by Toni Kerr
They were alike in some ways; shape and size. But the newcomers were warm blooded, glowing yellow and orange. The green fire-maker was nearly invisible by comparison.
Tristan eyed the fire they’d started and made a run for it. If they could get in through the flames, it had to be the way out.
He kept his nose down and dove into the minuscule passageway, only to bash and scrape the sides of his face. He shook it off and staggered another lap, eyeing the jagged gap above.
The three creatures in the center were of no concern, he made another run at the sky, slamming himself along the widest point of the crack. A cascade of boulders fell with him and the sky itself shifted from the bright blue of freedom to a vacant, dead white.
Never had he been in such a confusing underground. Anger surged through him, providing the burst of strength he so desperately needed.
The two warm-blooded creatures seemed less threatening than the fire-maker. They weren’t predators. They stood side by side, fear and something else radiating from their pores. They were definitely up to something...his nostrils flared as they separated.
One reached for a sharp spike on the ground. But instead of crafting a weapon from the branch, it simply vanished.
Curious.
Escape.
Tristan made another run at the barrier. This time, his right wing wouldn’t extend at all. He barreled into the cavern wall that seemed to flicker between forest and stone, then crushed his left wing as he tripped over it.
How far underground was he? How did this happen?
He stayed down to gather his sense of direction, waiting for the pain subside.
The warm-blooded creatures were moving quicker now, doing away with the fallen trees.
Tristan rose to his feet and searched for the fire-maker. He wouldn’t have seen the creature at all if it hadn’t taken a curious side-step, drawing attention to its location.
Tristan disregarded it and went back to the issue of stone that camouflaged as open landscape. His bloodied right wing had clearly marked the physical boundary—the cage was bigger than he’d imagined.
A sharp sound pierced his ears; he snapped his head around and spotted the fire-maker holding a metal tube of some sort—red smoke billowing from its heated end.
He then noticed a colorless flag stabbing into his bad hand, precisely where unarmored flesh became claw.
His arm had long since lost all feeling, but it was the thought that made him angry. He raked his claws over the flag until a long quill fell out.
A clicking snap caught his attention and he glared at the aggravating creature taking aim. This time he was ready, saw the flag coming toward him and ran the opposite way he’d become accustomed to.
But the spikes...instead of leaning away from him, they were now pointing in his direction—sharper, inflicting more damage. He leaped to the first clear spot as a third shot echoed throughout the enclosed space. The warm-blooded creatures scurried out of his way.
The pipe exploded a fourth time and he heard something else.
One of the warm-blooded creatures howled. The other was silent, lying mostly still, barely breathing with a hole in his midsection.
Tristan took a step closer, confused, curious. Unbearably heart-broken.
The pipe exploded again and he ignored it, nudging the creature’s foot with the tip of his nose.
There was no fear from the creature’s companion now, who threw sticks at Tristan’s face. The fire-maker though...he and that pipe needed to be dealt with.
Tristan lunged, biting the pipe as it went off again. He flung the metal away, along with the predator who wouldn’t let go.
Both landed in the bed of spikes.
Dealing with the injured creature was an entirely different matter. A low growl reverberated from deep in his chest—a warning to the companion tying to drag it away. Tristan bared his fangs as the hackles at the back of his head rose, hovering over the injured creature until its companion was forced to retreat empty handed.
Tristan snorted his approval and carefully picked up the fragile being. Tiny fingers clutched at its chest, the eyes were unfocused and distant. Tristan lifted him higher, inhaling the scent of his long hair.
The companion resorted to throwing sticks again. Tristan ignored him, placing the injured one in his bad hand, encircling his claws to keep him protected from flying objects.
He searched for a place to lie down, even though this strange cavern would not be his first choice. But the green fire-maker seemed unharmed now, shooting an electrical current into the air, perhaps his way of claiming the cavern as his own. The companion ran toward him, putting a stop to it.
It mattered not; he had no desire to stay.
Tristan interlaced his claws more tightly and leaped toward the crack in the stone ceiling. It was no use. He crashed to his side, clutching the little figure to his chest.
If he couldn’t go up, or out, he’d go down. He stomped a foot and commanded the earth to move aside.
The source of light, whatever it was, went out as boulders rolled up and outward. The warm-blooded companion began screaming again, but it was the fire-maker’s voice that made him pause. A calm, controlled cadence, echoing strangely in this underground bubble.
A small fire ignited, and then another.
Tristan had just returned his attention to the hole in the ground when a soft ringing touched his senses. The companion plucked delicate strings on a wooden instrument.
Tristan’s eyes became droopy and his neck seemed to lose strength. The music screeched to a halt when he fell to his elbows, though he kept himself from crushing the fragile one.
He let go of his need to escape, the desire to find a safe haven, and curled around his bad hand, un-caging the tiny thing. Its eyes were open.
Tristan stared at the dying creature. So familiar. So...something. He ran the rounded curve of his claw along the creature’s side.
His lungs struggled to take in air and his vision blurred with a stinging moisture. Sadness filled his heart as the little one’s lips twitched into a smile.
The creature reached up; Tristan met him halfway and leaned into the gentle touch as a drop of liquid nearly doused the being.
He couldn’t bare the confusion and shook himself awake.
The companion’s words sounded familiar, but the spoken language was foreign. He laid the fragile body on the ground and struggled to get to his feet.
The fire-maker had found another pipe-like weapon to point—the word ‘gun’ came to mine. Tristan ignored the continuous blasts and returned to the tunnel he’d started, commanding more rock to move aside, keeping his back to the humans.
For that’s what they were in flashes of memory. He would not hurt them. Not even the one blasting that useless noise cannon.
He descended deeper into the tunnel and turned to make sure he was alone. Both creatures remained with the injured—an odd relationship between predator and prey. But somehow, they belonged together.
The fire-maker stopped shooting when Tristan’s legs gave out. He fell against the side of his makeshift resting place, making sure to collapse the long tunnel before he lost consciousness.
38
- SECOND CHANCES -
BRIGHT LIGHTS BURNED through Tristan’s flesh, seared his bones.
They’re bringing you to the surface, said Molajah.
None of his muscles would move, it was all he could do to scream in silence.
Not everyone will congratulate you, but tell Donovan we owe him a great deal. Landon and Victor as well.
Congratulations for what? The white domed walls of the cavern were dripping with smears of dark blood.
“We’re trying to counter the tranquillizers, but it’ll take time.”
Voices echoed from all directions, then circled a few times around his eyeballs. Something pressed against his mouth. He couldn’t swallow and barely gagged.
It’s oxygen. Donovan’s hollow voice echoed in his head. Don’t fight
it.
Landon?
Upstairs.
I want out.
Not yet.
At least his thoughts were understandable. Victor?
He’s here.
Tell him I’m so sorry—I didn’t see him.
They weren’t supposed to be under your feet.
Time left him aimless, drifting through a silent fog. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t bear to face Victor. Even when something brushed his forehead. His fingertips. If someone stabbed him with a knife, he would not have flinched. Bits of quiet conversation came and went.
None of it mattered. However, soft music drew him forward.
“He’s awake.”
How could he face anyone? Donovan was right. The guilt was unbearable. He would live with this forever.
“Everything would be fine if you’d just wake up.”
Something warm held his hand; it eased him a little, and made him sad. Surviving seemed so wrong when others could die so easily. Someone should kill him; he really was an abomination to mankind.
The warm hand fell away. “I can’t stay.”
“You will.”
He owed them his life. All of them. “They wanted me to tell you.”
A dark shadow fell in beside him, though he couldn’t quite see.
“They?” Donovan asked. What is the message?
Tristan swam in a sea of darkness. He’d gladly give his life for Landon’s, if he could find it.
Where are you?
Tristan couldn’t answer.
The next time he opened his eyes, he could see a little more clearly. He was in the tent. Someone sat beside the bed, asleep with his head on the edge of the mattress. Landon was the only one he could think of who had hair like that. Tristan considered the thought, then smiled when Landon jolted upright.
“Don’t tell,” Tristan said.
“Why? They’ll want to know you’re awake. Victor would kill me if I didn’t tell him.”
“Fine. But not Donovan.”
Landon looked bothered for a second, then nodded his agreement. “He’s been really worried. He’s barely gotten any rest and won’t leave the training room.”
“Is that where I am?”
Landon nodded again.
Tristan tried gripping Landon’s hand, but his fingers barely twitched. “What happened?”
“The tunnel you made collapsed. It probably wouldn’t have mattered if you were a dragon, but you shifted back. You were...human again.”
Tristan took in the words, speechless. Landon wasn’t the type to joke.
“You were crushed by more than a ton of rock, and lost nearly all of your blood.”
“Did I—” All the events were starting to blur. “I thought I...I don’t remember that.”
“Everyone is fine,” Landon answered. “The only thing to do now is rest and get better. You’re skin and bones at the moment, but I know you can recover.”
“Someone was shooting. I just...ran.” He couldn’t pry his eyes away from Landon’s face. “I had to get away, but there was no way.... How did you survived?”
Landon grinned, beaming with radiant health. “Accidents happen. It’s okay!”
“But there was no room. I never even saw you and I—”
“I wasn’t trying to kill you,” Donovan said, standing in the doorway.
“I didn’t know.” Tears fell down his cheeks. “I just had to get away, but everywhere I went....”
“I’m sorry. But it’s good that you remember.”
Tristan stared at the man, confused. He’d rather not remember the bits and pieces that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
“For when it happens again,” Donovan finished.
“Oh, hell no.” Tristan’s stomach convulsed at the idea. Landon tightened his grip. “I can’t. You can’t make me. Why would you want that?”
Donovan took a few steps closer, then seemed to think better of it. “I don’t know if you have a choice in the matter.”
“I do! I can control this. I know I can.”
“Not wanting something is not the same as controlling it.”
“It wasn’t all that terrible, Tristan.”
“How can you say that? I didn’t recognize anyone! I squashed you and didn’t even know it!” Tristan took a moment to blink away the memory of warm tissue stuck to his foot. “You were so little, like an itsy bitsy piece of microscopic glass. My—” Tristan looked at his fingers and gulped. “My claws were bigger than your entire body.”
“I want to show you something.”
Tristan shook his head. “I’ve seen enough.”
“I’m not so fragile, Tristan.”
Landon stood to make a show of rolling up his sleeve. Donovan pulled a knife from his boot and extended the blade with a slight flick. Tristan glanced at each of them, panic building.
Landon held up his hand like he was pledging something and looked positively cheerful.
Donovan didn’t hand him the knife, he threw it. Tristan would have screamed if he’d had a chance to inhale; the knife bounced out of Landon’s open hand and thudded on the white linens of the bed. Two more knives bounced away, unable to puncture Landon’s flesh.
“What kind of trick?”
Donovan threw a fourth knife over Landon’s head and it stabbed several inches into one of the wooden poles holding up the tent.
Tristan tried to sit. Tried to focus his eyes better. “How—?”
Landon grinned, then sat on the edge of the bed. He shrugged. “You did it.”
Tristan shook his head in denial. “Victor, too?”
“No. But he’s jealous for sure. He wants to be squashed next.”
“It isn’t funny.” Tristan settled back into his pillows and stared at Landon’s skin.
“My bones won’t break either. Well, I suppose anything would break eventually, if enough force was used.”
“I didn’t know....”
Landon’s smile faded to something more serious. “I wasn’t completely convinced the dragon was you. But when you had me in your hand, and put me next to your face, I wasn’t afraid. You were just...you. And you cried for me.” Landon smiled again. “I thought I’d drown in a single tear.” He laughed at himself. “We think it was the tear that made the change.”
“I am so sorry.”
“I’m not! Sure it could have been worse, but I’m okay. Better, even! Everything will be fine and we’ll all get through this together.”
Tristan shook his head. They might get through it, but he never would.
“We’ll let you rest.”
“I want to go home.”
Donovan shook his head. Landon dropped his gaze. “If you turn again and you’re not contained, we might never see you again.”
Tristan opened his mouth but no words came. What if he never changed? Would he be a prisoner for life, as an immortal? “You can’t keep me here forever.”
“I was just curious if you cared.” Donovan smiled. “Get some rest.”
Tristan tried not to flinch as Donovan ran his fingertips over his forehead, gently pressing his eyelids closed.
“No dreams of being held against your will. No pain.”
He resisted the command as long as he could. “How long will you keep me here?”
“I’d rather not let you go at all, but.... As soon as you can eat, drink, and walk on your own, I’ll take you home myself. At that time, I will expect you to resume your normal class schedule.”
“With guards?”
“Most likely.”
“How many people know about this?”
“Not many. Landon, Victor, myself, our healer, the Makai.”
“How many people are in the Makai?”
“Less than twenty.”
Tristan’s chest tightened at the thought of so many people knowing his darkest fear, how close he came to killing one of his most trusted friends, and how dangerous he really was. Killing people in Ireland felt like a drop in the sea. Not to mention t
hey hadn’t figured out what his latest powers were.
“Sleep now. No predators. No prey.”
39
- COMPOSING -
MOLAJAH’S VOICE VIBRATED through Tristan’s skin, though the actual words were unintelligible. The constant ringing of metal on metal drew his attention to the canvas door.
Tristan rolled toward the side of his bed and swung his legs over the edge, completely shocked by the inability to carry his own weight. His bad arm collapsed when he tried to catch himself, knocking the air out of his lungs. He rested his forehead against the cool ground.
“It’s a start.”
Tristan looked up to see Donovan in the doorway, a sword in each hand. Sweat glimmered on his skin, soaked his white shirt.
“We have some things to discuss,” he said, leaving the room.
Tristan blew the hair out of his face with irritation when the ringing swords started up again. He used the bed frame to pull himself up, angered by the lack of strength in his hands. Especially his left.
A gnarled staff leaned against the foot of the bed; it was all he could do to inch his way toward it, leaning with his elbows on the mattress.
The last hurdle was getting to the doorway, ten feet away. By the time he got there, his legs were like noodles and he clung to the staff with both hands. Donovan glared at him.
“I’m trying—”
“Being immortal doesn’t mean you don’t require food and liquid. You’ve essentially been feeding on yourself.”
The idea made his stomach nauseous, his head dizzy. He leaned against the doorframe.
“It’ll take time and patience, but muscles can be rebuilt.”
In a blink, Donovan was in front of him, keeping him from falling forward. He bit back a cry of pain throbbing in his shoulder. “I can’t remember how my arm got so hurt.”
“It will heal.” A chair appeared, Donovan eased Tristan into it. “We need to go over a few things before you go back to bed. Tell me who Molajah is.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Yes you do. What does he look like?”
“Black skin, bald, big. He wears a dark robe with a hood. His voice rumbles through the ground....”
