The Dragon Legion Collection 9 (38 page)

On a shoal west of the Hawai’ian islands, Brandon scanned the horizon, as if expecting a storm. He stayed close beside his pregnant partner, Liz, and Erik felt the younger
Pyr
’s readiness to leap into a fight. Brandon’s father, Brandt, even farther away in Australia stood on a beach and listened to the sound of the wind with care.

Erik spared only the barest glance at Thorolf, because he was so disappointed in that
Pyr
and his choices. Given his lineage, Thorolf should have been not just a large dragon with fearsome appetites but a force for change and good in the world. Instead, he fought, drank and seduced women. Erik knew he shouldn’t be surprised that Thorolf alone was oblivious to any threat, engaged in a bout of lovemaking with some woman in Bangkok. Erik didn’t want to know if that
Pyr
was also drunk so he turned his attention away quickly.

In California, Sloane, the Apothecary of the
Pyr
, was stirring some concoction as it cooled. He stood in bare feet in his kitchen, the glass doors slid back and the evening breeze sweeping through his house, which perched on a hilltop, his attention distracted from his task by something he sensed drawing nearer.

They all—with the exception of Thorolf—sensed the same portent that Erik felt. He wondered if their minds were aflame like his, too. Because that was the sum of the
Pyr
remaining. Their numbers had dwindled over the centuries. Though Erik had hopes for the next generation of dragon shifters, they wouldn’t come into their powers until puberty. In a sense, they were slumbering like Drake. He was used to an array of glimmering lines of gold in his mind, enough that he could count them readily, enough that he could feel comforted that he wasn’t alone, enough to cast a glow in the darkness of his dreams.

The problem was that lately, there had been a fireball in his mind. He could see and follow the same lines that he knew well, but hovering on the edge of his vision was a brilliant halo of light. Erik could make no sense of it.

But it drew steadily closer. It had first lit when Drake took the darkfire crystal from Lorenzo, and it had become almost blinding in its intensity when Drake appeared at his door three days before. It was clear to Erik that his fellow
Pyr
sensed a change as well, though none of them knew what it might be. There were others of their kind,
Slayers
who had turned to the shadows, but the
Slayers
who survived had drunk the Dragon’s Blood Elixir. That extinguished them completely from Erik’s network of lights and made their doings mysterious. It wasn’t the first time he’d worried about Chen and his doings.

The light was brighter on this night, and it seemed to Erik that a thousand points of light converged on him. He shook his head and sighed, frowning at Drake. He didn’t know whether to dread or celebrate the fact that one of these days, the source of this new light would become clear.

There would be a partial eclipse in three days. Would there be a firestorm sparked by the eclipse? If so, whose? Sloane? Thorolf?

And what did this sense of foreboding mean?

Erik debated the merit of awakening Drake immediately, but the older warrior seemed worn thin. He sat back in his chair, impatient but determined to give Drake the time he needed.

For the moment.

* * *

The pilgrim paused in his journey to cough.

He didn’t have much choice, really. The urge came from deep inside him, and he feared that once he began to cough, he wouldn’t be able to stop. Each spasm was longer than the last, more exhausting, more painful, and seemed more likely to be his last.

He coughed. He choked. He felt his chest clench and his body shake. He saw blood in his spittle, more than the last time, and was profoundly grateful when his coughing stopped.

He was also exhausted. His knees were trembling and he felt too close to the end.

Unfortunately, his journey wasn’t complete. He looked up the ascending road to the pass that he believed led to the fabled Garden of the Hesperides. He’d hoped to reach that place before he died. He’d hoped to throw himself at the mercy of Hera, and maybe, just maybe, to be given a bite from one of her golden apples. That fruit was said to have the power to heal anything, and he had pursued every other cure, without success.

Now he feared he would die before he reached the garden at all.

He sighed, more weary than should be possible, and noticed a tree at one side of the road. This path was mostly barren of vegetation. He’d thought it a feat of the goddess herself, in order to increase the impression of the garden’s lush greenery by contrast. If so, he doubted he’d ever see that contrast.

He stumbled to the tree and almost collapsed beneath it, leaning back against its sturdy trunk. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but the air beneath the tree was still cooler and fresher, almost rejuvenating in itself. He looked up and smiled at the way the leaves blew, stirred by a breeze he could not feel. He could see the stars through the tree’s boughs and he felt safe, as if sheltered from harm.

He shook his head at his own whimsy and reached into his pack for his skin of water. There was nowhere safe in all the world, he’d learned that the hard way, and a tree’s branches were no refuge. He supposed his illness had progressed to the point that he was losing his wits.

He tried to be accepting of that and failed.

He opened the skin with a savage gesture, resenting that he should be the one to fall so ill, that his body should fail him when he was still comparatively young, and that was when he saw her.

A woman was hunkered down and watching him, not ten steps away. She wore a dark cloak of roughly woven cloth, one that she’d pulled over her head so that he’d mistaken her for a rock in the shadows. Her eyes shone from within the darkness of her hood though, her gaze so bright that he shivered.

On impulse, he offered the skin of water. “Thirsty?” he asked. “It is yours, if you want it.” He gestured to himself. “There are those who want nothing from a sick man like myself, and I wouldn’t blame you if you chose to die of thirst instead.”

To his surprise, she scuttled forward, moving more like an insect than a woman. She paused an arm’s length from him, considering him warily, then snatched the skin away. She drank of it so gratefully that he felt sympathy for her.

“It was hot yesterday,” he said. “Did you drink all the water you’d brought?”

She nodded, then halted to offer the skin back to him.

He smiled, knowing she must still be parched. “Drink some more. It won’t help me as much as it will help you.”

Again she studied him, little discernible of her features except those glinting eyes. She drank again, gratefully and greedily, and the pilgrim was glad that something good had come of his journey.

“You’re going to the garden,” she said, when the skin was nearly empty. She offered it to him again and he drained it.

Then he nodded. “Well, I was, but I won’t make it there now.”

“Why not?”

“Because I am sick, so sick that no one can help me.” He shrugged. “I had an idea that Hera herself might show mercy upon me, if I asked her politely.”

The old woman cackled. “Can you ask nicely enough?”

He grinned. “I could try.” She gave him such a skeptical look that the pilgrim had to consider himself, so gaunt that his bones showed, running sores on his flesh and his hair almost gone. His teeth had fallen out months before and his nails had turned black. The idea of him courting the favor of a great goddess, even as he looked as he did, made him laugh at the absurdity of it all.

That launched another coughing spasm, one that left him shaking beneath the tree long moments later. The blood in his spittle was bright red. He could taste it and knew there was more of it than ever before.

So, he would pass under this tree. It was no so bad a place to die.

To his surprise, the old woman hadn’t left. “You are sick,” she said, helping him to sit up. She had an unexpected strength and her hands, when he glimpsed them, were as unlined as those of a maiden. She hid them away so quickly that he wondered if his vision was fading, as well.

“I am dying,” he said, having no need for pretense. “It will not be long now. You should go. Take the rest of my provisions, and may your journey go well.”

But she didn’t go. She moved closer and took his hand in hers. He would have looked but the pain rose within him, and he closed his eyes against it, taking comfort from her touch.

“I will stay with you,” she said, her voice gentle. “If you like.”

The pilgrim gritted his teeth against the rise of another spasm, trusting himself only to nod.

“I will tell you a story,” the old woman said, settling herself beside him with his hand firmly locked in hers.

* * *

Thad awakened hours later, relaxed and content. The sky was turning rosy in the east and the plants in the garden were heavy with dew. He could still see stars in the western sky, but his attention was captured by the beauty nestled in his embrace. Aura had been everything he’d hoped and more. The firestorm had lived up to its reputation. And now, Aura would have his son and they would create a life together.

He bent and kissed her forehead. A spark crackled between her soft skin and his lips, making Thad withdraw in shock.

Had he imagined it?

Aura turned and nestled against him, her hand trailing down the length of his chest. To Thad’s astonishment, a glow lit in the wake of her caress, as if the embers of the firestorm were being stirred to life again.

But how could that be? The firestorm was always satisfied the first time a
Pyr
and his destined mate made love. He and Aura had made love more than once the night before. How could the firestorm still burn?

There could be no doubt, though. The light caress of her fingertips summoned the heat within him again, and radiance began to grow between them. The light was deep orange but becoming brighter and whiter by the moment.

She wasn’t pregnant.

She wasn’t carrying his son.

He was being punished. But why? Why was he unworthy? He had served with his fellows. He had hunted vipers. He had been enchanted and survived, then returned to finish the viper Cadmus. He had obeyed Drake without question.

Had Cadmus cursed the Dragon’s Tooth Warriors forever? Had he somehow been cheated of his birthright?

Thad rolled away from Aura, unable to think of another reason the firestorm could continue to burn. Worse, he couldn’t think of a way to set things to rights.

He was so filled with restless energy that he might have gotten to his feet and paced, but he felt Aura’s hand on his shoulder. As well as the brush of her fingertips, there was the warming glow of the firestorm on his skin, heating him from within, making him think that another romantic interval might solve the issue.

But it wouldn’t. Thad knew it.

“Awake already?” Aura murmured. “Come back to me. I like mornings.”

Thad turned around, captured her hand and kissed it. “I can’t,” he said, and saw her confusion. He stood up then and shoved a hand through his hair, uncertain what to do.

“What’s wrong?” Aura was braced on one elbow, her hair tumbling over her shoulders, her lips so soft and ripe that Thad yearned for another taste. He turned his back on her, wanting to solve the problem.

“The firestorm is still burning.”

“So, it is.”

Thad heard her get to her feet. She made a little incoherent sound as she stretched and he couldn’t resist the temptation to look. She was as luscious and alluring as when he’d first glimpsed her. The firestorm heated to a simmer, driving practical issues from his thoughts.

Aura caught his gaze and smiled, extending one hand to him. “We wanted to prolong it and it looks like we succeeded. Let’s put that spark to good use.” It took everything within Thad not to take her up on that offer.

He had to make his case while he still could. “Don’t you see? The firestorm is still burning!” He gestured and sparks flared from his fingertips when his hand neared her.

Aura folded her arms across her chest and watched him warily. “This was a good thing last night, but it’s a bad thing this morning?”

“It shouldn’t have happened.”

“It did happen. We can enjoy it.”

“But you should be pregnant!” Thad flung out his hands. “The firestorm should be satisfied the first time a
Pyr
and his destined mate are intimate.”

“Because she always conceives the first time?” Aura asked, her tone skeptical. Thad nodded and she smiled. “
Every
time?”

“Every time! That’s how it works.”

“Well, I don’t think we did it wrong,” Aura teased, coming to his side. She ran her fingertips over his shoulder and down his arm, her gaze following her touch. Thad swallowed, feeling his entire being focus on her and the heat she generated. She bent and touched her lips to his shoulder, sending a surge of desire through him that weakened his knees. “We could try again, just to be sure,” she whispered against his flesh, then closed her hand around his erection.

Thad shut his eyes, not having the strength to step away from her caress. “Aura, you don’t understand. This is important. I must have failed the
Pyr
somehow...”