by S. W. Clarke
“The city was wiped out, but after that humanity put a target on dragons' backs. They largely became creatures to be feared and hunted. Legends like St. George arose, who would challenge dragons to oath battles and slay them one-on-one.”
A pang hit my chest; in every fairy tale I’d found to read to Percy about dragons, they’d always been evil creatures, to be slain or hunted. Now I knew why. “Oath battles?” I echoed.
“If you challenge a dragon to an oath battle, they are required by the ancient rules of their kind to battle you on even footing. None other may interfere. It’s much easier, after all, to battle a dragon on the ground than in the air.”
I went silent, half-numb.
Eventually dragons had to create a sanctuary,” Ferris went on, “to keep their kind safe from human hunters.”
He paused again, longer this time.
I blew out an angry breath. “GoneGodDamn, just tell me whatever it is you’re going to say.”
“Tara, I think Yaroz wants to do to New Orleans what the dragons did to Pompeii.”
That was the point at which the world began to feel hazy, swirly. I felt a disconnection from my own body, the hand holding the phone to my ear. In my mind, I was back in that refuge, staring over all the strange metal piled up around the matriarch’s nest.
I squeezed my eyes shut, a new truth twisting my gut so hard I thought I’d start yakking right here in the barn. I didn’t, but the nausea was overwhelming. “Ferris, I saw things when I went to visit the matriarch. Questionable things.”
“What did you see?”
“Armor. She had slaves crafting armor for her and the other dragons. GoneGods, I’m an idiot.”
A long silence elapsed, during which I didn’t really mind that neither of us spoke. My brain was fully fixated on this new reality. Percy’s reality.
Yaroz wasn’t going to raise him as her son. She wasn’t going to teach him how to be a proper dragon.
“She’s using him,” I whispered. “She’s using Percy, isn’t she?”
“I’m sorry, Tara.”
When he said it, a sob choked out of my throat. A moment of abject terror, of absolute emotion coursing through my veins.
Percy was being groomed to kill humans.
The tiny dragon I’d watched claw his way out of an egg, whose golden eyes had first opened before me, who had looked upon me with those golden eyes, his first sight of the world—
He was going to become a monster.
After they attacked New Orleans, Percy and the other dragons would be on the run forever. He would lose all innocence.
Once I allowed that truth to fully enter my mind—to be articulated—a switch flipped inside me.
"Ferris,” I whispered, “I would rather he died than become a mass murderer.”
“There’s still time, Tara.” Ferris’s voice was firm, because right now he needed to be firm. Insistent. “There’s time.”
There’s time.
Percy wasn’t a killer yet. He wasn’t gone.
This wasn’t time to be crying.
This was time for action.
My hand went up, pressed away the tears from my cheeks with almost violent force. “Ferris,” I began.
“You have time,” he repeated. “Given what you described, Yaroz won’t be ready for at least a week. She needs time to properly groom Percy.”
“To brainwash him, you mean,” I spat, a plan already forming in my mind. I would call Aubert. She would help me get Percy back, and the police would stop whatever destruction Yaroz was planning.
“We have time,” Ferris repeated. “We’ll do whatever’s needed to figure out when they’ll hit, and where. Remember that. And in the meantime, I’ve called you for a reason.”
“What reason is that?” I said, hardly listening.
“Remember Grunt? The ogre you asked Dordri to follow?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Dordri is keeping watch outside a home in the Garden District right now. Guess whose house Grunt led us to.”
All my attention focused, clarified. I straightened, every vertebra in my spine lining up. “Peter’s?”
“Correct,” Ferris said. Then his voice shifted, “Your ex-vamp and his wife have got the last gnomeling, Tara. In a cage, like a dog.”
That didn’t matter. All that mattered was saving Percy.
But my family. My dead family. I’d been hunting those killers for five years …
Then a small, rational voice entered my head: You can do both. You can get to Peter and save Percy.
I stood, wiping my face. It felt like a betrayal to think of anything but my dragon, but Ferris was right: we had a week. A week remained to save Percy, but who knew how long this opportunity would last? “I’ll call Aubert. I put her tracker on him—”
“No,” Ferris said. “Grunt found and discarded the tracker a half hour after you planted it. Besides, I won’t have any cops there. Have you forgotten what happened at the auction?”
I remembered: they’d caged the gnomelings, treated them like animals.
Fair enough. I wasn’t opposed to vigilante work, especially when it came to my ex-vamp. I had other plans for him.
“All right,” I said, forcing myself into the present. “Tell me the address.”
↔
It was after midnight when I parked the moped at the end of the block, turned off the headlight, and pulled on my pair of thinnest leather gloves. As soon as I did, a helium-filled voice called to me from one of the nearby trees.
“Psst!”
I pulled off my helmet, set it on the moped. Squinted into the darkness. “Ferris?”
The tiniest whisper of movement sounded, and soon one of the gnomish ninjas vaulted himself onto the moped in front of me, berobed in black. I caught a glimpse of throwing stars at his waist. This was Zanfiz. “How insulting. I’m a far superior ninja to Ferris.”
“I have no doubt.”
Another whisper of movement sounded nearby, and then Ferris landed beside Zanfiz on the moped. “The house is surrounded by the other ninjas. We have a plan to deal with Navasov’s guards. We’re ready when you are.”
I nodded, patting Thelma and Louise to ensure they were at my waist. “I’m ready.”
Ferris didn’t move. “Are you sure this is what you want, Tara?”
I didn’t hesitate. Already, bloodlust hummed low in my veins. “I’m sure.”
Ferris and Zanfiz leapt off the moped, and I followed them through the yards of three grand homes until we came to the address in question: an enormous pink home, a two-story deck in the front with gleaming white pillars. Gaslamps flickered at the entrance, illuminating a grand wooden front door.
I’d known Peter was filthy rich, at least on account of his wife’s fortune, but the sight still rankled me.
Since my family’s death, I’d come to believe our world rewarded evil. Ambition and sociopathy brought wealth. Killing powerless people like my family brought no consequences to a vampire’s doorstep—and even now, in this GoneGod World, he hadn’t faced the music.
That was why I’d become a vigilante. That was why the Scarred met their fates at the ends of my whips.
Because without me, there would be no justice for them.
Ferris and Zanfiz led me around the side of the otherwise darkened house, where the ninjas had pried open a window six inches and one of Ferris’s contraptions had been fitted into the gap, a long tube poking into the house, the other end of it attached to a compact machine.
The other ninjas were here, all of them waiting. Ready.
“Two guards on the first floor, guarding the doors. The couple is asleep upstairs, first door on the right,” Ferris said. “Just him and his wife.”
I stepped up to the machine, scrutinizing it in the darkness. “So it won’t kill them.”
Ferris passed a gas mask up to me. “It won’t kill them. Give it five minutes to work, though.”
I accepted it, fitted it over my head. “What about the gnome
ling?”
“That’s the special thing about this gas.” He gave the machine a silent pat. “My special formula—it doesn’t affect Others. Only humans.”
I nodded, the mask unwieldy on my head, my vision reduced. But it wouldn’t be for long. “I’m ready.”
When Ferris turned the machine on, a soft whirring started. After five minutes, he nodded me toward the house. “We’ve got the back door unlocked. Go on—do what you need to do. We’ll meet you outside.”
I passed around the back of the house, leaving the ninjas to their own mission.
This was strictly between me and Peter.
When I tested the back door, the knob turned easily. I passed inside, my eyes adjusting to the pitch-black interior. My hand slid up the wall, found a light switch. A designer kitchen came into stark view, an enormous island with a bowl of fruit at the center. And on the floor in front of me lay a guard with his mouth open and drool sliding out.
I stepped over him, passed through the kitchen into a two-story living room. Here the moonlight guided my steps around to the foyer, where a second guard lay by the front door. I stepped over him and found myself before a grand staircase leading to the second story.
I didn’t need to be stealthy, but I was still on catlike alert as I climbed the stairs.
Once you’ve dealt with a vampire, you never second-guess them again. Even after they’ve become human.
Upstairs, the first door on the right was shut. I came to it, pressed my ear against the wood. Nothing.
Downstairs, I could hear the ninjas’ soft sounds as they came in through the window. They would have the gnomeling in a minute’s time.
I turned the knob on the bedroom door, pressed it silently open. Inside, a four-poster king-sized bed sat enormous and unmissable in the center of the master bedroom. And in it, illuminated by the moonlight through the window, slept two figures.
I approached the bed, stood on the husband’s side, observing him. It was Peter. It was my ex-vamp. It was the creature who’d participated in my family’s murder.
According to Ferris, he should be paralyzed for the next half hour. But I only needed time enough to deliver one slice.
I reached down, unsheathed a knife from my boot. Set it to his exposed neck.
When the cold metal touched his skin, his eyes flicked open.
“Hello again,” I whispered. “Ever experienced sleep paralysis?”
His eyes widened, but he didn’t otherwise move. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and I knew from our last fight that he would have been thrashing—fighting me, grappling the knife out of my hand—if he could have.
But he couldn’t. Ferris’s gas had worked.
I stared into his wide, confused eyes. “You don’t recognize me with the mask on. But I’m guessing you remember the sound of my voice.”
He exhaled words, his mouth and tongue unable to move to articulate them. I’d expected to hear a “Please” or a “Stop,” but it wasn’t like that at all.
What I heard from my ex-vamp was, “Itch.”
See, it’s hard to form the letter B when your lips can’t touch.
“Oh, I’ve become a real itch.” I threw the covers off his paralyzed body. “Especially after you murdered my mother, father, and little sister in cold blood. Remember that night? I’m sure you do—it was the night the gods left you a mere mortal.”
I had once told Percy I’d killed Scarred before. That was a lie; I’d never killed anyone.
In fact, I’d only gotten three of them sent to jail. I’d never gotten close enough to be the hand of real justice.
But tonight, that lie would become a truth.
Chapter 21
I stepped up to the bed, sliding one leg overtop his prone body. When I ended up in a straddle over him, a new emotion entered his eyes. First came confusion.
Then anger.
But now it was fear.
Good.
I leaned forward with my throwing knife, setting it again to his throat. “My father was killed with one of these knives. It was a single line in the newspaper account printed the next day. Was that your work?”
He exhaled, an unreadable word exiting his mouth.
In fact, I didn’t know which of them had done my dad in. The night held a kind of religious fervor in my mind, and I only knew the bare sketch of it: the vampires, the death, waking alone in the field. So began the rest of my life.
I still couldn’t access the memories—only the feelings. The terror, the agony, the isolation that followed. And, for the past five years, I’d nurtured a growing sense of rage.
It was amazing how much rage one body could contain. I was a testament to it.
I leaned closer. “I bet this kills you in every sense of the word. Once an all-powerful creature of the night, now just a paralyzed mortal in his bed. Any last, slurred words?”
He tried. He really did. The gas was so potent, I couldn’t make out any of them.
“Well said. Time to meet the nothingness that comes after, Peter.”
But I couldn’t make my knife hand move. It simply wouldn’t press down.
Come on, Tara. One swipe across the throat.
GoneGods knew I’d practiced in my daydreams. I knew this motion with sad exactness.
And yet, here in the moment with his charcoal heart beating beneath me, it was my hand that had become paralyzed.
Only one word came to mind.
Percival.
I could still rescue Percy. And if I did, I could never tell him what I’d done here. Never. This would become a secret, and Percy and I didn’t keep secrets from each other (except for the origin of his name).
I could see it all unraveling in a split-second. The pleasure of executing this man. The minutes of adrenaline-laced satisfaction. The shock of leaving his home, returning to the empty barn. And in the morning, waking alone, staring at the bloodless knife. And on rescuing Percy, telling him how much he meant to me, even though I couldn’t promise to be the person he needed.
Because I would be a murderer. Just like Yaroz.
If I did this, I would never be worthy of him.
In the silence that followed, two slurred words exited Peter’s mouth. “My wife.”
Before I could stop myself, my eyes flicked to her.
She stared back at me, eyes fluttering, tears running out the corners towards her temples. And I recognized that expression immediately.
To her, I wasn’t a vigilante claiming justice for my parents. I wasn’t the good guy. I was just a home invader who’d come to slit her husband’s throat.
Then, the realization crystallized. Peter wasn’t the reason my parents were gone. That night, he was only following the orders of his master—the leader of the Scarred. Valdis.
I would never be satisfied until Valdis was dead. He was the one it all hinged on.
Peter was just a soldier.
And I didn’t want to be his murderer.
“GoneGodDamn it,” I muttered, climbing off him. I sheathed my knife back in my boot.
That was when his wife let off with hoarse screaming.
“Now you listen to me,” I said down to Peter, lifting my voice above the wife’s. “You’re not dying tonight. But you are going to jail for the rest of your life. Too bad for you, that’s a lot of life left to live. Though not as much as I imagine you’d been looking forward to before the gods left.”
Peter just stared up at me; confusion reigned once more in his gaze.
I stepped close to him, until the line between his eyes and mine was almost tangible. “Know this: if you ever leave prison, you will die. I’ll be watching, Peter Navasov. And whether you escape the lawful way or the unlawful way, I’ll be coming for you. One night you’ll open your eyes and you’ll find me atop you with a knife. And next time I won’t hesitate. Do you understand?”
Peter blinked.
I slapped his cheek. “Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” he slurred.
It
took every ounce of what little moral fiber I had to turn away from the ex-vamp and his screaming socialite, gnomeling-collector of a wife. I passed through the door and down the stairs, already dialing Aubert’s number on my watch.
When she picked up, I was stalking through the living room. “It’s me. I’ve found him—Peter Navasov.” And I gave her the address.
Aubert’s sleepiness faded at once, replaced by her on-duty voice. “How long do we have?”
“You’ve got thirty minutes until he and his wife come un-paralyzed and run out of this house in their skivvies.”
“Paralyzed?”
“Just a simple nerve agent. They’ll be fine. Relatively speaking.”
Aubert was saying more, but I’d already ended the call. When I slipped out the back door and into the night, I found Ferris waiting for me behind the house.
“Come on,” he said. “The workshop’s two streets over.”
“Did you get the gnomeling?” I asked as we jogged.
“We got him. He’s in the van.”
Back at Ferris’s mobile workshop, I waited by the side of the van, staring back at the dark mansion with the gaslamps.
“Get in.” Ferris opened the door. “Better to be off the street.”
“Not yet,” I said. “Not until I see it.”
Without a word of protest, Ferris stood beside me to witness it, too.
Ten minutes later, two police cruisers pulled up in front of the house, their lights shutting off. Four cops exited and made their way up the front walk to the door. They didn’t knock; they just started battering the door.
When it burst inward, I crossed my arms, shivering in the warm New Orleans air. My ex-vamp’s arrest was a fairly uneventful, soundless thing. A few minutes later, he appeared at the door’s threshold, his legs immobile as he was hauled with a hand under each armpit into the night.
Peter’s hands were cuffed at his back. His head hung limp on his neck. He was pulled barefoot over the lawn, his legs dragging over the grass. A few seconds later, they’d packed him into the back of a police car.
It wasn’t the fate I had envisioned for him, and maybe not the one he deserved. But I hadn’t done this for him. I had done it for them, and for Percy.
