Dragonfire: Freedom in Flames (Secrets of the Makai Book 3) (16 page)

Fire burned in his chest. He spotted the ship connected to the other end of the rope, clear by the way it tugged toward him with each thrust of his wings. Five small explosions came from other ships, and suddenly the human was clinging to his neck again.

Having seen the poles coming, he dropped in elevation to give himself room with the leash, and easily maneuvered around them. But as they passed, they exploded a second time, transforming into a net of ropes and barbs that covered him from above.

He would not be pulled down by a bunch of tiny humans.

His wings curled in tight, intent on rolling to put himself above the net. But the barbs were like hooks, tangling the net around him even tighter.

And then, as if by magic, the net and knives vanished.

The human clinging to his neck wasn’t alone. Another human male was with him, and the green one. He would have growled at being captured in such an undignified way, but they did seem to be responsible for freeing him of the net. Only a single rope was wrapped around his neck now, one they could all hold onto.

“Fly, Tristan! I’ll cook you a massive steak!”

Tristan laughed at the thought, then frowned, unsure why any sort of stake would be cooked, and why the concept of such an event had been amusing. A second meaning of the word nibbled at the back of his mind, holding his attention. A human meaning. He had a human side to his thoughts. Memories poured in.

The fast approaching water fueled the confusion with fear. Guns were still shooting. Small motor boats were parting from the ships, racing towards the inevitable crash site. He extended his wings to save them all, only to have them disintegrate in a cloud of red mist.

“Destroy the blood!” someone shouted.

Why?
Tristan thought, smashing against the unbelievably hard sea.

THE GREAT COVER-UP

BLOOD POOLED
like a dark cloak, blocking the light beyond.

Alone. Frozen.

His seared flesh burned as he sank farther into the icy abyss.

Several motor boats circled above. Two humans were waving their arms, kicking their feet to stay at the surface, shouting. “Don’t shoot!”’

Is that all it took? A simple request?

He tried kicking his feet to join them, but nothing moved. The boats idled and the two men were pulled from the water. Where was the third man? There should be a third. But he was too far down in the deep water to see clearly.

Cold, dark fear weighed against undeniable loneliness. He couldn’t move his arms to balance himself, in a constant state of falling. “We’re heading down to the training room,” echoed a hollow voice. “The doctor will meet us there.”

The words were unfamiliar, but the voice non-threatening. The rhythm of the fall lulled him back to the blissful unawareness.

The next time he opened his eyes, he was lying under a canopy of bright yellow birch trees. However, the trees were silent, which could only mean one thing. They were Samara’s trees.

His vision shifted and the color was replaced by monotones. He blinked away the thoughts of imprisonment, unable to feel bitter or grateful over the situation.

The blanket around him held an artificial warmth. Even his body felt unnatural, like something he would have to get used to if he expected to survive.

Human voices talked quietly nearby.

He shed the blanket and felt the cool tingle of air against his unarmored flesh. Soft fabric hung from his hips, but his feet were bare. He walked from the cot through the trees to where a large group of people sat around a circular table.

They had no guns, but all eyes were on him.

The green man was among them, but they weren’t speaking in a language he recognized.

It was all he could do to keep his eyes open, and he regretted leaving the blanket behind. He examined his frail fingers—weak and vulnerable. Too exposed.

What did these people expect from him?

The green man stood from the table and closed the distance, crunching through the leaves. He had a name…Donovan. With the thought, an onslaught of memories shoved into him, condensing the air in his lungs into something he couldn’t expel. He should have run, except Donovan had a hold of him. His vision flickered between black and white, and color. He needed the color, and focused on that.

“You can do this, Tristan,” said the green man. Donovan. No, the green man. They were the same and the words were starting to make sense. The name was his.

“Be human for now, a dragon later.”

Could he choose between the two?

His fingers wrapped around the wooden staff. Samara’s staff—her way of helping him control the unreasonable amount of power he couldn’t actually control.

Donovan gave him another firm shake at the shoulders, sending a jolt of pain down his spine. Why did everything have to be so painful? Pain and stairs; the bane of his existence.

“Stop, Tristan,” Donovan said between clenched teeth. “Stop thinking you’re a danger to us all. You aren’t.”

He’d actually forgotten the reasons keeping him locked up, the reasons the room shouldn’t be filled with perfect strangers. Fear constricted every following thought and Donovan’s grip tightened.

“The sooner you accept this,” continued Donovan, “the sooner we can all get back to business.”

He could prove he was a danger, but held back, unwilling to be reckless. He longed to go back to sleep, where nothing would matter and no lives would be at risk. Victor could get married and have children, Landon could take care of Pink and find her the flowers she needed. Donovan had Jessie.

“Fifteen minutes, Tristan. If we have to do this in small chunks of time, so be it. But we
are
running out of time. Understand? If you must, sit at the table.”

Tristan eyed the table and shook his head.

“Fine. Lazaro is willing to meet with us again on our turf, but I will not have him come here. Your mother will not be invited to the rendezvous, and Lazaro has agreed to these terms. He also made a public statement to the press in Vienna that we were using his property to film a documentary on the myths of dragons, a project funded solely by Alexander Christoph, yours truly, until now. Are you getting all this?”

Tristan nodded, dumbfounded by the entire twisted tale.

“A life-sized remote controlled dragon, created by Alvi and Victor, was on display for 24 hours and all injuries incurred by the filming have been covered, along with Pain and Suffering for those who were especially traumatized. We were not expecting the mechanical dragon to fly beyond the property, and therefore saw no need to warn the public in advance of the filming. In fact, we’d hoped to keep the entire production under wraps until the film’s debut in about six months, assuming Mr. Christoph continues to fund the project after such a horrifying public-relations disaster. Currently, there is 3.6 million dollars in public donations to keep the project running.

“Meanwhile, a backup dragon on hold for filming in New Zealand, designed to be flown rather than controlled from the ground, was stolen and blasted to smithereens by hardworking men who truly felt their lives were in danger. The two young pilots were lucky to be rescued from the freezing waters, and less than ten percent of the dragon parts were recovered. Charges against the two thieves were dropped, and it is unknown whether Mr. Christoph will be suing the townsfolk for loss of property and damages. Working against him, permits for the experimental flying device were not acquired in advance, however, the machine in question had not yet been tested, except by the young pilots, who were unsolicited and unsanctioned for their short-lived joyride.”

Everyone in the room was silent. The group of people sitting at the table stared at him. Some he recognized, like Alpheus, Eleonora, and Talak, with his exposed skin covered in tattoos, and Alvi, Victor’s future bride. Others seemed only slightly familiar, and a few, he was fairly certain, he’d never seen before.

A woman in long skirts, Madam Galina, the doctor, strode through the trees and stopped when she saw him. “Donovan! Does he look fit to be part of this meeting? Unless you feel like eating something, I’m ordering you back to bed, Tristan.”

Donovan ignored the woman. “Shall I repeat myself?”

Tristan looked at Landon, with Pink sitting comfortably on his shoulder. “Come on, Tristan. Say something so we know you understand what’s going on.”

Tristan blinked, finding it difficult to open his eyes afterward. “China?”

Landon smiled as Donovan spoke. “We left a noticeable trail and some suspect a fault line of some sort, though no one can prove or disprove any speculations without trace evidence.”

Madam Galina tugged on his arm, pulling him back toward the cot in the woods.

As much as he needed sleep, he needed to keep moving. He stumbled before he could take a full step and Donovan lowered him into a chair with wheels. A solid path formed in the leaves, leading to the table with the crowd of people to the left, and through the birch trees to the cot toward the right.

“Food and business or sleep. The choice is yours.”

“How much time has passed?”

“You’ve been in and out for the past week.”

“Why am I so tired?”

“You lost most of your blood when you shifted. Next time, I’d suggest keeping some of it in your system.”

Tristan pointed to the table as a direction. “How did you explain that to the press?”

“We had a large bladder fitted around the belly of the machine, filled with red fluid to make for more authentic battle scenes. It was clearly a design flaw, as the pilots were not able to fly as straight as they would have preferred, with the sloshing liquid. Nor were they able to maintain a proper altitude.”

“I’m sorry to be so much trouble.” Tristan rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “The expense must be outrageous.”

“As I told you before, the cost is not a concern. The news stories have been going viral, as Victor calls it, and funds have been pouring in to keep the project running.”

“Won’t you have to make a movie to show for it?”

“Victor isn’t opposed to the idea, though I refuse to hand over any top secret blueprints for my flying machine.”

“I appreciate that.”

“We will be meeting here from now on.” Donovan wheeled Tristan around the table to give him a clear impression of each person. “Get to know our voices, our scents, and our general appearances. Stare at us, especially if your eyes shift. Ask us questions. Learn our mannerisms and habits. Predict our verbal responses and thinking patterns.”

“I’m not comfortable with this at all—”

“You aren’t comfortable with anything, period.” Donovan pushed Tristan into a gap beside Victor and continued walking with his hands clasped behind his back. “If you shift, these are the people who can be trusted. They will help you find safety. They will transport you home if needed. If you are in hiding, they will bring you food. If you are captured, they will risk their lives to rescue you. They will be your voice if you are caught in a public situation. Do not flee from them.”

Tristan glanced up from the table to see if anyone else found this conversation as creepy as it sounded, but no one paid him much attention.

“Pink says you were able to communicate with her, yet you would not communicate with Landon or Victor. Why is this?”

“I was distracted.”

“Could you understand what they were saying?”

“I think so. I’m not sure now.” The group around the table seemed to be getting restless. “Do you guys even know what you’re getting into?”

“We know there’s a possible language barrier,” someone said.

“We understand the effect food has on your power levels in a human form,” followed Talak. “And handling that power is often a strain. Yet you don’t seem to use any power as a dragon.”

“You’ve never shown aggression toward humans as a dragon, even when they’re shooting at you.”

“Flight and escaping humans seem to be your highest priorities.”

“You aren’t as starving when you are a dragon, though you don’t appear to be starving now.”

“You’re unlikely to recognize anyone when you are a dragon.”

“You’re constantly fighting the need to hibernate,” Landon said, when it was his turn, “and if you fall asleep mid-sentence, no one will judge you for it.”

He felt a tear roll down his cheek and glanced at each person—a room full of people who knew him better than he knew himself.

“Classical music calms you.”

“The plants will assist you if needed.”

“You are very acrobatic when it comes to flying, but you don’t appreciate people on your back.”

Tristan smiled. He hadn’t thought of that. Flying at all wasn’t something he’d been taught.

“You have a sincere heart and a fine appreciation for art and what matters most,” Eleonora said.

“You’re not exactly battle ready, but you’re a quick learner when it comes to figuring something out under pressure on your own.”

“I think you would kill anyone threatening Landon or Victor, and I applaud that kind of loyalty.”

“Your mother is a gold-digging wench, and I feel sorta sorry for Lazaro for getting involved with her in the first place. I vote we put her back in prison to finish out her sentence.”

The mood lightened significantly as people came up with ideas on how to frame her for various crimes. Tristan noticed a woman materializing along a distant wall, and then five others. The temperature in the room dropped and everyone stilled.

Tristan broke the nervous silence. “Don’t forget ghosts.”