They walked a couple of streets and entered an alley that seemed to lead to a main road. “We’ll hail a cab.”
Kseniya needed to pace herself, and he wouldn’t make her walk all the way to Hackney, where The Dungeon was located. Personally, he could take on the eighteen or so miles there, high-strung as he was, but not her. She might protest, but he drew a line at that. Using his senses, he closed his eyes to locate the nearest cab. He knew the sound of their engines, could tell them apart from other cars.
Fifty feet or so, first street to the left.
He led them in that direction, and soon, they filed into a taxi parked near the corner. The driver was eating a balti, and the vehicle stank to the high heavens with pungent fenugreek and other spices. He didn’t look too happy that they’d cut into his break. Tough luck, big guy.
Djibril gave him the club’s address and settled in for the ride. With the traffic, it took them thirty minutes. Thirty minutes of holding down the nausea and desire to vomit with the overwhelming stink. Sometimes, it sucked to be a dragon. Strange how Kseniya didn’t seem to have the same problem. Could it be ice dragons didn’t have such a powerful sense of smell?
“Nathan, this should be an in and out situation,” he told the tall Valthrean. The man really did have the stance of a soldier. “Can you stay here and make sure the cab doesn’t leave?”
He didn’t trust the fishy guy to stay if he gave him money, and they needed to keep a fast way out of there without them having to use glamor. It would take too much energy out of Kseniya.
His phone rang in his pocket.
“My number,” the immortal said. Call if you need, were the unspoken words.
Djibril nodded. “Thanks. You should stay, too,” he said weakly as Kseniya stood next to him, already knowing her answer.
“Let’s go,” she said with a shrug.
No use fighting.
Hanging on to their glamor, which they’d put on the moment they’d left the museum, they added a layer of charm to finagle past the savage-looking security guard standing by the black iron double doors.
Inside, the cloying atmosphere assaulted his senses. Had any of these people taken a shower any time in the past year? Peeling black walls, grimy couches, hints of glass and metal—he’d have described the place as ‘hardcore grunge meets landfill.’ The rejects of society scattered with their alcohol and groupies around the place, occupying everything from the dated black velvet sofas to the steel and leather barstools, and anything in between. Heavy metal music blasted from the speakers—none from any artist he’d recognize, such as Metallica or Ozzy. This was really heavy stuff he didn’t much listen to and couldn’t pinpoint. The devilish, screeching riffs and tunes did fit the atmosphere, though.
A young man at a glass table to his left busied himself cutting cocaine lines in full view, a small party of hangers-on eagerly waiting around him for their turn. One woman sat forward with her legs open, wearing a leather sash that passed for a skirt and a leather string for underwear. Not much different from some high society parties, this sight.
Rolling her eyes, Kseniya sauntered to the bar area.
“Hi,” she said seductively to the bartender—a five-footed cross between Pee-wee Herman and Gene Simmons. Although he had no mustache, he did have a plaited beard that reached to his belt. A shock of black hair surrounded his face and fell over fleshy shoulders. Djibril wondered if the man owned a comb, except maybe for his beard.
The guy looked suspiciously at the two of them who were dressed more like preppy college grads than some roughed up—not showered—version of the Lost Boys. They stood out like a prostitute in a convent. From the look Kseniya was giving him, she thought the same.
“I’ll cut through the chase,” she said. “A bunch of friends and us are planning to, em, celebrate graduation soon, and we want to do something … different.”
“Oh, yeah?” The bartender’s voice boomed, attracting attention from those sitting close by.
“A friend told me to come here. That there’s someone who can hook us up with a few … things. Could you let us know who to talk to?”
“Have no idea what you’re talking about. Now scram, unless you’re buying a drink.” He started rubbing down the counter with a cloth that had seen better days.
Kseniya slapped two crisp hundred Pound bills under his nose. He froze. “I’ll make it worth your while. I’ll triple that if you show me who Vadim Damian is. A friend highly recommended him. You don’t have to take us to him. Just let us know where he is. We’ll talk to him.”
He looked at them like they’d swam across the English Channel naked in January and had come to him to complain of a chill. Like they were batshit crazy. And they were.
But then, his eyes were drawn to the cash, and his expression changed. After a long pause, he spoke.
“At the far end, by the men’s toilets. He’s got two women sitting on his lap and a pentagram tattooed on the right side of his neck. He likes to paint his nails black, too, the fucking wimp.” He grabbed the money and stuffed it in his pocket. “But I never told you anything.”
Kseniya slipped more money into his hands, and they both turned around to scan the dark area. Strobe lights would impair anyone’s vision, but not that of a dragon.
It didn’t take long to find what they were looking for, the reek of piss drawing them to the location of the rest rooms. The guy looked half-way out of it. Lord knew what he’d already swallowed, snorted, or injected tonight.
“Give me a moment,” Kseniya said. “Need to go to the ladies’ room. Stay put.”
“Be careful,” he said helplessly, but she was already gone. Now he felt like Ash, and his father the king, too, who didn’t have a chance in Hell when Mom set her mind on something.
A few uncomfortable minutes later, Kseniya materialized. She’d cut her jeans in strategic places, showing generous amounts of skin, particularly at the hips and butt areas. Her tank top was slashed in vertical strips, her lacy bra completely visible, and with it, half of her boobs. She’d also done her face with dark red lipstick and black eyeliner. Glamor, of course. She didn’t have a makeup bag with her.
A certain anatomical part of him jumped with joy at the sight of her trashy getup. Another part, the upper brain, had a bad feeling about this. She held on to her jacket, hooking a finger under the collar, and winked.
“Give me five and meet me at the alley out back. The secondary exit is right there.” She pointed to a door not far from where Damian was sitting.
“I’m not leaving you alone.”
“I’m not alone.” She sighed. “If I don’t show up as agreed, feel free to come in and raise hell.”
She had another think coming if she thought he’d acquiesce meekly. “I won’t go out back. I’ll get a drink and hang by the door.”
“Suit yourself.”
She sauntered away with an enticing runway walk, fluffing up her hair as she went. Stopping where Damian sat, she smiled and slowly licked her lips at him, then spoke. Whatever she said, he must have liked because in moments, he booted his two females from his lap and pulled her on him in their stead.
It took every ounce of willpower in him to stop himself from going there and choking the weasel to death. When she leaned to whisper something in his ear, her hand lazily tracing down his chest while she wiggled her hips as if giving him a lap dance, he let out an inner scream to drown the blind thirst for vengeance. Never had he wished to bring forth his dragon more than this moment.
But he was also a civilized man who didn’t believe in violence. Except the thought of ripping a man’s flesh to shreds and throw the tiny pieces on a hibachi grill sounded like a good idea right about now. Because said man was touching her, his hands on her ass …
Easing herself from his lap, she pulled Damian up and dragged him with her out the back exit. Djibril didn’t miss the self-serving smirk she threw his way as she walked past him.
Counting to ten, he followed them to the narrow alley ou
tside, to find her pressing their quarry against a wall, his hands bound in cufflinks. Damian’s heavy black eyeliner was running down his cheeks, bringing out a zombie-like complexion. The stench of garbage was on a whole other level here. In the far distance, two men in long leather coats seemed engrossed in conversation. Something about them had the skin prickle on the back of his neck.
“Round the corner to the car,” she said, looking back at the pair, too. “We need to go all the way around the block. Quick.”
Grabbing her prisoner from the cuff of his jacket, she urged him forward, ignoring his protests.
“Bitch, what the fuck you think you’re doing?”
“Shut up, asshole. We got business with you,” she spat.
But they only managed another couple of steps before more men showed up, blocking the other side of the alley.
Two other men in long black leather coats. Two big guns pointed at them. Djibril looked behind them. The first two now stood facing them, their weapons drawn, too. They were practically surrounded. Two high walls with no low windows, except a couple of small ones on the second floor and up, and then these guys, blocking the two avenues of escape.
They could go back through the club and—
Just then, the door opened, and another guy came out.
“They’re out here,” he spoke into a mic attached to his lapel as he went to stand by his buddies.
His words meant there was no way out for them except past this strange team of people. No tactical outfits here—they appeared more like characters out of The Matrix universe, dressed in all black.
“Shit,” Kseniya whispered.
Djibril studied the walls and the cracks and nooks in the bricks. He smelled the air. These weren’t dragons or any other supernatural creatures. They were humans, playing the sick game they’d signed up for. Who had put them up to it? And why?
He stood in the middle of the alley, mentally calculating the distance between him and the closest son of a bitch. The most important thing was keeping Kseniya out of their line of fire.
“Stand by the door and put him in front of you,” he told her, side-eyeing Damian.
“But—”
“Don’t argue. Trust me,” he said. “Just this once.”
She swallowed and nodded. “You wanna be a sexist pig, Macho Guy,” she muttered.
“We’ll discuss your insult later, after a good spanking,” he scoffed. “I’m busy, and you’re wounded and healing, hardhead.”
“Why, you—”
A pounding sounded at the door, and from the corner of his eye, he saw it shake, pushing outward and taking Kseniya and Vadim with it. If it opened completely, she’d be exposed.
“Your Highness!” Nathan’s voice came through.
Scuttling to the side, Kseniya let him out. Reaching into her boot with her free arm, she produced a small gun and aimed it at the men, fending them off.
“All clear inside,” Nathan said—he was getting used to this talking business. He held two semi-automatics in his hands. When a man to his right stirred, he shot him clear in the forehead.
“Keep the dudes behind me at bay and stick to the side, by the door,” he told Nathan. “Make sure they’re safe.”
He couldn’t risk Kseniya going inside the club. The people there were no friends of theirs, and they’d stick for Damian.
“So, who wants to shoot first?” he taunted, sizing up the wannabe Merovingian henchman, one of the Twins in the Matrix movie, standing upfront. He had that vampire’s complexion and grey dreads, but missed the sunglasses. Bruce Willis, the guy next to him, grunted.
Djibril took a horse stance—the cadeira in capoeira—readying for battle.
After a short look at each other, they opened fire, but he had already taken off with whirlwind dragon speed, going high and bouncing off one wall, rather than the ground, for an improvised version of aú sem mao, an aerial cartwheel followed by a hard butterfly kick.
This move landed his heavy boot smack into a man’s jaw before he could even take half a breath or start to pull the trigger. A distinct crack sounded when his face crumbled with the pressure, followed by the rest of his body.
Still in the air, he swiveled gracefully and got the second one in the neck with his heel. The man howled in pain and fell on top of his gun.
To do his moves properly, he needed a wide space for fancy ginga footwork, but he didn’t have that luxury right now. Such strict form would not be effective against guns, anyway. He had to be faster than the bullets, while blending some martial arts moves he’d learned in his youth with his chosen one.
His dragon senses registered two more men rounding the bend seconds before they were visible. Jumping toward them before they had the chance to aim their weapons, he rotated his body and caught both of them with a supersonic kick to the chin.
Several shots rent the air, seeming to come from different directions, then a scream. Kiki! He turned to find the last two men down, Nathan’s guns still smoking from the shots.
She pointed up to a window, her small gun aimed at the second floor one on the other side of her. “He shot from there. I think I got him, but I was too late. I was too slow …”
One of the worst things to befall a dragon was to lose their speed and reflexes, even while in human form. Had to be the same for a seasoned assassin, too.
A look of desperation settled on her face as she crouched down, wincing, and released Damian from his handcuffs. Blood seeped through his T-shirt, an ever-widening stain. Djibril rushed to them and knelt in front of her. Nathan leaned on the wall a few steps away, keeping watch for more attacks.
“Vadim … wake up. Vadim, come on, you fucking prick!” She shook him hard—harder than she should.
“Easy, Kiki.”
“He’s fading, Gabe. … Vadim, we’re here because we need you to save your daughter.”
This made no sense. A Phoenix couldn’t lose his life like this, could he? That was why Damian abused so many drugs. He’d figured out he couldn’t die. And he was still young, too—too early for him to go, as far as standard Phoenix life expectancy was concerned.
What was going on, then? What had been in that bullet that had struck him?
“Special bullets,” Kseniya said, once more reading his mind. “They knew what they were doing.”
Damian’s eyes fluttered open, a faint light shining in them, but not strong enough. “D—d… wha … huh?”
A million questions zipped through those eyes, now brighter—the eyes of a budding Phoenix. And still, the man had no idea of who he really was.
“We must do something.” She paused and looked into Damian’s eyes, then turned briefly to him. “Gabe, thanks. That stuff you did moments ago. That was amazing. Totally kickass.”
A lopsided smile softened the worried lines on her face, but only for a handful of seconds. She shifted on the balls of her feet, as if tired, and grimaced again. Her wound.
Getting close to her, he helped her into a more comfortable position and coaxed her to lean against his chest. She checked Damian’s pulse, then put her hand on his chest.
As she closed her eyes and mumbled some gibberish that sounded like a stilted staccato with no sense nor rhyme, Damian’s eyes glowed like lightbulbs, then, suddenly, the light flickered.
Kseniya took in a huge breath, the gasp of air audible.
“Oh my God, Gabe, he’s going. I can feel his breaths get shallow. His pulse is weak. He’s dying! What are we going to do? Adri …”
“Nathan,” Djibril said. “The cab.”
“He’s not going anywhere.”
More words. Impressive.
“Can you check, and maybe bring him closer to the side, just round here from the alley?”
Sliding his guns in a holster under his jacket, he nodded and left.
Damian’s eyes darkened then, and his head lolled to the side.
“No! He can’t die. Adri … what are we going to tell Adri?”
He kissed her temple,
sensing the tears of despair flowing out of her eyes, the vulnerability in her tone. He frowned as his nose picked up a strange scent. He’d never smelled it before, and it reminded him of something old, elemental. Like the smell of spent firecrackers, but with less potency. Charcoal, then acrid and sour notes, with a faint reek of piss, like ammonia. What the hell …
Nathan had barely disappeared from view when Kseniya started to tremble suddenly in his arms. Gently at first, then more violently. She screamed out in pain, arching her back away from him.
Panic mode took over. Moving to her front, he held her by the arms. She shut her eyes tight, her teeth gritted and face a mask of pain. Her body felt like a block of ice, and it took superhuman effort to keep holding on to her.
Hand pressing into Damian’s chest like a crane’s vise closing on a pile of limestone, she screamed out again, her voice hoarse and drained. She threw her head back and then, just like that, she passed out.
“What’s going on? Kiki, stay with me. Stay with me! Fucking hell, you hear me? Stay with me!”
But no response came. She was gone.
8
Burning. Pain. Fire eating at her from inside.
As the hurt combusted from every cell in her body, Kseniya screamed, but no sound came out of her mouth. It felt like she were underwater, or swaddled in cotton wool. Everything appeared muffled around her.
She’d been fine just seconds ago. But as soon as she’d finished speaking out the words of The Kindling spell, a burst of power of extreme magnitude had shocked through Vadim’s body, and then into hers, too, because she’d still had her hand on his chest. That’s when the burning had started. Like the potency of his Phoenix fire taking over her.
But this couldn’t be. They were different species—there shouldn’t be any crossover of energies between them. What the hell was happening?
Sirens and Scales Page 278
