by Celeste Raye
Stripping off the nasty clothes and tossing them in the trash, he went straight to the shower. He scrubbed every inch of his body and head twice, then stood under the stream until it grew cold. When he finally saw himself in the mirror, he was shocked. He was thinner, his hair was longer, and he had a scraggly beard. It had to have taken a full month to grow a beard of that size. Had his captors kept him knocked out for that long? Why? What had they wanted? He needed to talk to Belle. Did this mystery have anything to do with her investigation?
He shaved off the offensive beard and did his best to trim his overlong waves. His fingers discovered a small scar on his scalp. Blayze shrugged it off as an injury that must have happened during his capture. The man in the mirror resembled the one he knew far more now. Only extra portions of food would fix the hollow cheeks, and he was ready to remedy that right away.
Dressing in jeans and a t-shirt, now loose, he realized his boots were missing. He had not been wearing them when he was dumped on the beach. His feet had small cuts all over them from walking barefoot. Oddly, he had not noticed as the injuries occurred. What else had he missed?
The COM link on the wall buzzed. Not wishing to show how terribly his muscles had deteriorated, he tried to answer using his wrist unit, but it was gone, as well as his wallet that contained all his identification. Everything was easy to replace since handprints and eye scanning were used as identification in most places now.
He answered the COM link, blocking any pictures. "Blayze, where are you? The copter should have left ten minutes ago! We can hold them off for another five, but these guys are pissed. They have schedules to keep, and they're threatening to leave us here."
It was his workmates. Today must be the day they were set to return to the oil rig. It really had been a month since he had disappeared. He wanted to tell them to go without him and rush to find Belle, but he had bills to pay and feared breaking the alliance rules in any manner. So, he replied, "I am on the way. Make room for me to land. To get there on time, I have to transform."
Blayze stuffed some clothes into a duffel bag and hurried to the roof. He put the duffel bag string around his neck and left it loose enough to accommodate a dragon's neck. As his skin turned orange and scaly, he waited for the pain in his head to begin. It did, though it was not even close to the pain he had felt on the beach. Relieved that the transformation had made it to completion, he rose into the sky. Wind on his snout, clouds touching his wings, he was truly free at last. This was the real Blayze, and he reveled in it. He needed this more than food, water, or even Belle.
The urge to shoot dragon fire into the air, announcing to the world his freedom and power, was so strong his throat ached. As soon as the idea formed, a shooting pain hit his brain, in the exact spot he had discovered the scar. He decided it was not time to give in to the urge. Whether it was fear or something entirely different that stopped him, he could not be sure. He just knew now was not the time.
Blayze landed several feet from the waiting men and the helicopter. His workmates were arguing with the pilot, obviously trying to stop him from leaving them. Blayze stepped up behind them, unheard over the loud roaring of the vehicle.
"Get on. We are wasting daylight," he announced, causing them to turn and glare. They were not amused by his attempt at humor. Gazing into their angry eyes, he heard the mantra, "Your work companions wish you dead." At that moment, he believed it was the truth. However, knowing he could easily defend himself, he climbed aboard the copter.
Belle
The dream was erotic, sensual, and shocking. In it, Belle had never left the bar. She had continued kissing Blayze, biting his lip and licking off the drop of blood that appeared. The fire in his eyes turned to flames, and she enjoyed knowing it was caused by her. Ripping open his shirt, she let her tongue flick his right nipple. He growled and repeated, "Come home with me."
Instead, Belle let her hand slide provocatively between his legs, rubbing the swollen member she found there. "How about you come with me, cowboy? Let's set fire to the ladies' lounge."
Heat bounced off him, pushing back the crowd and giving them space to saunter through the center of the dance floor, untouched. Belle's hips swayed with a come and get me invitation. Blayze was happy to oblige. He grabbed her around the waist from behind, his hands full of breasts and his manhood tucked against her bottom. A throbbing began in her womanhood as desire built. She kicked open the lounge door with a boot-clad foot, uncaring who was inside that might be hit.
Rolling over in bed and moaning, she continued to dream. Blayze had set her on the counter in the empty lounge area, then locked the door from inside. His big hands worked the tank top out of her waistband and lifted it over her head. Her breasts were bare, the nipples distended and begging for his mouth to claim them. Lowering his head, Blayze lavished them with a warm, wet tongue. He closed his lips and tugged. The sensation sent waves of need to her center, arousal dampening her curls.
Belle's hands went to his belt buckle, undoing it and the button beneath. She eased the zipper over his huge erection, careful not to catch skin in its teeth. Blayze growled against her plump breast, declaring how much he liked her touch. She shoved his jeans down his hips, releasing the hard member and giving her access to his perfect, boot scooting booty. Pulling him closer, between her spread legs, she grasped his hardness and rubbed it over her bare stomach. The tip had a droplet on it, and she used her thumb to smear it over the slit. His manhood quivered with pleasure. Bolder now, she stroked the silky length from base to tip over and over. His lips were on her ear, moving toward her neck.
A buzzing noise disturbed her briefly, but she was too involved in the dream to understand what it was. Blayze was panting and begging her to go faster, his hips moving with the rhythm of her hands. His head fell back, his lips having left his mark on her neck. He roared, and dragon fire burned a hole in the ceiling, and he lost control. His seed spilled over her hands and stomach, warm and sticky. She milked every last drop.
Gazing into his eyes, she deliberately licked her hands, letting him watch as she drank his essence. The embers left in his eyes burst forth in new flames, renewing his needs. He popped open the snap of her jeans and tugged down the zipper as if it offended him. His fingers slid into the gap, beneath the lace and silk covering her core. He found the nub and pinched it gently, then rolled it between his fingers. Belle raised her hips and wrestled out of her jeans. She spread her legs wide, inviting Blayze to play. He impaled her with his middle finger while his thumb continued caressing the sensitive nub. She pushed against his hand with her pelvis, asking for more. He added a finger and moved deeper and faster. She was panting and writhing with ecstasy.
The COM link buzzed again. The dream disappeared, and Belle was left throbbing and unsatisfied. She wanted to shatter the screen in a fit of rage, but she couldn't. She had delivered the tiny object from the hidden surgery center into the hands of a very discreet friend who had no love for the CIA director. She had been waiting for his findings when she had fallen asleep. Afraid he might see the leftover desire in her face or notice her embarrassment over the erotic dream, she blocked his view of her before answering.
"What was it? Was it a microchip as I suspected?" she asked.
"Good morning to you too, Belle. A greeting and a face would be nice. I hate looking at a blank screen," the man replied.
"You would hate seeing my matted hair and unwashed sleep face more," she retorted. "Give me the news. Tell me we have something that exonerates the weredragons."
"Yes and no. It's like a microchip, but much more. Put in the right spot of a person's brain, it could control their actions. It can be filled with information and send signals at specific prearranged times, receive brainwaves and act according to its design, perhaps inhibiting certain ideas or bringing them to light. If necessary, its programming can be overridden remotely, changing everything."
"Mind control," Belle stated bluntly. "Does it have any biologic attached?"
"
No, that's not possible. Besides, if it had, then you would be infected and so would I. Neither of us was careful when we handled it."
"What about the programming? Can you read it?" she probed.
"I'm still working on it. It's encoded. I'll let you know if I break it."
"You have to break it. Otherwise, the director is going to destroy the alliance and innocent weredragons."
"Are you certain the weredragons are innocent? Evidence seems to prove differently," the man replied.
"I'd bet my life on it," she replied. My heart too, she realized.
7
Blayze
The comradery that usually filled the helicopter: jokes, teasing, and stories of time spent having fun, were noticeably absent on the flight to the oil rig. Tension and anger took its place. Most of it emanated from Blayze, who was confused by his own feelings. He knew, deep down, that these men were his friends, and yet he did not trust them. For no obvious reason, he wanted to pick a fight, which would end with him burning them to ashes. It did not make sense, especially since every time he thought about using dragon fire, the pain in his head got worse.
The other men watched him warily, as if they could see inside his head or hear an unspoken threat to their lives. Blayze groaned as nausea overwhelmed him. The headache would not allow him to think straight. He felt a serious lack of control of his mind and body. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back and completely ignored the glares he was subject to.
Finally, he set foot on the rig, and the aching eased. This was familiar territory, and work would wash away the past month. Should he confide in these men about how he had spent the last four weeks? Would they consider him insane? He was beginning to. Had the kidnapping really happened or was it all in his mind? As time passed, it became less real. Sliding his fingers into his hair and touching the scar was all that held him together. He was not crazy.
He listened as the departing crew explained everything they had done and what was left for Blayze and his crew to perform. For the first time ever, they appeared hostile to him. Their grins became sneers in his mind and the excitement to be going home that he knew to be in their eyes became steely glares.
"Blayze, are you listening? The second level has a weak spot. We need you to repair it. You can overlay it with a metal grill. Just weld it into place so that it holds weight. Do it as soon as you've put your bag away. We ran out of time. See you soon, man. Have a good month."
The words registered slowly. He had duties to perform; that was what the man meant. He could do that. It was a simple enough task. Blayze dropped his duffel onto his cot without unpacking. What difference did it make if his clothes were a wrinkled mess? Life was different now and caring about appearances was so far down his list of priorities that it did not even exist.
The heavy metal grill, which took two human men to carry, was lifted in one hand by Blayze. No one cared or noticed. They had grown used to his extraordinary strength. Blayze noticed a difference. It was harder to carry than it would have been before. His muscle tone was less. He was weaker. It just made him angrier.
He found the weak spot and let the grill drop with a loud clank. He moved it around until it was in the correct position and readied himself to meld the metals together. He was looking forward to having an excuse to use dragon fire. He opened his mouth to summon his gift, and the searing pain in his head caused him to collapse. He rolled on top of the metal grill. It tore his shirt and scraped the skin off beneath it. Holding his head, he writhed on the deck. "It isn't time," he kept hearing in his mind.
He had no way to calculate how long the pain lasted; although it seemed like hours, it was probably only seconds. When it ended, he was drenched in sweat and bloody from the scrapes. It was finally clear to him. Dragon fire was forbidden unless the voice told him differently. Obediently, he went to a supply room for a portable welder. He never saw the shocked faces he passed or the gaping mouths when he returned with the welder.
Belle
Another call was coming in. This one from an unknown number. Belle was tempted to ignore it, but there was a slim chance it could be Blayze. She dropped her bag and answered, forgetting the camera had been disabled. It wasn't necessary. The perky voice was easily recognizable.
"Hi, is this Belle, the CIA lady? I'm Blayze's neighbor. Remember me?"
"Yes, I remember. Has he shown up? Is he okay?" she asked the blank screen.
"Yeah, he's here. He looks awful. His hair's too long. He has an ugly beard. His clothes are torn and stiff with sea salt and he wasn't even wearing shoes. I've seen cleaner homeless people. He was nasty. His personality sucked too. I was so nice and he just blew me off. Anyway, I promised to call, so I did."
"He hasn't said anything about where he's been? Would you know if he left?" Belle inquired.
"He didn't tell me anything at all, just shoved his hand up in my face and went inside his apartment. It's not like him to be so rude. He didn't even ask if I was okay or say he missed me. It was really strange. I'm still sort of mad at him. I guess I would hear if he left, unless he decided to fly from the roof. He does that sometimes, only it's usually dark when he does it. He's so afraid of scaring kids. I think they would see it as cool, not scary."
"If you hear him start to leave, can you distract him or at least convince him to wait for me? I'm coming right now."
"Not today, lady. He's not himself, and I don't like the person he is right now. He's putting off bad vibes, if you know what I mean. You're on your own this time. Sorry, got to go. Bye!"
Belle didn't take time to call for an official vehicle. She took a private transport. She needed to get to Blayze quickly, or the director would arrest him first. She was out of breath when she reached his floor. He didn't answer the buzzer or the pounding on his door. She found an access to the roof on the far end of the hallway.
He had been there. The weredragon's claws had scraped the rooftop, leaving marks. The access door to his apartment was still open. She climbed down in hopes that he had returned from a short flight. The apartment was empty. Drawers were open, spilling clothes onto the floor. The trash held the torn, stiff clothes his neighbor had described. She found a plastic bag to put them in. They might contain evidence, and she wanted to discover the clues before her superior had a chance. In the bathroom, she found another trash bin. This one was full of hair; scissors and a razor lay on the counter. He had cleaned himself up. She checked his COM link and found a recent incoming call. She ran the name through her registry access and learned that it belonged to a man in his crew. She surmised that he had returned to his job on the oil rig, though he had left in a big hurry.
She didn't call the rig. It would be better to make certain he was there, then take a CIA copter and talk to him in person. She took the bag of supposed evidence and left the same way she had entered, although she closed his access door, just in case the director had ideas of searching the apartment without a warrant. Not that there was anything incriminating to find.
All was quiet in the CIA building: too quiet for comfort. The hallways should be buzzing with theories and gossip considering the idea of a weredragon conspiracy. The director's door was closed; his glass-fronted office had the privacy screen activated. That was fine with Belle. She didn't want him to see her any more than he wanted to be seen. The only reason she had shown up in the building at all was to check her secured message site. Her friends knew not to leave messages on her home or personal COM link that had anything to do with this case. Instead, they had been told to leave all the covert knowledge on her secured message site, encrypted. No one, including the director, could get into the system, especially since they had no clue as to where to find it. Her superiors didn't even know it existed. It had been an exciting discovery when she received the office assignment. Whoever had been given the office before must have had reasons to hide things too. When the lock on the room had been set to her palm print, the one to the secured message site had changed as well. She had accidentally activated
it on her first day, made a new code, and added the requirement of an eye scan.
Belle took every possible precaution to avoid detection. She closed her door, locked it, enabled the privacy screen, disabled the security cameras, and swept the room for rogue listening devices and hidden cameras. On her wrist COM link, she entered a code; silently the wall screen moved backward and a new one slid out of the wall in front of it. She stepped close to let the beam it emitted to scan both of her eyes. It came to life. She placed a palm on the bottom center of the screen, activating the message display. There were several encrypted messages. Three codes later, she was able to read them.
The first displayed photos of the autopsy reports. In both cases residue, metallic in composition, had been found in the weredragons' throats; specifically in the part that generated dragon fire. The biologic was concentrated in the same area, although it had spread throughout the bodies as well. The weredragons never had a chance of surviving. The director's notes had been added. In his opinion, it was a suicide mission, much like the ones in ancient wars. He claimed the weredragons volunteered to die in order to destroy the humans.
It made no sense. Had the weredragons truly wished to kill humans they could have done so without the biologic. Dragon fire alone was enough, and they would have survived. Why target the small town? No one important lived there. The military group made slightly more sense, but not the villagers. She couldn't dispute the evidence. The biologic had come from the weredragons, without a doubt. Yet, she didn't believe they were behind the attacks. They didn't kill innocents. They had risked their lives to save an imprisoned human female on the Savra planet, given up their anonymity for the crashed spaceship, and even fought Earth's enemy, the Xycon, to save all humanity. Why harm them now? Why die in the process?
