He stumbled forward. Angie carried a large golden object in her arms, a ball of some kind. When her eyes met his, a shiver of excitement ran down his spine. He pushed forward, unable to hold himself back. Angie gave the golden ball to Erin and then bolted forward, her eyes tearing up.
A moment later, they embraced, out of breath, squeezing one another as if certain that if either let go, the other would disappear again.
And he was never going to let her go again.
"I'm sorry," he whispered into her hair, crushing her against him. "I was going to come for you but..."
She shushed him, placing her fingertips on his lips. "It's okay," she answered. "It's 2053. We women can save ourselves now, but I appreciate the offer."
He kissed her, unable to stop himself, and she kissed him back. His heart thumped madly as if he were a boy again, kissing a girl for the very first time. His joy surged. A part of him heard the crowd cheering, but his attention was only on Angie. They might have been alone in the world.
They only stopped when Erin cleared her throat loudly—again! He was aware he was grinning, having never been so happy, and looked to see all the Seagraves watching them, as well as Marshal, Carter, and hundreds of citizens. His gaze snapped to the object Erin was holding. It wasn't a ball ... it was an ... egg, a golden, scaled egg.
Angie took his left hand and placed it atop the egg. Magical energy flared through the dragon-mark on his palm.
It was a dragon egg!
"We need to talk," Angie said.
The only word Tec could manage was a strangled, "Yes."
"All right, all you looky-loos!" Casey yelled to the crowd, his hands on his hips. "Got a metric crap-ton of bullets for you to unload. Let's get going. I'm gonna need to lighten the load if I'm going to fly any more close air support."
If Itzpapalotl could have screamed with rage in her astral form, she would have.
Her consciousness circled the throng of citizens milling in the square around the aircraft, but her physical form was still within her lair atop the temple. Every ounce of her malice and hatred was here, though, directed at the golden egg the dark-haired woman carried.
So, the feathered coward tricked me!
The revelation burned like molten magma. Dragons rarely laid eggs, great dragons even less frequently. It had been more than a thousand years since the last great dragon had laid an egg: her own sire, the dragon-god Memnog, and Memnog had laid two, her and her brother Tezcatlipoca.
And now this other.
No wonder the feathered coward had left his lair to strike at her brother. He had left an egg, another feathered coward, to take his place in this world. That would not stand. Itzpapalotl would burn this city to the ground first.
She'd breathe death on them. She'd leave nothing in her wake but cinders. She'd consume that egg. She'd...
Do nothing. Not yet.
First, she needed to capture the Haanal X’ib. Without the blood of the elf changeling, she'd never free her sire. But Rayan Zar Davi, her high priestess, her Mother Smoke Heart, would succeed.
Now Itzpapalotl would make sure of it.
Chapter 45
A half hour after landing, Angie watched as Tec bent over the conference table in city hall, peering at the golden egg. He wore an expression of rapt wonder as he studied the egg, trailing his fingers over its pebbled and scaled surface for what must have been the hundredth time. For some odd reason, she had been surprised to discover that city hall now served as a military headquarters.
Wyn Renna was here as well, along with a dozen of her commanders, all seated at the far end of the conference table, discussing defensive plans. They had barricaded the breach—at least as well as they could. Most of the Seagraves were here, except for Jay, who had rushed to the hospital to see Tavi. Rowan, Erin, and Casey waited as Tec studied the egg. They had laid their hopes on this man and his knowledge of dragons.
"It's warm," he finally said.
She closed her eyes and composed herself. "I know that. What else?"
He shook his head and turned to face her and the others. "I don't know anything more about this than you."
"You're kidding?" Rowan asked.
"I've never even heard of another dragon egg, let alone anything about hatching a baby dragon. These are creatures of magic. They can live for dozens of centuries, sleep for decades." He paused, staring at the egg. "The only thing I know is that we need to protect this egg." He looked to Angie with eyes red from lack of sleep. "You shouldn't have brought it here. You need to get in that helicopter and get it out of the city while you still can." He turned to Rowan. "Take Jay and Tavi with you and Angie. Someone needs to survive to keep this egg safe."
"I'm not leaving you," Angie said. "Not again."
"Nobody is going anywhere," Wyn Renna said as she left her officers to join them. "At least not until nightfall. We've received reports the Aztalans have set up multiple heavy machine gun positions around the city, anti-aircraft positions. You go up in that aircraft and—"
"And the Azzies will fill it full of holes," Casey said. "She's right. We've lost the element of surprise coming in. On the other hand, flying around while assholes shoot at me is what I do." The large bearded man scratched a butt cheek then glanced at Rowan. "You give the word, brother, I'll take the bird up again. Got enough missiles and bullets left for one good fight. After that ... well, maybe we might want to think about saving that egg—as well as Angie, Jay, and Tavi. Tec’s right. Someone oughta get outta this dump."
"What about the ammunition we brought?" Angie asked Wyn Renna.
"Distributed it all, and thank god you brought it, but I don’t think it’s enough to change anything. There's still way more of them than us, and they've been preparing for this war for a long time now, years. They've scoured all old Mexico and Central America for supplies. The only way we win here is to outlast them, and even with your resupply and the helicopter, I don’t think we can hold. We're seeing preparations for another assault on the walls, this time from every direction. The main thrust will be the southern breech, but they’re also getting ready to hit us from the north, west, and east. I think they’re going to get in. After that, it'll all be over."
"So we keep 'em from the gates," Rowan said. "At all costs." Angie saw the hidden message in the look Rowan gave Casey. Day or night, Casey would take to the air and risk getting shot down.
Wyn Renna looked to Rowan. "Could use your help, maybe go over our defensive plans."
Rowan nodded. "Of course."
"You too, Tec," Wyn Renna said. Her eyes darted to Angie. "I'm sorry, but..."
"No, it's fine." Tec gave Angie a quick kiss and pulled her against him, whispering in her ear. "I love you, but as soon as it’s dark, I want you to fly out of here with the egg. Go as far northeast as you can. Get over the mountains before you even think about stopping." Her face flushed with anger, but before she could say anything, he put his fingers on her lips. "Think about it. Just think about it." He spun away, accompanying the others to a large map of the city at the far end of the table where the other officers waited, both Home Guard and Norteno. Strange, strange world.
Then, just on the other side of the open doorway, Marshal and Carter staggered down the hallway. Marshal had been walking with a cane, with Carter holding his arm to help him. Here, amidst the fighting, the two elderly leaders had been reduced to spectators. And Marshal had looked like death.
Erin touched Angie's arm. "You okay?"
Angie startled. "Yeah. I'm fine. I have to talk to someone. Watch the egg for me."
"Of course."
Angie caught up to Marshal and Carter in the hallway. "First Councilor," she said, her pulse quick. "Colonel ... Duncan. We need to talk."
The man who slowly turned to face her was a pale reflection of the leader who had set up the first protected zone, established the Concord with the Fey, and had started the long process of rebuilding humanity by establishing the walled cities and the Commonwealth of Cascadia. P
residente Monique Carter, Marshal's long-time rival in the Democratic Republica Mexicana Del Norte, looked almost as tired as Marshal. No, she corrected herself, that wasn't true. Carter looked her age, but Marshal looked like he already had one foot in the grave.
HE'S DYING, the Shade King said softly. SICKNESS TAKES HIS LIFE. THESE ARE HIS FINAL DAYS.
Shock coursed through her. The Shade King was right. She saw it now. He must have been sick the last time she had seen him, when he had visited her at the hospital after the attack on her life by the Tzitzime assassins.
"You're dying," she said, more to herself than to him.
Carter's lips parted, but Marshal placed a hand on her arm. "Monique," he said in a voice little more than a rasp. "Perhaps you could leave me with Angela for a few minutes."
"Of course," the elderly black woman answered, but she flashed Angie a look of warning. "I won't be far." She left them alone.
"I have a study down the hall," he said, unable or unwilling to meet her eyes. "It's quiet. Perhaps we could sit?"
She took his arm. "That would be nice, Duncan."
Angie slowly led him down the hall and into the study. The small chamber was in disarray, with empty ammunition crates and supplies placed haphazardly, but a comfortable couch remained, and she helped ease him into it before pulling up an empty wooden ammo box and sitting in front of him.
She barely recognized him, and he wouldn’t look her in the eyes.
When she had been a little girl, he had been like a superhero, filled with endless energy, drive, and optimism. He had nearly singlehandedly saved tens of thousands of lives, maybe more. He had been bald even then, but now his ears and nose seemed too large for his skull, his skin hung like loose drapes, and his red-rimmed eyes were filled with pain. Moving, speaking ... it was all taking a toll on him. A part of her felt guilty for what she had to do next, but another part of her was angry; he had masterminded the deception that had been her life.
Angie took his hands, held them firmly. "I know," she said simply.
He finally met her eyes. "How much?" he asked in a voice little more than a rasp.
"I think ... just about everything. Project Grendel, the dragon, the truth behind the Concord ... how my father died." She still couldn’t bring herself to say out loud that she had killed him. "And how the dragon erased my memories."
"I'm sorry." His voice broke. "I couldn't ... couldn't do anything to help. The dragon..."
She shushed him. "It's ... it's not okay, but it wasn't your fault. It wasn't even my fault. It was just … how I was born. Fate. An inevitable result of this thing I was born with, this..." She bit her lower lip, her emotions surging. "I don’t want to call it a gift or a curse. It just is what it is. I'm a source mage. I take my magic from the life force of others. There was no way I could control it, not back then. I see that now. If the dragon hadn’t blocked my memories of killing my father, I'd have killed myself, or worse, become a monster like the other source mages."
"Power corrupts. Absolute power corrupts—"
She squeezed his hands. "Yes, Duncan. Yes. But that didn’t happen. I'm still alive, and I have the power to help others now. And maybe, just maybe, I can bring a good dragon back into this world. God knows we can use one now."
"I don't..."
"Don't worry. Your fight is over. You've brought us this far. We'll take it the rest of the way."
"Angela, my precious child. You were like a daughter to me. I lied to you."
"I know, but I forgive you."
"Forgive ... forgive yourself ... for your father." He pulled his hand free and gripped her wrist, turning it to look at the old Beobachtungs-uhren observation watch. "He’d be so proud of you."
"I'm working on it." She gently pried her wrist free. "Duncan. Where's my mother and brother?"
He closed his eyes, and a tear rolled down his cheek. "New Seattle. She's ... she has a new family. She remarried. Her new name is Cassidy. Her husband is ... he's a good man. So is your brother, trained as a doctor, I'm told. Your father would be happy. He was a good man, too, Angela, a great man even, a far better man than I am ... was."
"You did your best, Duncan. You always did your best."
"I'm ... I'm sorry about Nathan. I was so wrong about him. He ... he wanted to kill me. He almost killed you. I'm so sorry. I … I thought he’d take over after me, be a better leader than I ever was. I was so stupid, such an old fool."
His thin shoulders shuddered with emotion, and her heart went out to him. If she had been like a daughter to this man, Nathan had been his golden-boy son, a handsome, brave warrior, but fundamentally flawed ... broken, filled with hatred and racism.
"Hey," she said, putting a smile on her lips and lifting his chin so that he met her eyes. "At least you didn't sleep with him."
He chuckled and then began to cough so badly that she sat beside him on the couch and rubbed his back. She pulled his head against her shoulder, comforting him. Now he was a child and she the parent. When had the world changed?
When he finally spoke, it was just a whisper. "What do I do? I don't know what to do. What to do."
"Do nothing," she said softly. "You do nothing, sailor. Your duty is over." As she held him, her eyes lingered on the watch she wore, her father's watch, a heirloom of the Ritter family, the watch that this man had taken from her father's corpse and given to Char to give to her—even after she had accidentally killed him. The inscription on the back read, Pflicht, Familie, Liebe—Duty, Family, Love.
"But what will you do?" he asked.
She smiled, tenderly holding his head against her shoulder. "What we Ritters always do: fight for those we love."
Rayan Zar Davi studied the city's walls. The early-afternoon sun beat down on her, making a bad day insufferably worse. The trucks had long since burned out in the fields, and their blackened hulls mocked her. The early-morning attack should have worked, would have worked if not for the arrival of the helicopter gunship. Now, her spies in the city reported that the helicopter had carried the Seagrave werewolf family and that they had brought ammunition to bolster the city's defenses. Rayan wasn't sure which arrival was worse, the ammunition or the Seagraves. That family held near-legendary status in the city. Their presence would stiffen resolve, and resolve was critical in the fighting. Without it, the city would fall with a whimper; with it, they’d resist to the bitter end. There was nothing in this world Rayan detested more than heroes.
Damn that cursed family.
Once, she had had all of them, blinded and in chains. If only she had slit their throats then.
Damn, damn, damn.
And then there was that insufferable Ritter woman. Her spies reported she too had been on the helicopter with some strange golden object the others had made a fuss over. That one had proven herself a dangerous foe, much more powerful than she should have been. Rayan had driven her pulwar right through the woman’s chest—and yet she lived. What was her secret? And how many times would Rayan have to kill her before she finally died?
As many as it takes, she told herself bitterly. This time, Rayan would cut her head off and stick it on a spike on the wall.
She had ten times the forces needed to capture the city. They had set up a half dozen anti-aircraft heavy machine gun positions around the city. If that helicopter tried to fly again, they’d shoot it out of the sky. Her forces were mustering for one last prolonged battle. It would start soon, just before three p.m., and it would continue until the city fell and her enemies were dead—except for Wyn Renna. When the time came, Rayan would take her alive personally.
A man behind her cleared his throat.
Irritated, she turned and immediately recognized the man standing behind her as one of the Tzitzime cultists she had left back at the temple. He was one of the promising young mages, thin and dark-haired with a shiny face covered in tattoos and a large jade stud through his bulbous nose. He wore an elven longsword, no doubt taken from the plunder of Coronado, on his hip. He wore multicolore
d robes, with his arms bare, but carried a large bundle in a green duffel bag. Muluc, she remembered. His name is Muluc. He has ambition, this one. She was aware another bush plane had arrived earlier but had assumed it carried orders from the dragon. Clearly it had also carried a passenger.
Her eyes narrowed on the duffel bag he carried. "Why are you here, Muluc?"
"Mother Smoke Heart," the man said obsequiously, his gaze lowered. "The Beautiful Mistress herself has sent me. I bring her gift to you, as well as her words."
"Show me." Rayan's heart quickened.
Muluc knelt, setting the duffel bag on the ground and unzipping it. He pulled out what looked like a thick motorcycle jacket but built of an oddly textured material consisting of shiny blue-green plates the size of her fist. She gasped in wonder when she realized what she was looking at: a jacket reinforced with handcrafted scales, dragon scales. "That's..."
"Built from the scales of the Lord of the Smoking Mirror, Tezcatlipoca," Muluc said in reverence, holding the jacket up for her. He showed her the green pebbled interior. "The lining is made from the skin of the feathered serpent Quetzalcoatl. Armor built from not one but two great dragons."
Rayan held her breath as she trailed her fingers over the material, partially created from the scales of her mistress’s own brother. As Rayan’s fingers touched the scales, power coursed up her arm, raising the hairs on the back of her neck.
"It's beautiful. Breathtaking." And it was. Chararah Succubus and Elenaril Cloudborn had spent their lives amassing relics and artifacts of magical power, but neither had ever possessed anything so majestic.
"And here are our mistress’s words," Muluc said. "This gift is to our most beloved servant, Mother Smoke Heart. She is to don it in the battle to come. It will safeguard her. No steel, even hexed, will penetrate this armor, but in return, she must bring us the prize, the Haanal X'ib."
"I ... yes, I'm honored," she said breathlessly. The sunlight glittered off the blue-green scales. It was mesmerizing, like staring into a cobra's eyes.
Firestorm Page 33
