“Yes,” he agreed without hesitation. Eileen was sure he accelerated even more.
Any question she had was stopped in her throat. A large black sedan appeared around the curve ahead, heading directly for them. It couldn’t have been fifty feet ahead of them. Eileen made a little yelp of terror and clutched the wooden chest. She saw Erik’s cold smile and heard thunder again.
Then the black Mercedes swerved hard, so hard that it rolled. It flipped onto its roof and slid into the hedgerows on Eileen’s left, its wheels spinning.
Erik didn’t slow down, but his smile became one of satisfaction.
“You did that on purpose,” Eileen accused.
“Yes,” he agreed, his manner more amiable than it had been.
“How did you know he would chicken out?”
“I didn’t. But Magnus has a certain affection for his vehicle. Pride of ownership, I guess. Either way, I assumed that he would care more about his car than I do about this one.”
“Big assumption,” Eileen felt obliged to note.
“Yes. But smaller than you think.”
“Because you’re not driving the Lamborghini.”
Erik smiled.
“You know him pretty well.”
“Well enough.” Erik winked at her. “Shame about the paint job on the roof. I doubt his insurance will cover it.” Unrepentant, he geared down, took a corner, and negotiated his way to the M6.
As they merged into the traffic, Eileen focused on steadying the wild pace of her heart.
“Give them to me, or I will take her.”
Magnus’s old-speak echoed in Erik’s thoughts long after he had first heard it, long after he’d left Magnus stranded in his upside-down luxury car. The words were low and potent, even for old-speak, and had an insistence that Erik didn’t like. The threat made him even more acutely aware of the need to consummate his firestorm quickly.
And it gave him new doubt that Eileen would be safe without him afterward. How could he take her with him? How could he fulfill his duty to the Pyr without leaving her? Would the other Pyr defend her—and his child—after Erik was killed?
Magnus’s words wound into Erik’s own thoughts, mingling and mixing and infecting. Erik knew that a less resilient Pyr might find himself confusing his own ideas with those of Magnus.
He had to get the Dragon’s Teeth away from Eileen. He had to ensure her safety. He had to seduce her and get back to his responsibilities.
But first he’d tell her more of the story.
He owed her that much. He’d promised. He was a man on a mission and one with no time to loiter.
The scenery looked so similar to his memory in places that it brought a lump to his throat. It was cleaner and greener, though, less ravaged by the waste products of industry. The air was comparatively clear. It was amazing how the earth could heal, given the opportunity to do so.
Erik felt Eileen watching him as he stopped beside the iron bridge itself. Given the weather and the season, it wasn’t surprising that no other tourists were visiting the historic attraction. He parked the car and turned off the engine. Rain drummed on the roof.
He glanced toward his mate. Her expression was wary.
Erik thought that was a healthy response to the events of the past day. He let her set the pace.
“So,” she began, glancing pointedly out the window, “I assume there’s a reason we’re parked here.”
“Did you visit the bridge when you were last here?”
She tried to repress a shudder and failed. “No.” Her word was emphatic, more emphatic than the situation deserved.
“Why not?”
“I’m not interested in the usual tourist attractions. I’m interested in people, not things; in stories, not feats of engineering.”
“I think you had another reason to avoid it.” Erik opened his door before she could argue and got out. He went around the car and opened Eileen’s door.
“I don’t want to get out of the car.”
“You’ll have to if you want to hear what I’m going to tell you.”
“You could tell me here.”
Erik just shook his head.
Eileen wrinkled her nose. “Now? In the rain?”
“I don’t think it’s going to stop anytime soon.”
Still, Eileen hesitated, her gaze darting between the wooden chest on her lap and the sky. She surveyed the bridge and he sensed her dislike of the place.
This wouldn’t be easy for her, but he believed it had to be done.
“We’ll lock the wooden chest in the trunk,” Erik suggested, his tone more kindly. “We won’t be long.”
She studied him for a moment. “Why do I have such a bad feeling about this? You know, a ‘Serial Killer Leaves Body of American Woman in Rural Shropshire’ kind of a feeling? ‘Charming Rogue Pushes Tourist Off Bridge.’ That kind of thing.”
It wasn’t a coincidence that she’d raised the image of a deadly fall from this particular bridge.
“Remember that I have no charm, though.”
He was relieved when her smile flashed, but she still didn’t get out of the car.
“I won’t injure you,” Erik promised. “Something unpleasant happened here a long time ago. Maybe you’re sensing that.”
Eileen rolled her eyes, her practicality restored. “The last thing I am is some psychic flake. I just don’t like the rain. I’m sick of it.” She swung her legs out of the car. “I assume there’s a point to our being here? A good reason to get soaked to the skin again?”
“You wanted your story. Part of it is here.”
She met his gaze and held it for a moment, as if assessing him. “If you’re lying to me . . .”
“Honesty is one of my few positive attributes, by your own accounting.”
She smiled again. “Okay, let’s get it over with.”
Erik took the wooden chest from her and locked it into the trunk, along with her satchel. He locked the car doors, then, wanting to ease her uncertainty, gave her the keys.
She was so obviously surprised that he was irritated.
“This way,” he said tersely, and turned away. He led the way onto the bridge, well aware that she didn’t immediately follow. The tollhouse loomed large on the opposite shore, every surface slick with rainwater. The rain sliced coldly out of the sky, running into the collar of Erik’s jacket.
At least they were alone.
The sky overhead was a flat gray, the rain and the cloud cover painting the scene in tones of silver. It was damp, the kind of dampness that went straight to the bone.
He heard Eileen’s footsteps behind him.
“I don’t understand. What does this place have to do with my story?”
“This is where you find another facet of the truth.”
He stopped in the middle of the bridge and put his hands on the cold iron railing. Far below, the Severn rolled and churned, muddy and gray, swollen with rainwater. He shivered.
“Careful!” Eileen said, coming to a halt behind him. She shivered visibly. “It would be easy to slip.”
Her concern was irrational, given that the bridge was enclosed with a high fence to prevent anyone from jumping.
“There’s a fence,” he noted quietly.
“Still.” She looked down at the river with visible distaste. “I don’t like it here. Let’s go.” She turned to leave but Erik caught at her sleeve. She glanced toward him, fear in the blue of her eyes, a fear that he understood.
He had to help her dispel it.
“Once upon a time,” Erik began in a low voice, “there was a Pyr, a Pyr who felt his firestorm. And he came into the company of humans seeking his destined mate. He meant to find her and to breed, as he had been taught was his duty.”
Eileen nodded and frowned, her gaze trailing to the river. Erik wasn’t entirely sure that she was listening to him. This place had a strong association for her, one that she didn’t yet understand.
He continued softly. “But his mate surprised the P
yr, who knew little of humans, and when he inadvertently revealed his true nature to her, she recoiled from his truth. She refused to share her body without his promise to deny his nature. Knowing the importance of the firestorm, he gave his pledge. They lay together, and she conceived his son.”
Erik took a step closer to Eileen, well aware of the rain soaking his jacket. It beaded on his hands and ran through his hair, but his gaze never wavered from hers. She watched him steadily, apparently as oblivious to the rain as he, and the heat of the firestorm redoubled with every step he took. She was ensnared in the story, and he was relieved.
“This is the story of Shadow and Sunshine,” she guessed.
“Only of Shadow,” Erik agreed.
Eileen nodded, then spared a nervous glance at the river. He sensed that she focused on him and his story so that she could fight her own response to this place.
“For the sake of their child, the Pyr and his mate agreed to compromise: They would wed and raise their son in human society, at least until he came into his hereditary powers at puberty. She agreed to the Pyr’s condition that they make a new life for themselves, away from her family. He in turn pledged once more never to take dragon form again.”
“Those are hefty promises,” Eileen said softly, her gaze searching his. “Denying one’s own nature in exchange for abandoning one’s connections.”
Erik was impressed that she understood the importance of what he was saying. “They did not know fully what they did.”
She tilted her head to watch him, the rain beading off her curls and spilling into her scarf. “And did they keep their vows?”
“The lady kept her word, and they made a life far away from everyone she knew and loved. The Pyr kept his promise until their son came into his abilities. He kept his promise until that son turned to the darkness and left his mother weeping.”
“What do you mean?”
“He turned Slayer.” Erik heard the pain in his own tone.
Eileen’s eyes narrowed. “What does that mean exactly? What’s a Slayer?”
“Magnus is a Slayer, as are his minions. The Pyr are charged with protecting the treasures of the earth; the true Pyr believe that humans are among those treasures, while Slayers believe that humans are the cause of Gaia’s destruction. Slayers would eliminate humans—and those who protect them—and preserve the earth and her elements for themselves alone. Their choice is a selfish one.”
“It’s a personal choice?”
“Pyr are born. Slayers are made.” Erik frowned down at the Severn, disliking that the direction of the conversation had changed. He’d intended to show Eileen her past, not review his own. “When they turn to darkness, they abandon the light of the Great Wyvern. Their blood turns black in the absence of the divine spark and they lose the ability to procreate.”
“So they always need recruits,” Eileen whispered. Her gaze flicked over Erik’s features, searching every nuance of his response. “That Pyr must have been devastated by his son’s choice, as devastated as his mate.”
Erik nodded grimly. “The Pyr thought he could save his son, that he could bring back the child his wife loved beyond all else, that he could make matters right. He believed he had the power to turn events his own way.” He stared down at the river, the sight of the swift water sending a pang through him.
He had broken a vow and Louisa had paid the price.
Erik’s tone turned harsh, his heart becoming heavy with the reality of his own failure. “But the Pyr was wrong. He lost their son completely. And in breaking his word to his wife, he shattered her heart.”
Donovan stood in Erik’s lair and held the largest piece of the broken Dragon’s Egg in his hands. He’d never held the orb before and was surprised that it seemed like nothing more than a chunk of rock.
To think that he’d dreaded its portents.
To think that he’d thought it animate.
Six of them had gathered instinctively at Erik’s lair, and had found Nikolas pacing the perimeter like a caged wolf. The ancient Pyr wasn’t talkative at the best of times, but on this day, he felt like a shadow of doom.
A silent one.
Delaney was quiet, as well, hovering close to Sloane, who was obviously concerned. Delaney looked leaner than Donovan recalled, more haunted, even though his color was better and he moved with more confidence than he had just months before.
Donovan examined the shattered edge that had been the inside of the orb, well aware of his partner, Alex, standing close beside him. He glanced at her as she ran a fingertip across the break.
“It’s dead,” Sara said, her arms folded tightly across her own chest. She shivered and Quinn put an arm around her shoulders. She was paler than Donovan recalled, instead of flushed with that rosy glow of pregnancy.
“What broke the Dragon’s Egg?” Donovan asked.
“Boris,” Nikolas hissed from the group’s perimeter, his eyes flashing.
“Impossible,” Sloane said. “Boris is dead.”
“He didn’t look dead when he broke the Dragon’s Egg,” Nikolas said. Donovan sensed that he wasn’t the only one who doubted the word of this Pyr who had so recently joined their ranks.
“That makes no sense. How did he get it?” Quinn demanded. “Did you let him into Erik’s lair?”
“No!”
“Then how did he get through Erik’s barrier of dragonsmoke?” Sloane asked, his skepticism clear.
“Weren’t you supposed to stay here and protect Erik’s hoard?” Donovan asked before Nikolas could answer.
Nikolas’s expression turned dark. “I was and I did,” he insisted. “He entered anyway. It was Boris.”
“That’s impossible,” Donovan said, and put down the piece of the Dragon’s Egg. “None of us can cross the dragonsmoke of another.”
Nikolas’s voice dropped low. “Are you calling me a liar?”
The two Pyr stepped toward each other, the tension between them escalating. Alex murmured a warning, but Donovan wasn’t going to put up with deceit within Erik’s own lair.
“What you say is impossible,” Donovan replied, meeting Nikolas’s challenging stare with one of his own. It was outrageous that Erik had trusted the ancient Pyr with the protection of his lair, and that Nikolas had failed so spectacularly in just a week. “Boris is dead and no one can cross dragonsmoke. Why did you break the Dragon’s Egg?”
“It is not impossible if it happened,” Nikolas replied, his fists clenching. Donovan saw the glimmer around Nikolas’s shoulders and felt himself shimmer on the cusp of change.
“We shouldn’t fight among ourselves,” Quinn said with heat.
“We shouldn’t lie to each other,” Donovan retorted. Nikolas’s eyes brightened and he took a deep breath. Donovan was ready to shift along with him, and solve this dispute the traditional way.
“It’s not impossible,” a woman said softly.
They all jumped, although Donovan knew they shouldn’t have been surprised that Sophie had appeared without an announcement. The Wyvern sat on one of the black sofas in Erik’s lair, the darkness of the upholstery making her look small and frail.
She had all the substance of a mirage.
What had happened to her?
“At least Rafferty missed this surprise appearance,” Sloane muttered, referring to the older Pyr’s distaste for Sophie’s tendency to arrive unexpectedly.
Sophie didn’t wave her fingertips as she usually did. Nikolas watched her, stepping closer. His manner was protective, but she ignored him. She rose from the leather sofa as if exhausted and stepped toward the others.
Away from Nikolas.
Sophie’s eyes, to Donovan’s relief, flashed as vividly as ever. “As Nikolas said, it happened, so it cannot be impossible.”
“But how?” Sloane asked. “We cannot cross smoke—”
“Boris cut the smoke,” Sophie said, and when the Pyr might have argued, she continued. “I saw him do it. He hovered between forms, only his right talon dragon while t
he rest was human, and he cut the smoke with his claw. Then he stepped through it and was unharmed.”
“There was no sound?” Quinn demanded.
Sophie flicked a glance at him. “Only the resonant chime of an unbroken dragonsmoke ring.”
“What happened to your neck?” Sloane asked suddenly. He lifted a fingertip to her scarf and pulled the sheer fabric away from her skin. There was a new wound there, one that still leaked blood.
The Pyr stared in horror. The Wyvern’s blood had been shed.
Sophie swallowed and averted her gaze, her fingertips playing with the end of the scarf. “I was attacked,” she admitted.
“She was assaulted by Boris Vassily, right here!” Nikolas interjected, his outrage more than clear. “He came to break the Dragon’s Egg and lured her into Erik’s lair. . . .”
Donovan swore and shoved a hand through his hair. The other Pyr were clearly just as upset. “But Erik killed Boris last summer.”
Sophie met his gaze steadily. “How do you know?”
“Erik said so.”
“Then Erik was wrong.”
“But Erik said he exposed Boris to all four elements,” Quinn insisted. “He said that he ensured that Boris was dead.”
Sophie shook her head. “He did not know what Boris had done.” She turned to Sloane. “There is one thing Boris could have done that explains all of this, only one substance he could have consumed before his battle with Erik.”
Sloane took a step back, his horror clear.
“There is only one substance that could have pulled him back from the brink of death,” Sophie insisted, following Sloane. “And you, Apothecary, you know its name.”
“The Dragon’s Blood Elixir,” Sloane whispered as the color drained from his face.
Sophie nodded.
“Then it’s real,” Sloane continued. “And it does convey immortality.”
“Of a kind,” Sophie agreed.
Donovan’s heart sank to his toes. He glanced at his fellow Pyr and saw his own dismay echoed in their expressions. He had always believed the Elixir was a myth, or at least a legend lost in the past.
But it was real.
The Slayers had it.
Kiss of Fate Page 15
