Firestorm Forever: A Dragonfire Novel

by Deborah Cooke

  The orderly took a step away from the man as the doors closed. His tests had come back clear and he looked vital, but the orderly didn’t trust this infectious shit.

  It came from dragons, after all. It might be magic.

  The guy exhaled slowly and the orderly couldn’t help but hear the sound of it. He seemed to exhale forever, as if his chest was the size of the whole elevator. The orderly glanced at the other guy in curiosity, only to find that man’s gaze fixed upon him.

  It was weird. It looked as if there were flames burning in the guy’s pupils.

  “A pestilence,” the guy said, his voice oddly low and melodic.

  The orderly nodded agreement.

  “A plague carried by vermin.”

  “A plague,” the orderly agreed, unable to look away from the guy’s eyes. The flames seemed to burn brighter in his eyes, which was some kind of weird illusion. The orderly found himself leaning closer, as if he’d be able to see how it was done. No luck: the flames were brilliant orange and the guy didn’t seem to blink.

  “So many samples,” the guy said softly.

  “So many samples,” the orderly agreed.

  “Toxic samples that must be counted.”

  The orderly nodded. “Toxic samples that must be counted.”

  The guy gestured to the cart and counted aloud. The orderly found himself counting along with him, under his breath. “One, two, three. Four, five, six. Seven, eight, nine.” The man nodded. “Nine samples, safe and secure.”

  The orderly frowned. There had been ten. He was sure of it. He looked down at the cart and counted, but there were only nine.

  And the lid that should have been locked over the cart didn’t look right either.

  He caught his breath but the man hit the stop button on the elevator. He seized the orderly’s chin and compelled the smaller man to look into his eyes. Those flames burned like an inferno and once he looked at them, the orderly couldn’t avert his gaze.

  “Nine samples, safe and secure,” the man said.

  “Nine samples, safe and secure,” the orderly found himself saying, even as his mind fought against that conclusion.

  The man widened his eyes. “If one’s missing, it’s not your fault.”

  “Not my fault.”

  “The nurse gave you the tray, just this way.”

  Relief rippled through the orderly. “The nurse gave me the tray, just this way.”

  “You just do what you’re told.”

  “I just do what I’m told.”

  The man started the elevator on its descent again. “The nurse is to blame.”

  “The nurse is to blame,” the orderly concluded.

  The man smiled. “You were in the elevator alone.”

  “I was in the elevator alone.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “It’s not my fault.”

  “The elevator stopped for no reason.”

  “The elevator stopped for no reason.”

  The elevator stopped on the next floor and the man got out. There was no one in sight and he disappeared so quickly that he might never have been there.

  The orderly frowned at the control panel and the empty corridor. Why had the elevator even stopped on this floor? He was alone in the elevator, and it had stopped for no reason. He pushed the button to close the door and it continued to the basement where the lab was located.

  When he pushed the cart out of the elevator, he noticed that the seal was broken on the tray. It wasn’t his fault. The nurse had given it to him this way. He just did what he was told.

  All nine vials were still safe and secure.

  * * *

  Sloane was washing up the dishes after his solitary dinner, listening to jazz, drinking wine and indulging in a little self-pity. He’d staked out a private corner of his own house, and wasn’t inclined to share on this night. His lover was gone. His research was lost. His mission was impossible. His fellow Pyr were becoming injured on a regular basis and he couldn’t help feeling that this was the beginning of the end for his kind. Drake’s mate was in isolation and infected, and Drake was being held for tests. Sloane had asked Theo to see if he could get a sample of the infected blood, but that Pyr had had no luck.

  Sloane had a persistent sense that Jorge held all the proverbial cards. The Seattle virus was killing more people all the time, and the media blamed the Pyr for it—despite Melissa’s broadcasts.

  And all they could do was wait to see what Jorge intended to do next.

  The situation stunk, no matter how Sloane looked at it.

  He supposed he shouldn’t regret that his house was full of his fellow Pyr. He realized how accustomed he’d been to his own company and how much his privacy meant to him just when it was gone. Erik was more grim and irritable than usual, Melissa was worried, and Eileen was researching on Sloane’s computer. Rafferty still hadn’t awakened. Quinn and Sara were outside with the boys and he could hear them playing a game that had to be intended to tire them out. Donovan and Alex had taken their boys to Delaney’s farm in Ohio, as had Niall and Rox.

  Thorolf had been to Easter Island, without finding much, and had gone to Australia afterward at Chandra’s insistence. Sloane was glad that she’d agreed to remain at his house until the baby was born. Maybe Thorolf had a gift for talking sense into her. Despite all of them being together, Brandon, Brandt, Liz and Thorolf hadn’t been able to distinguish any rocks on Uluru as better prospects than the others.

  Chandra was getting closer to her time. She’d eaten an impressive variety of pickles while at Sloane’s home, showing a real taste for hot and sour varieties. He wondered whether he’d have much to do when she went into labor—she was remarkably strong and self-sufficient. Sloane doubted that he’d be able to convince Chandra to linger long after the delivery.

  Everyone was busy, but nothing was being resolved.

  Sloane felt responsible for that. He had bought Sam’s house in the end, and Quinn and Sara had moved into it for the time being, which at least took their family out of Sloane’s house. If Niall hadn’t been so busy trying to dreamwalk to Rafferty—and Rox hadn’t been as pregnant as Chandra—they’d probably all be in residence here. While his house was generously proportioned, it wasn’t a hotel. He already wished it had a few more bathrooms.

  Sloane hadn’t heard a word from Sam since her departure, just one short email from her lawyer acknowledging the transfer of the title. He looked across to the house that had been hers, remembering her words about dragons, and winced.

  It was probably just as well that she was gone. There could be no future with a woman who hated what he was.

  No matter how many times he assured himself that this was true, it remained a depressing thought.

  And a situation he wished he could change.

  Sloane supposed he should have been glad that Sam wasn’t his mate, but he didn’t find a lot of joy in that thought either. He emptied the last of the bottle of wine into his glass, grimacing that he’d hoped to share this one with Sam, then heard an exchange in old-speak.

  Sloane spun and inhaled, his gaze searching the shadows outside his kitchen window.

  Then he felt relief, and the shimmer he emitted when on the cusp of change fading away again. Two large dragons landed on his patio with the unison shown only by the Dragon Legion. They were precision flyers, all of them.

  They shimmered blue as they shifted shape, becoming men just as their feet touched the ground. They strode to the door, in step, without missing a beat, and Sloane recognized Drake and Theo.

  He changed the permissions on his dragonsmoke barrier, wondering what they wanted.

  Drake, true to form, said nothing. He just held up a stoppered vial of blood and Sloane guessed what it was.

  He threw open the glass door. “Where did you get it?”

  “The first theft of my life,” Drake said grimly even as he offered the vial to Sloane. “But I believe my mate would have given it to me willingly if she’d known my int
ent.”

  “How is she?” Sloane asked.

  Drake bowed his head. “They say it is the latent phase, and its duration cannot be anticipated.” At Sloane’s gesture, the two Pyr stepped into his home. Theo glanced around with curiosity, while Drake kept his attention upon Sloane. “They appear to believe it significant that I did not become infected. The attending doctor did not either, but he wore gloves, but the attending nurse did.” He arched a brow when Sloane looked up. “And I kissed Veronica, as surely they did not.”

  “Did you, um, exchange body fluids?” Sloane asked, wishing he didn’t have to.

  Drake’s eyes glittered. “It was a passionate kiss, as befits a reunion.” He frowned. “They wish to run more tests upon me, in case the secret lurks in my physiology.”

  Sloane winced. “Bad idea. I don’t even like that you had a blood test. They could look deeply and notice significant differences.”

  Drake shrugged. “I knew they would only test for infection.”

  Theo grinned, and Sloane guessed that Drake had done a bit of beguiling. “Nothing like the power of suggestion.”

  The older Pyr bristled a bit, and Sloane recalled that he was not fond of beguiling. To Drake it seemed deceptive. “It had to be done, so that I could be both compliant with their expectations and leave that place,” Drake said with patience.

  “You could have just shifted shape and gotten out of there with brute force,” Sloane said, wondering that his fellow Pyr hadn’t done as much.

  “This town is Veronica’s home, and she is my mate.” Drake straightened and held Sloane’s gaze. “Great Wyvern willing, it will be my home as well.”

  Sloane lifted the vial and turned it in the light, thinking. “You don’t have it at all? Not even in latent phase?”

  Drake shook his head. “This is their conclusion. Is it of import?”

  Sloane set down the vial with care. “I knew that Jorge hadn’t been infected. I assumed that was because of the Elixir in his veins.”

  “Because the Elixir allows for near-immortality,” Theo guessed.

  “And ensures prompt healing,” Sloane added. “I was thinking that the Elixir’s ability to repair cells at high speed was undoing the damage of the virus, pretty much in real time. That was my theory as to why Jorge wasn’t becoming ill.”

  “Although it wouldn’t have broken any hearts if he had,” Theo concluded.

  “But why do I not have the infection?” Drake asked.

  Theo cleared his throat. “Maybe there’s something special about Drake’s blood.”

  Sloane nodded with excitement. “Drake’s the last of the Dragon Tooth Warriors!” He grinned as he realized the key. “You’ve come from the same era as the virus! Of course, you have antibodies to it!” He gripped Drake’s shoulders, filled with new optimism. “You’re the only surviving creature who does.”

  “And so my firestorm was with Veronica because I literally can heal her?”

  “Great Wyvern, I hope so,” Sloane said with fervor. “It’s so elegant in theory.” He picked up the vial again. “We just have to figure out what it is in your blood that makes the difference, isolate it, replicate it, test it and create a vaccine.”

  “Can you do all this in time to heal Veronica?” Drake demanded.

  “I don’t know. But I’m sure as hell going to try.” Sloane eyed Drake. “How do you feel about giving me a great big blood sample?”

  Drake pushed up his sleeve. “Take as much from me as you need. Take it all. Show no regard for me. My mate’s fate hangs in the balance, after all.”

  “As well as that of your son,” Theo said, which earned him a considering glance from the older warrior.

  Sloane was too busy planning the sequence of tests he’d do to pay much attention.

  * * *

  In a way, it was reassuring to be back in the world of humans and in a hospital as well. A part of Ronnie felt that she could finally relax and concentrate on getting well. She’d seen Timmy and he’d been relieved to see her, even though the glass. He looked well. She was glad that Drake had not only stayed in town but had endeavored to build a bond with her son.

  That was a good sign for Timmy’s future, whether she was part of it or not.

  In another way, Ronnie was waiting for the other shoe to drop. She knew Slayers could materialize out of thin air, and that left her jumpy. She wasn’t happy to be stuck in an isolation ward, much less that no one was telling her anything about her test results.

  That couldn’t be good.

  She hoped the doctors were being cautious and Jorge had just lied to her, but with every day that passed, her hope faded. When they let Drake leave, though, and she heard the nurse who had treated her was infected, Ronnie knew. How could she feel so good when she had a fatal illness?

  More importantly, how long would she feel good?

  Long enough for her son to be born?

  Was he infected, too? The prospect of Jorge’s plan succeeding at all was just wrong.

  Ronnie had taken to pacing the room and continuing the exercises she’d begun while in captivity. It wasn’t like her to sit still, and she wanted to be as strong as possible for the birth of the baby.

  She wanted desperately to talk to Drake. His kiss and his vow had been great, but she had too many questions. Now that she knew for sure she was pregnant, she wanted to hear how he envisioned their future together, or the future of her sons without her.

  But Drake was gone.

  She had to trust him.

  Ronnie was doing Kegel exercises when the airlock hissed. She glanced up as someone in a HazMat suit entered the room, and concluded it was time for more blood work. The person turned, revealing her face to Ronnie, and waved a friendly greeting.

  Ronnie didn’t know her.

  “Keeping active, I see. That’s good. I’m Dr. Wilcox,” she said, offering her gloved hand. “I’m a virus hunter, specializing in the Seattle virus. I’m hoping we can work together to find a cure.”

  Ronnie shook her hand. This doctor’s arrival answered so many questions. She swallowed and frowned, but when she tried to speak, her words came out in a hoarse croak.

  Dr. Wilcox gave her the tablet and a stylus.

  Ronnie fitted the stylus into the brace on her right hand, then tapped out her question with care. She was relieved that the doctor didn’t seem to be in a hurry.

  In time for me and my son? She knew her heart was in her eyes when she turned the screen to face the doctor.

  “I hope so,” Dr. Wilcox said with a candor that Ronnie found reassuring. “That would be my goal, although you have to understand that this isn’t a process in which promises can be made.”

  Ronnie liked that the other woman didn’t tell her comforting lies. What can I do to help?

  Dr. Wilcox was reading over her shoulder, answering the question before Ronnie had finished pecking out the letters. “You need to stay as healthy as possible. Eat well, although I’m sure they’re taking care of that here. Exercising in this space is a great idea. We’ve run all the tests we have on your blood…”

  And I have it? Ronnie wanted to ensure that their relationship was totally open.

  The doctor met her gaze. “You are infected, Mrs. Maitland, but the virus is in its latent phase. That means you have no symptoms, but you are infectious. There is no firm timeline on this phase. It can be hours. It can be months. It seems to depend very much on the health of the infected individual, and truth be told, the virus is mutating constantly. It seems to be trending toward a longer latent phase than when it first appeared.”

  Like HIV. Ronnie’s chest tightened at this. If the virus waited for a weakness, she had to believe that pregnancy would count.

  Given how she’d been eating in Jorge’s prison, her usual good health might already be compromised.

  Dr. Wilcox nodded slowly, her gaze assessing. “Possibly. We don’t have enough observations of its development to be sure. We’re usually alerted after a person exhibits symptoms. By
then, the latent phase is over and whatever was going to trigger the active propagation of the virus has done so. That’s why we know so little about the triggers or about the latent phase itself. In fact, we initially didn’t know there could be a latent phase. Those earliest infections blossomed very quickly.”

  Then it’s too late.

  Dr. Wilcox averted her gaze for a moment. When she looked back, she changed the subject slightly. “You seem to know a lot about infectious disease,” she said with care. “Do you have a biology background?

  Ronnie shook her head. Research librarian, Ronnie tapped out. Custom research for authors. Character with HIV and AIDS.

  The doctor leaned over her shoulder to read the words as Ronnie wrote them. “I see,” she said. “So you do know a fair bit about what we’re dealing with. Any characters with Ebola or Marberg?”

  Ronnie nodded. Ebola.

  The doctor held her gaze unswervingly.

  Symptoms? Ronnie wrote. Fever?

  “That’s often the first or at least the most obvious symptom. We hear subsequently about aches and pains, lethargy, lack of appetite or nausea…”

  Pregnancy symptoms. Ronnie tapped and the doctor smiled.

  “Yes, among other conditions, like age. Detection can be elusive.” She paused, then spared an assessing glance around the room.

  Mortality rate?

  The doctor wouldn’t look at the screen, which was a bad sign. She fussed with the readings on the monitors and seemed not to notice Ronnie’s gesture. Ronnie knew better. She shoved the tablet in front of the doctor’s helmet and shook her arm.

  Dr. Wilcox read the question then heaved a sigh. “How much do you want to help, Mrs. Maitland? I could get you a laptop, and there’s a WIFI node here at the hospital. You could put your research skills to work, maybe find something we’ve missed.” She held Ronnie’s gaze. Her words were husky when she continued. “Maybe Skype and email with your son, Timothy.”

  While you can. Ronnie heard the unspoken words. It was fatal, then.

  100% mortality, she tapped out.

  The doctor nodded, though she didn’t look happy about it. “That’s been the case to date. Once symptoms develop, it’s a predictable trajectory. But bear in mind that we know very little about this virus. It’s entirely possible that there are people who will live their entire lives as asymptomatic carriers without getting the actual disease.”