by Debra Kristi
The early morning exploded in a clash of thunder. It was the sound of breaking glass. Lots of it. The glass wall standing between the club and the terrace shattered and fell in a cascade of dangerous crystal shards.
All eyes turned toward the destruction as the body of a man came flying through. He landed on his face, where he remained, unmoving. From the back, he looked like Marcus’s best friend, Toby. Marcus lunged toward the fallen man, but Kyra held him steady.
A monster of a man climbed through the hole in the wall. His eyes glinted when he spotted Marcus.
“Been a long time, Balidhug.” The man’s voice reverberated deep and scratchy, like a growl.
Something dark—fear and knowing—spiked in Kyra.
Not human.
The thought had barely registered when the shot rang out. A bullet ripped through the air straight for Marcus’s heart. Immeasurable pain rolled across Kyra’s body like something was plucking the scales from her hide one by one, a hereditary instinct pushing her to protect. She tried to scream, but the sound lodged in her throat.
Pain. Excruciating pain. Rings of fire thrashed at her eyes, scales tore at her skin and plunged within, nails and wings dug and scratched, then rammed deep into her skin. Twisted, torn, and crushed all at once.
Her entire being splintered, fractured in two.
The sliver of metal whizzed past her toward Marcus, and her dragon tore free from her human camouflage. Kyra wasn’t even aware she could do that. Her dragon leapt forward and wrapped herself protectively around him, taking the bullet between the shoulders.
Kyra’s human form convulsed, still tethered to her dragon, a fine bundle of invisible cords stretched between them. She caught the slightest reflection and distortion when they moved and twisted.
The blow of the bullet pushed her dragon and Kyra stumbled forward, disoriented.
How is this happening?
Marcus remained wrapped safely within her dragon’s beastly grip, cocooned and protected by her wings. Aimed high and at close range, the centrifugal force of the bullet slammed hard. Kyra’s nails scratched and chipped as she clung to the brick and mortar in a state of desperation. Her odds grew insurmountable, with the bond pulling her human-self while her dragon form floundered, toppling Marcus and her beast over the railing.
Her entire body, yanked in one quick moment. She was being pulled over the railing. Her heart raced around her ribcage faster than a bullet train.
No! she thought. I’m not ready.
The wind brushed past her, Marcus still sheltered within the folds of her wings, Kyra dragged over and down by the barely-seen cord.
Her falling thought, of Sebastian.
The ground came too quick, the landing far too hard.
Excruciating heat. Heat so severe it drained your soul. It assaulted Kyra in waves. Seared her flesh from the bones. Her eyes popped open to a vast landscape of treacherous peaks and endless canyons laced in moving fire. Rolling clouds of burnt orange and murky red rumbled in rebellious adulation over the molten terrain. She was unprotected. No scales. No shielded vision. No dragon. Her hands patted at her arms, her waist. It was all there, intact. At least her flesh remained unharmed—unseared, after all.
Did the spell work? Is Marcus all right? A sideways glance produced no hint of him or her dragon. A shudder rolled over her, the memory of her other-self separating and remaining tethered still so vivid. Higgins’s spell was clever. Strange, but clever.
The rocky ground scratched her skin when she rolled over onto her knees and lifted herself up. She stood on a precipice, the drop on all sides sheer. On the other side of the dividing canyon, mountains rose to the left and to the right, towering far above. Flinching away from the flames and guarding herself with a hug, she looked for an escape. There was nothing.
Her fingers dragged through her hair, hard. It will be fine, she reassured herself. Just another puzzle to solve. She’d start with how she’d gotten here. Except she didn’t remember. The last thing she remembered… What was the last thing she remembered?
Fire danced across the rocks and mountain peaks as far as she could see. In the void of valleys below, a storm of waterspouts churned. Varied and not quite equal distance apart, they reminded her of a sloppy presentation of wardens. They rose from beneath as if yearning for something more. Spinning upward into nothingness, they lashed around like savage horses tied to a spike. The movement surpassed the angriest storm Kyra had ever seen.
Wanting to get a closer look, Kyra knelt, placed her hands on the edge, and gazed at the view below. Her hair whipped wildly in response to the howling tempest beneath her fingertips. A tempest that appeared to be getting closer. Was it rising to meet her? Or was her mountain sinking? Maybe the pit below was her personal Hell, and she was descending.
Never had she been so vulnerable, so weak. So human. She didn’t care for it much. Didn’t care for it at all. Her fist slammed into the dirt and rock, meeting its force and finding no give. The bones in her hand screamed, crushing and splintering with a wicked crunch.
Fire shot across her line of sight, kissing the skin of her upper arm. She fell back and rolled, letting the screams and words go as she cradled her wound. Cries turned to uncontrollable coughs. The acidic air burning her throat and nostrils. It tasted like charcoal and smelled of melted plastic. One unpleasant flip of her stomach and Kyra moved back to the edge of the precipice, fearing an involuntary reaction of the most human kind.
The wind ravished her and she closed her eyes, allowed it to cool her clammy, sweat-beaded skin. It was a moment’s reprieve from her nightmare. Chunks of her copper hair lay matted to her forehead.
Maybe she was ill. Lying sick in bed with fever somewhere, and this was nothing more than her over exuberant imagination. That would explain her thoughts constantly wandering to Sebastian. She wished he were with her now. He’d tell her to be strong, stand up, fight her way home. But how?
Gathering what courage she could muster, Kyra stood and faced the hell that surrounded her. You don’t believe in fate, she reminded herself. Scooping a handful of rock and sediment from the ground, she tossed it forward, aiming for the space between the spiraling storms. “Show me the way out,” she called to the wind.
The tiny stones shot straight into the closest waterspout, pulled in by its powerful grip. Some were devoured, others spun and scattered in every direction. She ducked, barely escaping the returning spray. She crouched on the ground, envisioning every space as a bed. She fought it, fought the will to sleep, but every muscle protested when she tried to rise again, her body overcome with exhaustion.
Sebastian kept her moving, kept her fighting. Envisioning him beside her was the encouragement she needed to push onward, not give in to the battle. Getting back to him was what mattered most.
Expanding spirals of water rose higher from the canyon floor and a rush of liquid broke over the top of her tiny stronghold—and over her. It fell with a mighty splash upon her, drenching her. Neither cool nor refreshing, it provided moisture—an uncomfortable wet, and something extra unique to Hell.
Kyra dug her heels into the ground, crouched low, expecting to be knocked to the side, even thrown from her safe perch. It didn’t happen. The water showered over her, a downpour of despair and depression. It washed away any desire to run or escape. It removed all hope and longing. As the sprout jumped from the mountain and traveled onward, Kyra was left behind a hollow shell. The greatest emptiness stirring within her, scraping at her inner walls like a ravished dog licking clean its last meal. Gravity pulled her from her crouch flat to her knees, and she dropped without struggle.
Why am I fighting? I can’t go back. Marcus is safe. He has to be. A soul for a soul, that’s what Sebastian said. I maintained the balance. I was Death’s collection.
She gave in, allowing her body to succumb and crumble to the ground. Her eyes fluttered, blurring the reds, oranges, and dark browns of the sky together in a mulch of color. Hell. That’s where she was going. And sh
e was making the journey alone. She didn’t even have her dragon to keep her company.
Her hand flopped onto the rock in front of her. It drew her gaze to a large something flying against the horizon. Whatever it was danced with the fire, flirted with it.
Kyra might have been content to lie with her cheek kissing the dirt forever, had it not been for that beast caught in her gaze. A beast she’d grown so familiar with. She willed her arm to rise and reach out, but it was bonded to the ground by a thousand unseen threads. Or it might as well have been, for all the power it took to move. Kyra poured all her concentration and effort into lifting her arm, bound and determined to get the dragon’s attention. Practically an impossible task. The weight and force required to hold the arm up threatened to drop it at any second.
Arm extended with fingers stretched out, Kyra called to her dragon. “Kalrapura!” Her voice was weak and carried little distance, but Kyra knew her dragon. Hearing wasn’t one of her weaknesses.
Seconds. That was all she could manage. Her arm fell to the rock, her strength gone. This sucks, she thought. Then fought harder. “Kalrapura,” she whispered, closing her eyes. She concentrated on the heavy breaths heaving at her chest.
This must be Hell. It’s eternally slow and filled with endless torture.
The ground rumbled and the skies roared, yet when Kyra opened her eyes, she saw nothing but the same. Except…her dragon was gone. She lifted her head and searched. No dragon anywhere. With slow, deliberate moves, she followed the reverberation and carefully pulled herself toward the edge. Spirals of water shot past her with a whoosh, climbing straight toward Heaven. Heaven, now there was a thought. She expected there was no reaching Heaven from this place. The spirals vanished into the churning, fiery plume above.
Mists of despair fell like droplets of oxygen. Discouragement took root, spurring her shoulders to slump. She didn’t need to feel worse than she did already.
She’d never stopped to consider Heaven and Hell, but a big pit of depression, a constant carwash of despair, was not what she would have envisioned.
A mighty roar bellowed from below.
The mountainside shook, sending rocks and pebbles skittering down the hill. Kyra flattened herself to the surface, all while the pumping of her blood quickened and thunderous sounds rolled closer.
An odd rhythm echoed through the canyons, and thoughts of Kalrapura popped into her head. Kyra wanted to see her. Needed to see her. Needed to see where the bullet had hit her dragon between the shoulder blades, between Kalrapura’s wings. She had to see what damage had been done.
And maybe, just maybe, if she got her dragon back, she could pull herself together again.
A crash resonated all around her. Wide-eyed, she held her ground. Then an ear-shattering roar broke over the noise and turbulence. It dropped in her gut like a battle mace, just before the fire flared out over her head.
Dragon!
His talons dug into the edge of her little perch and his chest pushed up and out with pride and power. He was a magnificent specimen, the most beautiful dragon she’d ever seen. But he was not her dragon.
Where was Kalrapura, her unique orange serpent?
The midnight beast towered over her, stretching out like a black hole against the landscape of flames. Kyra tried to melt into the hard ground beneath her, but he was impossible to avoid. With the tiniest of moves, his armor hinted of red. Iridescent. His scales were a beautiful iridescent crimson. She’d only heard of, never seen, such extreme brilliance. Wings held high, he displayed multiple battle scars like a badge of honor. And the beautiful, barely-there, crest across his chest meant only one thing: he was either Marcus’s dragon, or a member of his family.
Muscles locked and eyes widened, she stared, untrusting of the sight before her. She rubbed at her eyes; the monstrous beast was still there. How? It was the only cognitive thought she could form.
He stretched his neck and dropped his head down to Kyra’s level.
Kyra sucked back a breath. Glorious. That was the second word that came to her mind. He was truly glorious.
His lips drew back, revealing two rows of dagger-sharp teeth. Weapons meant to kill—devour. One hundred percent pure. A real dragon. Not a mongrel hybrid like her, a Moorigad.
The dragon lunged, his jaws chomping down, trying to devour her. Flying fucking gargoyle! I’m dragon dinner! Kyra thought as she skittered and rolled backwards. Surprisingly, the dragon instantly tumbled sideways, hit by an enormous flaming bird. The dragon roared and the bird screeched as the two tangled in a dangerous choreography.
They flew across the scorched sky, slamming into mountain peaks and hillsides, tumbling rock and stone beneath their brute force. The dragon was bigger and stronger, but the bird—a phoenix—was faster and exceedingly agile.
There was something familiar about the phoenix. Kyra couldn’t say what, though. Having never seen one before, she strained to think of what it could be.
Run, Kyra. A voice reverberated in her head. An old voice. A known voice.
She whipped around in search of the warned threat. Which way should she run? It had only been a few seconds since the beastly fight had disappeared from her sight. Thunder shuddered across the sky, moved from left to right, and with it shifted the land, knocking her off her feet. Her mountainside rumbled, then the dragon exploded into sight, having flown straight up the precipice.
Kyra’s feet sought traction, desperately scrambling in the dirt. The dragon bore down upon her, looking ready, more than ready, to end her.
“Go!” the voice shouted again.
The dragon’s claw slammed down and Kyra jumped out of the way, using energy born of adrenaline. She barely escaped, felt the wind of his swipe brush across her side. He bared his teeth, let his foul breath wash over her, and lunged. The phoenix swooped in-between them and the dragon grabbed his wing instead of Kyra. She expected relief. Instead, a warm, wet tear ran down her cheek and her heart lodged in her throat. Confusion tripped up her feet.
The dragon thrashed the phoenix to the ground even as Kyra stood directly in harm’s way. The beasts were massive. Together they covered most of the small mountaintop. She rolled to the side and heard the phoenix’s cry pierce the hot air. She knew the dragon had laid into him. Her insides bled for him, but what could she do?
Dirt clung to her sweat-matted skin like an accessory, and she came out of the roll crying for the fiery bird. The dragon looked up and advanced. Kyra swore he wore a vicious dinnertime grin.
Kyra wanted to cry for the dragon, too, but found no tears. This place had diseased him, turned Marcus’s dragon rotten and ugly to its cold, dark core. Was he beyond saving?
Fire was his resource, his to command, and he used it with utter confidence to cleanse the mountaintop, moving the flame with a gentle swing of his head. Kyra rushed from its touch, rolling out of its wake. Only the mountaintop was small and her roll was too fast and too long. The edge came quick, her body rolling and tipping over the side. Broken, bloodied nails scratched and clawed at the ground in her attempt to stay her fall. But momentum overpowered her and she dropped into devil-may-know-what. Craggy cliff chunks bit into her limbs like piranha to the prey, and her body slammed and bounced off the wall, catching every jagged rock along the way. Each laceration was a lava lick at her skin. She bit her lip and held back the screams.
Her body smacked into a hard, crusted surface. Every limb tingled and she was overcome with weightlessness, as if she floated on a cloud. It lasted half a second before her senses came crashing to the ground with the rest of her, her entire being weighting down like a ten-ton sack of potatoes. She knew she should keep moving, but somehow she had managed a moment’s reprieve from the beast, and she was exhausted. She closed her eyes and allowed another tear to fall. The sounds of the phoenix dying above slashed a hole through her heart.
“What are you doing here, Kyra?”
Kyra’s eyes fluttered open and, fighting the sting that came with her vision, her gaze shot
upward toward the familiar voice. Sebastian. Her heart danced at the sight of him.
He stood over her looking like a dark dream, if ever she’d seen one. He wore black jeans with dark military boots, a large leather band strapped to his right arm. His hair was shoved up in a mad mess, asking for someone to run their fingers through it, and the exposed skin across his chest glistened with sweat. At the sight of him, Kyra’s eyes widened and her heart expanded. A friendly face was the last thing she’d expected to find.
Finding Sebastian—he was her golden dragon egg, her treasure-filled cave. He was her everything.
This had to be the doing of the Great Rajũn. He’d taken pity on her and decided to show her mercy. “Thank you, Rajũn,” she whispered.
“Your dragon god has nothing to do with this, Kyra.” He took a step forward. “Now please answer the question. Why are you here?” He paused, looking deep into her eyes. “It wasn’t supposed to be you. It wasn’t ever supposed to be you. What did you do?” His voice, soft and soothing, caressed her like a warm, gentle hug.
She thought his eyes looked mournful, but…no, that was wrong. They looked frustrated. Furious. That’s what she saw in him—irritation.
She pulled her knees in, squeezing them to her body. “What do you mean?”
Almost instinctively, she looked to the tattoos she’d first noticed under the bridge, running up the side of his ribcage. Before, she’d had no clue what they said or meant. They’d looked like imph scratchings to her. Now they were clear as the cuts on her skin. Maybe it was this place deciphering them for her. Or maybe she was in a new state of being, possibly one known as death, that gave her the ability. Whichever it was, she could see it was a list. And not a favorites or a bucket list. No. It was a list of names.
The top name was in a constant state of flux. It was her name, and then it wasn’t, and then it was again.
Her thoughts returned to the man on the bridge, the same man beneath the terrace the night she fell—Sebastian’s father. There was no doubt in her mind about that now. She didn’t know how she knew, but she did. She looked to Sebastian. “Are you him? Are you Death?”
