by Sara King
At the same time, the dragon tensed, his hands becoming like vices against her scalp, but continued to hold her brow to his. All around the room, Imelda heard nothing but silence and the buzz of the football game. She realized, ashamedly, that she had just made a pact with one of the things they hunted, in full view of the entire room. When she tried to inch her head this way or that, however, the dragon continued to hold her in a grip that may well have been forged of wrought iron. Steeling herself, she said, “Um, dragon?”
The dragon acted as if he hadn’t heard. She felt his breath, deep and even, on her face, almost as in sleep. His hold on her head, however, remained immobile.
This is not good, Imelda thought, as the dragon started to purr—purr—above her. She tried to pull out of his grasp, then, but the sudden infernal snarl that followed made her freeze. It was deep and predatory, and triggered every ancestral prey-instinct she had, making her heart start booming like a cannon in her ears. It was everything she could do not to twist and attempt to run. He could rip my head off and eat it, Imelda thought, suddenly all-too-aware of the big hands against her ears, the way his body waxed serpentine when he started to lose his hold on his form, and follow it down with a cow.
Still, as the minutes dragged on and the plays on the television came and went and still he stood there, his forehead pressed to hers, eyes closed, a little smile on his face, holding her skull in a death-grip, Imelda cleared her throat as loudly as she dared.
The dragon jerked and his eyes flashed open, the diamond pupils focusing on her, looking disoriented and startled.
“So?” Imelda asked. “Are you done?”
Very slowly, he lifted his brow from hers, his mouth half-open, staring at her in apparent shock.
“Well?” she demanded.
The dragon cleared his throat and seemed to collect himself. “The accord was made.”
“Okay,” Imelda said. “You can let go of me now.”
She saw the dragon’s lip twitch in a barely-concealed snarl, but he released her. Imelda backed up to stand beside the unicorn, who had watched the entire development from just out of reach.
“My name is Savaxian.”
“Imelda,” she replied.
“I have a house in Eagle River,” the dragon said, reluctantly. “Would you…like…to go there?” The way it sounded to Imelda, Savaxian had to force out each word, and it was grating upon him to have to ask.
Imelda smiled at the strain in his voice. “Sounds wonderful. Is my mount free to follow?”
The dragon grunted. “I don’t have a goddamn barn, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Imelda glanced at the unicorn. “Tim?”
“A rug by the fire would be just fine,” the unicorn replied.
Savaxian twitched, and for a moment, his eyes narrowed on the unicorn. “He’s your mount.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Imelda crossed her arms, lifting a brow. “That a problem?”
The dragon was gritting his teeth when he managed, “Not. A problem.” The words were obviously wrenched out of him with the same enthusiasm as extracting a molar.
“You did tell me you would not molest him,” Imelda reminded the dragon. “If that’s too much to ask, then we can always renego—”
“I gave my word,” the dragon snapped. “The pony can stay, as long as he doesn’t get in my way. He gets underfoot, I’ll dump him off to the peahen.”
“Sounds fair,” Imelda agreed, smiling at the idea of a dragon willingly giving up hold on a unicorn.
The dragon gave her a narrow look. “What’s funny?”
“Oh nothing,” Imelda said. “I’m sure someday you’ll figure it out.”
In the background, Thunderbird had raised his fist and was pumping it in the air, screaming, “Go, go, go you fat fuck go!” when suddenly the sound of the ecstatic newscaster was suddenly cut short with a strange static fuzz and, “We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to bring you breaking news from Alaska.”
Imelda raised an eyebrow and turned to glance at the television. The screen had switched to a man standing on what looked like a ruined street of downtown Wasilla. Everyone in the room cocked their heads at the screen, and beside her, Thunderbird lowered his hands, blinking, and said, “Is that a Wal-Mart?”
“I’m standing in the center of what used to be downtown Wasilla. Not hours ago, this booming Alaskan town was enjoying another slow, quiet winter day in Southcentral Alaska when it was assaulted by two strange, winged beings…what many residents here describe as ‘angels’.”
Suddenly, every head in the room was turned, and absolute silence descended on the hall as the camera panned across the devastation. “Holy fuck,” the young Father Drasco said.
“People are still trying to comprehend what happened here, but from what we’ve managed to gather, two winged beings carrying swords fell from the sky about four hours ago and began wreaking havoc upon this small town and its startled inhabitants. US Air Force and Army personnel were dispatched to the scene, and at least three jets went down in the mayhem that followed. We have confirmed there were at least eighty deaths, mostly from collapsed buildings and shrapnel, though we have not yet managed to get all the details. Army Lieutenant Earl Keller was a witness at the scene, and says he spoke with one of the beings directly.”
The scene cut to a blond, square-faced man wearing blue and white Army snow-gear. “Lieutenant Keller, what did you see?”
“She was an angel,” the man said. “Big glowy wings, really tall, and carried a sword that shone like heaven.”
“You said she spoke to you?”
“Had an Arabic accent. Said she was fighting her fallen sister, and she was wounded and needed a ride to Anchorage to stop her.”
“Fallen…as in fallen angel, Lieutenant?”
“Can you think of something else that can do this?” He gestured with a gloved hand at the destruction behind him. “It’s Armageddon. The angels are at war. Just look at the news. It’s happening, people. Get your families and get inside. The time of Judgment has—”
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have more urgent news. Apparently, the two unidentified beings dropped onto the airfields of Elmendorf Air Force Base and one of them killed the other. Yes, it appears one of the creatures is dead.” Then a pause. “Oh. Oh my God. Folks, we have footage you’re not going to believe. One of the witnesses videoed the battle with his cell phone. Keep in mind that the following is entirely unedited, exactly what he filmed of the fight.”
Suddenly the scene shifted to a grainy picture of a ruined runway, two creatures at a distance on the crushed tarmac, swords in their hands, radiant wings unfurled. Then one of them grew larger, more brilliant, while the other suddenly shifted downward, to human form. Though it was too fast to make out what happened next on the coarse footage, the smaller one seemed to wrench the sword from the larger and, in an unmistakable twist, cut off the larger one’s head. There were several blurry hacks and what looked like body parts being flung aside, and then the humanoid one collapsed onto the tarmac.
Both mortally wounded? Imelda thought.
But then a new shape was forming, a wispy, ethereal image that was barely visible on camera. Around it, more shapes appeared, and while they were almost impossible to make out, they were unmistakably tall and winged.
Everyone in the room watched in hushed silence at the scene that followed, as one of the shapes took to the air and was ripped apart by what looked like large winged dogs—yet utterly, light-eating black.
Hellhounds, Imelda thought, horrified.
And then a new figure was joining the only solid shape on the tarmac, gesturing for her to get to her feet. He was as thoroughly solid as the survivor, if not more so, and his entire body gave off a gentle glow. He wore what looked like Roman armor and his wingtips, unlike the solid white of the rest of the ethereal gathering, were jet black.
Is that the Lord of War? Imelda thought, her breath catching.
It looked like he engaged the s
urvivor in conversation, then drew a glowing crimson sword from over his shoulder.
“Oh fuck me,” the wereverine cried, from where he had entered the cafeteria to watch on one of his trips ferrying out survivors. “That’s the Sword of War!”
“No doubt,” Thunderbird said. The rain god seemed riveted to the television.
“Which one survived?!” the djinni’s voice cried, as he pushed his way passed the stunned onlookers, into the cafeteria. “Which one lives?!”
“It was too distant to tell,” Imelda said. “But I believe the smaller one.”
The djinni shoved his way through and got up close to the television, peering at the grainy image on the screen with desperation in his face.
As they watched, the Roman-clad Fury handed over the blade.
Every immortal in the room hissed. “Did he just do what I think he did?” Thunderbird asked softly.
Then Lord of War turned and departed, and the entire gathering of angels began to dissolve like smoke on the wind, leaving their view of the survivor unobscured.
“It’s her!” the djinni screamed. He slammed a big finger into the television, damaging the LCD screen. “Where is that?! Where is she?”
“You broke the TV!” Thunderbird cried in dismay. “Move out of the way, you mountainous lout.” He shoved the djinni aside and started massaging the LCD screen. Imelda saw the little crackle of energy under his fingertips.
The djinni put his fist through the screen, making it go dead. “Where?!”
“Elmendorf Air Force Base,” Imelda said, as Thunderbird slowly lowered his hands from the now-dark screen. “Right outside Anchorage.”
The big black man turned on the dragon. “You. Dragon. You will take me there.”
“And get caught up in that shit?” Savaxian demanded. “Dream on, djinni.”
“You will take him,” Thunderbird said, turning from the ruined television to face the dragon, “as penance.”
For a long time, Savaxian merely scowled at the rain god. Then, muttering, he said to Imelda, “I’ll be right back.” He jammed a finger at the unicorn. “You! Naked femboy! Watch my stuff.” He shoved the bags and duffels at the unicorn’s feet, then turned and led the djinni out of the compound.
Tim glanced down at the duffels the dragon had shoved at him. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Burn it,” Thunderbird said.
Imelda sighed and went and sat down beside the duffels, pulling them to her feet. She supposed if she were to start things off on the right foot with the dragon, she might as well start by protecting his hoard.
Chapter 25: A Final Wish
‘Aqrab clung to Savaxian’s neck as the snow-covered ground passed beneath them. Like about half the nights in this dark-cursed place, tonight the clouds were low to the ground, blotting out even the moonlight. The only light they did have was that which was reflected off of the pavement of the Glenn Highway from the lightposts running its length, turning the cloudcover directly above them orange.
“I just want you to know,” the dragon muttered, as they sailed closer through the darkness, “that I despise this kind of exposure.”
“You’ll live with it,” ‘Aqrab said distractedly. “Where is Elmendorf?”
“We have another thirty minutes,” the dragon muttered. “We just hit the highway.”
Thirty minutes. ‘Aqrab fought down a groan of despair. “Can’t you fly any faster? We’re barely keeping up with the carts-of-steel below.”
“The cars are not running on last night’s moose-haunch,” the dragon muttered beneath him. “You keep complaining and I’ll have to land and make you hitch a ride. Hell, I should make you do that anyway, for ratting me out.”
“Swindling him into agreeing to pack your loot back to your cave for you was too much,” ‘Aqrab said. “I was going to hold my tongue right up until I saw you fitting him for a carrying harness.” ‘Aqrab thought he saw a flash in the cloudcover above them, but then frowned when it did not come again.
“He offered!” Savaxian cried. “All I did was accept his gracious offer.”
“And all I did was reset the status quo,” ‘Aqrab said. “Now your conscience is clean.”
“You owe me a wish,” the dragon muttered. “I still can’t return to my cave.”
“Consider it a lesson.”
“How about I dump you on your ass, djinni, and we’ll just call that a less—”
Something radiant and all-too-fast dropped out of the sky in a startling arc out of the clouds above them, knocking ‘Aqrab completely off of the dragon’s neck in a blast of glowing feathers.
“Mon Dhiiiiib!” ‘Aqrab screamed, with nothing between him and the ground but his magus’s tiny arms. He tried not to hyperventilate as she started pumping her wings skyward, back into the clouds, three times as fast as the dragon’s slow wingbeats. “Where are you taking us?!”
“Away,” Kaashifah laughed, blotted from view by the fog. “Where would you like to go? Pick your place, djinni. You still have one last wish to fulfill.”
He did? ‘Aqrab frowned, thinking back, counting wishes in his head. “No, mon Dhi’b,” he said eventually, “I’m pretty sure I have granted all outstanding wi—” Then it dawned on him. The breathtaking vulnerability in her eyes, her body trembling beneath him on the cold stone floor of the dragon’s lair. “Please, ‘Aqrab. Show me.”
“Oh,” he chuckled nervously as her wingbeats lit up the vapor of the clouds around him. “Ah… The fight went well, then?”
“She died. I mourned. We knew it was coming. I moved on. Where do you want to go?”
Feeling her wings pounding the frigid air around him, ‘Aqrab felt himself grin slowly. “Somewhere warm.”
“Florida? Bahamas?”
“Actually,” ‘Aqrab said, “I have a place in mind, but it will take a wish.”
“I’m out of wishes.”
‘Aqrab smiled, a little flame of happiness working through his soul. As they broke through the clouds and the moonlight hit them from above, he summoned his ties to the Fourth Lands and said, “I, Yad al-‘Aqrab, sand-singer of the Scorpion clan, hereby grant you a wish.”
He could hear her grinning behind him when she said, “I wish you would take us to that place you’ve got in mind and make love to me until we are both too tired to move.”
‘Aqrab’s eyes widened even as the Law boomed into his mind, How would you fulfill this wish?
