Flashfire

by Deborah Cooke

  Where could she have gone? Why would she have gone without contacting him?

  Had he read her intention so inaccurately as that?

  Or had someone taken her?

  Who?

  There were still no Slayers that he could sense in the vicinity, other than Balthasar, who had been beguiled. JP must have left town.

  Lorenzo had to return to the theater and arrived just as the music was swelling for his performance. There was no time to compose himself.

  One last show. He was caught between the obligations of his contract—and the implicit contract with his audience, most of whom had paid outrageous prices—and his duty to Cassie.

  On the other hand, she was a woman who knew her own mind. And he respected her. He wouldn’t be a barbarian who forced her to do what he wanted her to do. He wasn’t that kind of man or that kind of Pyr.

  He’d find her right after the show.

  Even if he had to take her to his father’s funeral.

  Lorenzo took the stage, trying to calm his nerves.

  But he was aware that his agitation showed. He was a bit slow, a bit less charming, a bit less polished. Ursula cast him a questioning glance or two, but he soldiered on.

  Half a performance to go.

  One hour until his future.

  The lack of polish grated at him, but Lorenzo wasn’t frightened until he screwed up. He usually slid his thumb quickly beneath the shackles on his wrist, that digit giving him an extra increment of space with which to work himself free. He was too slow. He missed his chance.

  Ursula did her job perfectly, tugging the restraint tight with showy flair before she locked it securely. He couldn’t signal her, didn’t dare interrupt the performance.

  He had to make it work.

  Even if the restraints were too damn tight.

  She tied him in the sack, then tipped him into the tank, right on cue, oblivious to his distress. Lorenzo fell into the dry tank behind the LED screen that showed the recorded image of him in the water. He landed on the foam, fighting already against his bonds.

  He thrashed, but the restraints just cut deeply into his skin. He knew the timing of this trick as well as he knew his own name. He heard the “splash” of his impact and the bubbles he supposedly blew. He tugged the interior cord with his teeth and freed himself from the sack. But he couldn’t get his hand through the shackle.

  He knew Ursula and Anna were taking the keys across the stage.

  He heard the snake hiss.

  He heard the clock ticking.

  He started to sweat. He should have been free by now, but he was still securely bound. He saw a glimmer of real alarm in his assistants’ eyes as they turned back to feign dismay. He should have been below the stage already. He should have been peeling off his clothes, running through the shower left on for this illusion, and running through the underground passage to the back of the theater.

  He should have been calling for intervention.

  Lorenzo tried again to break the restraints but failed. Ursula and Anna were watching, but there was nothing to be done.

  He wasn’t scheduled to die for one more day.

  Lorenzo gritted his teeth and began to shift shape. He let the shift go far enough that the bonds were broken, then forced his body back to human form. He seized the bonds on his ankles and ripped them free, flinging himself toward the trapdoor on the stage. He was under the stage, running for the back, peeling off clothes as he went. The crowd was really agitated and he realized they would think that he had made a mistake.

  Well, he had.

  But there was no reason not to work with it.

  He tried to catch his breath before he stepped into the theater. It took him a moment to summon the last vestige of his composure. He could see Ursula and Anna gaping at him and knew his secret was finally revealed.

  Well, they had probably wondered anyway.

  Did he have the strength left to beguile them?

  He would find it, Lorenzo resolved. He would beguile them immediately and control the damage. It was the last show and he was done. He strode down the aisle, revealing himself to wild applause. He leapt onto the stage, hoping no one saw that he was shaking, and took his bow. He was sure he had covered reasonably well, that he could get through this last bit, when the old-speak snapped in his mind.

  “So close to disaster,” whispered a voice he didn’t recognize. “What an artful game.”

  Lorenzo’s blood ran cold. He scanned the theater in terror. He didn’t smell any Pyr. He didn’t smell any Slayers. Erik wasn’t present and neither was JP. Balthasar was drinking himself to oblivion in a bar in a hotel across the street. Lorenzo was sure that Marco had left him alone forever.

  Who was this?

  “So nice to finally meet you,” that old-speak continued with oily smoothness. “Especially since I’m going to raise your son as my own.”

  Then the dragon laughed.

  It was a dark chortle, one that made Lorenzo’s blood curdle.

  Still Lorenzo couldn’t pinpoint the origin of the old-speak. Was this dragon in his theater? Was he broadcasting his old-speak from a distance? Lorenzo scanned the rapt audience in rising fear. Why couldn’t he sense the presence of this other one?

  Lorenzo nearly fell backward at the sudden vehement scent of Slayer. The smell of rot and decay and darkness was so strong that it nearly made him stagger.

  Then it was gone again.

  Lorenzo was shaken. He still didn’t know who it was, but it had to be a Slayer who could disguise his scent at will.

  One who had drunk the Dragon’s Blood Elixir.

  And that couldn’t be good.

  Now he really needed Erik’s help.

  He just hoped he hadn’t asked for it too late.

  Lorenzo bolted out of the theater, his shirt open. He’d decided against beguiling Ursula and Anna. He was in too much of a hurry to get to Cassie. He’d been able to smell the arrival of another Pyr from inside the theater, although he wasn’t sure who it was.

  There was a guy leaning against his car, a buff guy with auburn hair and an unwelcoming expression. He had his arms folded across his chest and he gave Lorenzo a glittering look.

  He was Pyr.

  “Brandt,” he said without putting out his hand. “Can’t say as I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.” His accent was Australian.

  Lorenzo didn’t know this Pyr, but he knew of him, thanks to Erik. Brandt was the one with the botched firestorm, the dragon who had ensured that he hadn’t had much to do with the Pyr after his divorce.

  “Where’s Erik? I thought he would be here.”

  “Waiting for us, I hope.” Brandt’s eyes narrowed. “You’d better hope nothing goes wrong.”

  Lorenzo was pretty sure it already had. “We might be late for the funeral.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have to find Cassie,” Lorenzo said, unlocking the car from the remote.

  “Don’t you know where your mate is?” Brandt was incredulous.

  Lorenzo didn’t want to explain himself to this dragon with attitude. “She wanted some time. I gave her what she asked of me. Now she’s missing.”

  Brandt gaped at him. “You gave her some time,” he echoed, his astonishment obvious. “During your firestorm, while there are Slayers in town.” He shook his head and opened the passenger door.

  Lorenzo realized the other Pyr might be a good source of information. “Which Slayers can disguise their scent?”

  Brandt shook his head. “You don’t even know?”

  “I know they must have drunk the Elixir, but I don’t have a list of names.”

  “Even I know their names,” Brandt said.

  Lorenzo gritted his teeth. “Why don’t you show your
brilliance and tell me?”

  “Chen.” Brandt snarled the word. “Old, nasty, and sneaky.” He counted off another on his finger. “Balthasar.” Lorenzo wasn’t worried about him. Brandt tapped a third finger. “And Jorge, although he’s out of commission.”

  “Who? Where?”

  “Buried in Wales. Probably dead.”

  So that was probably Chen he had smelled in the theater.

  Had Chen really captured Cassie?

  What would he want in exchange for her freedom?

  Lorenzo got in the car and started it. “Chen must be here, then.”

  “Oh, that’s good news.” Brandt got into the passenger seat. “What’d you do to attract his attention?”

  “Have a firestorm?”

  Brandt shook his head. “No. It’s got to be more than that.”

  Lorenzo put the car in reverse. “He says he’ll raise my son as his own.”

  “Bait,” Brandt said with a shake of his head. “He’s after bigger fish than that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Brandt spread his hands. “That guy’s got more tricks than you can believe. Always changing the rules. Always digging another secret out of his stash.”

  Lorenzo’s competitive spirit soared at this news. “Sounds like he and I might understand each other.”

  “Yeah, well, why else would he come to your firestorm?” Brandt asked with unexpected scorn. “Maybe he thinks you’re two of a kind. Everyone always said you were half gone to the Slayer team. Maybe he’s looking for a partner.”

  Lorenzo glanced at the other Pyr, surprised by his hostility. “What have I ever done to you?”

  “Nothing. Nothing to me and nothing for me. That’s the point, mate.” Brandt looked him right in the eye and the air crackled between them. “But if I were looking for a Pyr to turn Slayer, you’d be my first stop. Your reputation has preceded you.”

  With allies like this, Lorenzo didn’t think he needed enemies.

  He slammed the car into reverse and peeled out of the parking spot, squealing the tires as he raced to Cassie’s hotel. He cut in and out of traffic, in perfect control despite the speed.

  Brandt’s tough facade slipped. Only a Pyr would have heard the way the other dragon’s heart skipped a beat at the speed of his driving—much less the way he caught his breath—but Lorenzo heard both.

  And he liked spooking Brandt just fine.

  Cassie was still gone, as surely as if she had never even been at the hotel. There was no trace of her scent, as if it had been surrounded and disguised. No trail to follow. Just as it had been earlier. Even her friend Stacy had checked out and gone home. There was no hint of JP, much less of Chen.

  “Dead end,” Brandt said. “Pun intended.”

  Lorenzo scanned the lobby, thinking. He could smell only one other dragon besides the one in his company. He tried to call Erik, but Erik’s phone just rang and rang and rang. Cassie’s BlackBerry said that she was unavailable.

  He had a definite sense that a trap was closing around him.

  How much did Chen know of his plans? How could he find Cassie? There was only one individual who might know the answers.

  Balthasar.

  Who was sitting in a bar, drowning his sorrows, precisely as he’d been instructed to do by Lorenzo.

  Marking time until he followed Lorenzo’s next instruction.

  The beguiling had worked perfectly, and Lorenzo didn’t like the idea of messing with it at this late point. He wasn’t entirely sure what would happen and feared that Balthasar’s mind might snap under the duress.

  But he had to know more.

  He’d have to take a chance.

  But then, risk was what proved he was alive.

  “We’re gonna be late,” Brandt said, tapping his watch. “Even in that car.”

  “I’ll meet you there, then,” Lorenzo said. “I have one more thing to check.”

  Brandt’s eyes narrowed. “Why don’t I trust you?”

  Lorenzo realized that the other Pyr’s resentment might make his ploy sound even more plausible.

  And who knew who was listening?

  “Probably instinctive,” Lorenzo said and smiled. “Because I feel the same way about you.”

  “Hey, I’ve come to help you. . . .”

  “Tell me, is it true that most Australians are descended from convicts? Oh wait. You were a transported convict yourself, weren’t you? I remember now.”

  Brandt’s eyes flashed. He shimmered slightly around his perimeter. “Turn your back for one second,” he growled. “I’d love to kick your ass.”

  “But?”

  “But Erik thinks you’re worth defending. Who knows why, but I keep my promises.”

  “Minion,” Lorenzo sneered, deliberately provoking the other Pyr. “I prefer to make my own choices.”

  Brandt looked to be on the cusp of shifting shape to fight, but Lorenzo turned to walk away. “You can only come with me if you wait in the car,” he taunted. He was starting to develop a plan. It was daring. It was risky.

  It just might be perfect.

  Brandt followed him. “You gonna tell me what you’re doing?”

  “No.” Lorenzo smiled when they were both in the car again. “You’ll just have to trust me.”

  That was when he heard Brandt laugh for the first time.

  Balthasar was almost too drunk to be useful. Lorenzo slid into a barstool beside him and ordered a double Scotch, the same thing Balthasar was drinking.

  “What do you want now?” Balthasar asked, his speech slurred. “And what did you do to me?”

  “Nothing.” Lorenzo smiled. “You seem to be recovering well enough. How is the Scotch here?”

  There was an inconvenient gleam of suspicion in Balthasar’s eyes. Lorenzo’s drink came, he paid, then indicated a quiet booth. “Let’s talk privately, shall we?”

  “About what?”

  Lorenzo had to hold the Slayer’s elbow to guide him to the table, where Balthasar fell onto the bench. He didn’t spill his drink, though, so there was hope. “Magnus’s library, of course. Teamwork.”

  Balthasar glanced up in surprise. Lorenzo took the opportunity to summon the flames of beguiling in his eyes. Balthasar tried to look away, but his will was weakened and he was readily snared. Lorenzo liked that his game hadn’t slipped that much.

  He was the best.

  “Magnus’s library,” he echoed.

  Balthasar twitched.

  Lorenzo changed tack. “Then tell me about Chen.”

  Balthasar flinched.

  Lorenzo lowered his tone another increment. “You will tell me about Chen.”

  Balthasar became agitated. “Too much. Too much.” He winced and pressed his hands against his temples.

  Lorenzo eased back a bit, even though time was of the essence. “You’re both Slayers,” he said softly. “You must have a great deal in common.”

  Balthasar snorted.

  “You must want the same things.”

  “Want the same thing,” Balthasar agreed. There was a glint in his eyes, a flash of ambition and Lorenzo guessed.

  Of course.

  “There is no leader of the Slayers with Magnus dead,” he said quietly.

  “No leader,” Balthasar agreed and threw back some of his drink.

  “Chen wants to lead the Slayers?”

  “Chen wants to lead the Slayers,” Balthasar agreed. He averted his gaze and took a ragged breath. “Magnus’s library.”

  “But you have the key to the library,” Lorenzo said. “Which means that you are the rightful heir to Magnus.”

  “Rightful heir!” Balthasar looked up at Lorenzo with bloodshot eyes. “Rightful heir.”

  Lorenzo lea
ned closer, bending his will upon the Slayer. “What does Chen have?”

  Balthasar’s mouth opened and closed again.

  “Secrets?” Lorenzo guessed.

  “Secrets.”

  “What secrets does he hold?”

  Balthasar fidgeted, struggling to release his gaze from Lorenzo.

  “Tell me what secrets Chen holds. Tell me. You want to tell me. It’s the only way that I can help you to become Magnus’s heir.”

  Balthasar’s eyes flashed with hope. “Help?”

  “Of course. You were right all along. I should join you.”

  “Join me.”

  “We would make the perfect team.”

  “Perfect team.”

  “But I must know what we are up against. You must confide in me to guarantee your triumph.”

  “Guarantee.” Balthasar stared deeply into Lorenzo’s eyes. “Triumph.”

  “Magnus’s heir,” Lorenzo assured him with a smile. He felt the battle within the Slayer, the tentative grasp his adversary had on sanity. He could push too hard and lose everything.

  Lorenzo exhaled and released him.

  For a moment.

  Balthasar slumped on the table, exhausted by the power of the beguiling. Lorenzo could have snarled in frustration that he had so little to work with. He glanced across the bar, ensuring that no one was paying attention to them, and found Brandt watching him closely.

  The Pyr hadn’t even ordered a drink to give some disguise to his interest. Lorenzo shot him a scathing glance—he deserved no less—and the Pyr turned abruptly away.

  “Dragon Bone Powder,” Balthasar murmured sleepily. “Chen has Dragon Bone Powder.”

  “I know that,” Lorenzo said with some impatience. “It stimulates desire . . .”

  “Using so much,” Balthasar murmured. “He must need more.”

  Lorenzo stared at the besotted Slayer. “Where does it come from?”

  Balthasar opened one eye and giggled. “Where do you think?” he asked, his words slurring. “Dead Pyr.”

  Lorenzo’s eyes widened in horror. He knew with sudden certainty where he’d find Chen—at his father’s funeral. It was close to midnight now. Had the Slayer already attacked Erik, alone in the desert with the corpse? Was that why Erik wasn’t answering his phone? Lorenzo lunged to his feet.