her arm through his. They stood there together, as if it was something they'd done every day for years.

Fotia ran with the kids, kicking the ball with her taloned feet as easily as the kids did in their leather shoes. Vatra hung on the sidelines, bouncing up and down and hooting. Connor was happy to see they were all getting along so well.

"We can do this, Connor," Hazel said. "Give us a chance."

He thought of the memory he'd had at the edge of the fog. If touching the fog like that brought back his memories, then maybe there was hope. He looked at Hazel. He was still attracted to her. That was an urge that never seemed to go away. But was it love, or just a part of being a man?

Connor wrapped an arm around Hazel's waist and pulled her close. His other hand found its way to her cheek. Hazel's eyes widened. She pressed up against him, her arms snaking over his shoulders.

Connor leaned toward her upturned face. His lips rested on hers. It wasn't familiar, but felt good. And it elicited a whole new emotion when Hazel returned the kiss with vigor, her lips moving against his in a way that seemed natural, as if they'd done it a thousand times before.

Perhaps they had. Connor gave in to her affection, his eyes closing as they kissed.

"Ew!" It came from behind them, followed by a chorus of giggles.

Connor and Hazel broke apart. He felt a blush creep up his cheeks, but Hazel looked pleased. "Married people are allowed to kiss," she said to the children. "Go back to your game."

Hazel grabbed Connor's hand. "Let's go back to our cottage."

Connor's eyebrows knitted together. "I'm, um, I'm not sure—"

Hazel laughed. "Not for that. I want to show you where we used to live. I thought it might help your memory."

"Okay." As they walked, Connor told her what happened when he stepped into the fog.

Hazel smiled. "Good. Then it's possible visiting our home will help, too." She tugged on his hand, urging him faster.

The cottage didn't look familiar to Connor, but maybe that would change when he stepped inside. It was conceivable he was on the verge of remembering everything. The thought excited him. He had been afraid of his past, nervous, even. But today it felt like anything was possible. Like past and present could come together, making him whole again.

He might have died and been brought back to life as a dragon, but maybe he could also be the man he was before that fateful day. Though he hated Stacia and how she had forced a new life and her body on him, he loved Vatra, his own little dragonling. He loved Vatra's half-sister Fotia. Connor couldn't imagine his life without either of them.

"Are you ready?" Hazel asked him. She bounced on her toes like a child. Her enthusiasm was contagious.

"Yes, let's go in." Connor took a deep breath and followed his wife into their cottage.

Hazel pulled back the curtains. Light streamed in, illuminating a home similar to Tressa's cottage. Connor's eyes swept over the simple wooden furniture. He ran a hand along the back of a chair. The books on the shelves didn't look familiar, nor did the copper pots hanging above the fireplace.

He clenched his fists, searching for anything familiar. But there was nothing. He looked at Hazel as he fought back angry tears. Why couldn't he remember? It was all in there. He was sure of it after what happened at the fog.

"Connor?" Hazel asked, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay?"

"No, I'm not. I want to remember. I'm tired of feeling like my life began after I left Hutton's Bridge." Connor's shoulders sagged.

"It's okay," Hazel said. "I'm here for you, no matter what happens." She touched a fingertip to Connor’s chin. "Even if you never remember, you have me, your boys, and your girls. We all love you."

Connor wanted to tell Hazel he loved her, too. He wouldn't, because he didn't. Not the way she deserved. Not the way she wanted him to.

"It's okay." She leaned in again, her lips hovering dangerously close to his.

"Hazel..."

"Shhh." She placed her lips on his, silencing any protests he might have uttered.

Connor returned the kiss, more hesitant than he'd been outside in the open. Here, out of sight, it felt too dangerous. If he wasn't careful, he'd give in. And he wanted to—so, so much. He didn't want to hurt Hazel, though. Connor broke away, breathless.

Hazel only stepped closer, her fingers lifting his shirt and her hands traveling up his stomach. "I've missed you so much," she whispered. Her lips fell on his chest.

He closed his eyes. A woman with a long braid and a blue leather suit flashed in his mind. She’d ripped off his pants and was forcing him to do something he didn't want to do. "No," Connor said, backing away.

Hazel stood there, her lips swollen and her eyes wide. "I'm sorry." Her arms dropped to her sides. "I didn't mean to—"

"I know you didn't," Connor said. "It's not you. It's me." He tucked his shirt into his pants. "There are things you don't know yet."

"You can tell me," she said.

"I'm not ready yet," Connor said. He didn't know if he ever would be. "I hope you understand."

He could see in her eyes how painful this was, but she refused to give up on him. That thought, at least, warmed his heart, even as he battled guilt. "When I'm ready you'll be the first to know. I promise."

"I'm counting on it," she said.

"We should go back," Connor said.

Hazel nodded. "Can I hold your hand?" she asked.

"I'd like that," Connor said. He held out his hand, and she slipped hers in his. They fit together nicely. Something hovered on the edge of his memory. He reached for it, but it slipped through his grasp like wisps of fog.

Connor opened the door to their cottage, greeting the sun. He blinked a few times, then led Hazel out into the village. They walked quietly, leaning on one another, their arms touching.

"This is nice, isn't it?" she asked.

Connor was about to agree when the screams of children ripped through the silent afternoon.

A low growl nudged Tressa from her sleep. She grasped her cloak so tightly her knuckles ached.

"What was that?" she asked.

"I don't know," Fi said. "It doesn't sound friendly."

"It is not," Donovan whispered. "Stay where you are. Do not move. Do not light a torch. Keep your breathing even. And if you want to live, stay silent."

A snuffling sound traced a border around the bottom of their tent. Tressa stiffened as the sound came closer to her head. She focused on making her breath flow evenly in and out, like Donovan told her to.

A foul smell drifted into the tent, unlike anything Tressa knew. Rot wrapped around sweetness. She struggled to swallow, but a quickly growing lump stopped her. Fresh air. She needed it immediately. The air in the tent was pure poison.

Tressa sat up, ready to bolt, but Donovan grabbed her arm.

"Do not give in," he whispered in her ear. "It is only an illusion to draw you out."

Tressa closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing. The lump was gone—or maybe it was never there. Her chest rose and fell in measured beats. Donovan's hand moved away, but she could still feel him behind her. Fi was on her other side. Yet, Tressa didn't feel safe. In the morning she would ask Donovan what exactly was out there and how she could protect herself better.

The noises continued for most of the night, keeping anyone from getting much sleep. It seemed like every time Tressa drifted off, the sniffing began again.

After the long night ended, Donovan opened the tent's flap.

Tressa threw an arm over her eyes to block the morning sun.

Fi rolled over and grumbled. "I had the strangest dreams last night." She rubbed her eyes and sat up.

"That was no dream," Donovan said. "They have found us already. I thought perhaps we would have a few days lead on them, but no. The shades have always been crafty when it comes to gathering knowledge. I should not have underestimated them. You both will need to be bled before we continue."

"Bled?” Tressa repeated. “What do you mean, bled? Why?"

Fi bolted upright. "Absolutely not. I won't allow it."

Donovan and Fi stared each other down.

"It is the only way. If we do not, you will be discovered. And killed. Not in a pleasant fashion," Donovan said.

"Death is never pleasant," Fi said.

"There are ways to die that are preferable than others," Donovan said. "Trust me. If you are not bled, they will discover the dragon in you. You will be captured. Tortured. You will die... eventually."

"Can someone help me understand what you're arguing about?" There were times Tressa cursed her sheltered upbringing in Hutton's Bridge. Things others knew flew over her head. She hated being the only one who was uniformed.

Fi sighed and sank back. "Remember when you came to the Black and we had you drink that cup of blood? It destroyed the tainted Red blood in you and strengthened the Black."

Tressa nodded, remembering how, at first, she had refused to drink because she didn't understand the Black were trying to save her. Fortunately, she had agreed in the end.

"Well, the opposite holds true, too. Just as adding blood will strengthen your dragon, bleeding will dampen it." Fi pointed at Donovan. "He wants us to lose part of our dragon so whatever's out there can't sniff us out. Right?"

Donovan nodded.

Tressa held up a hand. "Hold on. I could have avoided becoming a dragon? Give myself over to a session of bloodletting and it would be gone? Why wasn't that presented to me as an option?"

Fi rolled her eyes. "Because you would have taken it." Tressa started to argue, but Fi cut her off. "Now that you've experienced being a dragon, is that a choice you would make? Would you really give it all up?"

Anger swirled in Tressa’s stomach. She knew the truth—since she'd become a dragon she couldn't imagine living without that side of herself. "No."

Fi turned to Donovan. "We won't do it. You'll be taking away our only defense. If things get bad out there, Tressa and I will need our dragon forms to save your arse."

"If they detect a dragon, they will kill you." Donovan focused his stare on Tressa, as if he knew she was more likely to bend. "There will be no time to change. No time to defend yourself. You will be dead. Then what?"

"I can fight," Tressa said. "I don't necessarily need my dragon form as defense." She avoided looking Fi in the eyes, knowing exactly how her friend would feel.

"Well, I can't," Fi said, her arms hanging defeated. "I'm completely useless without my dragon. I've never been trained to fight with my hands or a weapon. You should have left me back in the Dragonlands if your plan is to take my dragon from me."

Donovan laid a gentle hand on Fi's shoulder. "You are worth more than you know. If I had thought you would die without your dragon, I never would have brought you with me. You have trusted me so far. Will you trust me now?"

Tressa and Fi looked at each other. They didn't have to talk, or even hear each other's thoughts, to agree. They'd come this far. It was too late to change their minds.

"When will we get our dragons back?" Tressa asked Donovan.

"When you return home and you are able to drink some dragon blood," he said. "Then your dragons will return. I swear this to you. No harm will come to either of you if you trust me."

Tressa pushed up her sleeve. "Let's do this. The sooner we get done here, the sooner we can get home."

Fi reluctantly sat next to Tressa and offered her arm. "Make the slice neat. I don't want a scar."

Donovan walked to his pack and rustled through it. He pulled out a glass jar with two slimy black creatures inside. Red horns jutted from their heads. "I won't be cutting you. The leeches will pull it from you."

Fi shrank back. "That's not a normal leech."

"A normal leech cannot pull the dragon out. It takes a horned leech." Donovan uncorked the jar. He held two fingers over the top. The leeches danced and squiggled their way up the sides and onto his fingers.

"Have you done this before?" Tressa asked. Her stomach recoiled at the sight of the creatures. Their red eyes bugged out of their heads, rolling around as they surveyed the tent. They seemed more aware of their surroundings than normal slugs. Tressa had played with them as a child, poking leeches with sticks at the edge of the pond in Hutton's Bridge. The physic, Adam, also Bastian's uncle, would occasionally use them when a villager was sick. He would scold Tressa, Connor, and Bastian for disturbing his assistants, as he liked to refer to them.

Donovan approached Fi and Tressa, one horned leech in each hand. "Do not take this lightly," he said to them. "These leeches will not survive the bloodletting. They are giving their lives for you. No one will be able to steal the dragon blood for their own purposes. Are you ready?"

Tressa nodded. Fi just grunted.

Donovan laid the first leech on Tressa's arm. A cold wetness spread over her skin. A series of sharp sensations pricked her arm as the creature latched on. Warmth spread around the area as it began sucking. Tressa gasped. "This feels..." but she couldn't finish her sentence.

A dark cloud spread over her eyes. Shapes floated in her vision. Bastian. Jarrett. Connor. Her cottage. Granna. The fog. Nerak, the owl. She wanted to reach out to them, but they dissipated like fog slipping through her fingertips. Memories flooded her mind, almost too fast for her to comprehend. Leo! He'd taught her to disguise herself and fight. She watched him die all over again. Tears choked her.

To her right, Fi screamed, but Tressa couldn't go to her. She was trapped in her own nightmare. Tressa’s life continued to flash by until she was at the battle on the Isle of Repose. Bastian! No, Bastian, don't! He was gone. Dead on the ground in front of Jarrett. The rest flew by until she again found herself in the tent in Desolation again.

Sweat poured down her face as she looked blearily up at Donovan.

"It is done." He peeled the horned leech off of Tressa's arm. "You did well."

"That was..."

Fi screamed again, her arms flailing and her legs shaking. Donovan placed a hand on Tressa's shoulder. "She is fine. You did the same."

"I did?" Tressa asked. She didn't recall moving. There were just the thoughts. The memories. The sadness.

Then Fi slumped over. The horned leech fell off her arm, bloated and dead.

"Fi, are you okay?" Tressa asked. She kneeled next to her dear friend, the woman she called sister.

Fi's eyes slowly opened. She glared at Donovan. "If I never get my dragon back, I will kill you."

"I expect nothing less," he said. "Now, we truly begin our journey."

As her strength slowly returned, Tressa gathered her things and stuffed them in her pack. The memories didn’t fade. Bastian. Leo. The two men she'd loved so deeply and lost in the horror of battle. She would never forget either, and she swore she'd never stop loving them.