Dragonfire: Freedom in Flames (Secrets of the Makai Book 3)

by Toni Kerr

  I don’t have any plans. May as well see what they knew.

  You intend to free the beings from the safety of their stones.

  Dang. They did know. Tristan figured out which light was speaking and squared his shoulders to it. Shouldn’t they be given the chance to survive on their own?

  The orb of light hovered closer. Their only chance for survival is to remain hidden in safety.

  But they’ll never be free, interrupted Tristan. What kind of life is that?

  Look at how the humans have treated you. The world can’t handle magical creatures. Even your human allies are forced to remain in hiding.

  They only hide their abilities.

  The faeries won’t have that option. If they are seen, they will be captured and annihilated in the name of science.

  They should be free to make that choice.

  Free to be slaughtered? They won’t have numbers on their side, or warriors, or strategist. They won’t know anything about the current technologies.

  I do understand your point, Tristan conceded. But what if I change into a dragon and I forget all of you, along with this stupid contract, and I start eating the friends who are only trying to help me, by taming me into some overgrown pet?

  So be it. If you are unable to free the races, they will simply remain in safekeeping. As for your allies, the fewer people who know about the contract the better. Clearly, you are not seeing the bigger picture.

  But, you’re not giving me any information. The Earth is getting worse! Maybe it’s not ideal for the races, but the flowers Pink needs to reproduce might not even exist anymore. What condition will the Earth be a thousand years from now, and what chance will Pink’s race have then? Tristan sucked in a breath as the orbs of bright light dimmed, becoming a line of tall, pale dragons and half a dozen people. Almost like a court setting.

  This little clone of a creature you speak of has no relevance to the contract. The environmental infrastructure of the Earth is the result of human negligence; the humans won’t survive long in the conditions they’ve created.

  I agree we’re terrible keepers of the world, but—

  You are not one of them. The sooner you see that….

  You wouldn’t let him be one of us, called a distant voice. Tristan spotted a middle-aged man bound to a post by some sort of cord, glowing with a greenish essence.

  Jacques?

  The man grinned before the power of the cord expanded to cover his head.

  You were supposed to free him, Tristan shouted, turning back to the human figure who had been speaking. I had a deal with Molajah!

  Molajah is no longer part of this discussion.

  If you don’t free him, I’ll release every creature from every gem I can get my hands on.

  Do not be so juvenile. How long will a few little fish survive in a sea of hungry sharks? You will be the cause of their extinctions, and that will disgrace all of us.

  Maybe they’re stronger than that. Maybe the thought of one more day in captivity is killing them. Maybe—

  The terms of this contract are not up for negotiation.

  But what if the Earth continues to deteriorate, and it’s because the magical races are being held prisoner? What if this stupid contract is disrupting the natural balance of—

  You know nothing of the wars and politics that brought this contract into being, and you would do well to keep your personal wants and needs out of your decision-making process.

  Tristan took in the silent spectators. Were they as divided as Molajah implied? You’re right. I don’t know what was going on when this contract was made. But tell me this—what happens if I break the contract?

  Breaking the contract will undo the oath that binds us to protect the races.

  But what will happen to all of you?

  We will be…free of this responsibility. To some, the oath is a burden. To others, it is an honor to uphold.

  But free…free to live? Free to die? What does that mean exactly?

  No one can say for sure.

  Will your souls be free to move on to wherever they would have gone after a normal lifespan, or will they be condemned because they failed to move on when they should have?

  As I said before—

  But since you don’t know what will happen, isn’t that a good reason for me to keep the races held in captivity, so you can keep living the way you are? What else did Molajah say about the council’s motives? You are trading the lives of others so you can live longer. How does that not disgrace the honor of dragons?

  You risk charges of High Treason, deliberately ignoring the laws of our people—

  I don’t care! Tristan let the surging energy fuel the frustration that had festered for the past year. No one seems willing to tell me what the laws are, and for all I know, I’m the only one left who can make a difference! If I wasn’t, I’m sure you’d all be happy to tell me there are a thousand other dragons more capable of doing the same job.

  Obviously we’ve had difficulties in finding a means to communicate with you. However, we have upheld this contract for thousands of years and we aren’t about to permit a youngling’s impulsive conduct undo everything we have built. It is the purpose of this council to make decisions of this manner, and you must follow our lead.

  To what end? said Tristan. I’ll bet you’ve been sabotaging every living dragon in hopes this day would never come, so you could live forever in this.… Tristan took another look around, finding the lack of walls or sky or ceiling unsettling. You’re afraid of what the next life holds for you, so how can you say I’m making an emotional decision, when you have so much more to lose if I follow through? From what I understand, dragons were never immortal until this contract came along.

  We will not stand by while the runt of the litter accuses us of such things.

  I don’t care if I’m the weakest, runtiest dragon that ever existed, but I keep getting the feeling you wanted it that way! Tristan shouted, long past the concern of offending anyone. What could they do to him anyway? In this realm, he could lash out and speak his mind for a change. You didn’t want me to be a real dragon, doing whatever dragons do. You just wanted me to breathe, so the contract would know there were still dragons in existence. Is that all you need me for? Was Jacques supposed to keep me alive, and nothing more?

  You know nothing of Jacques’ role.

  Then why is he being held prisoner? Is it because I was more successful than what you expected, and suddenly there’s an actual chance the dragons could fulfill whatever this agreement is, and you all could move on to wherever you’re supposed to be? Oh, that’s right, you don’t know what comes after this life— The instant he said it, he remembered the shrub’s words: wise or foolish.

  An immature tantrum or not, it was too late to take anything back; the room erupted in a chaos of colors and brightness as the spectators began fighting. Jacques struggled against the power binding him to a pillar. Tristan rushed toward the man, just as a burning sensation slashed him in half.

  Tristan battled for a breath that wouldn’t come in the dark passage at the top of the stairs, while his thoughts attempted to untangle what happened. A buzzing noise hovered above him, then faded as he slid to the floor, grateful for a wall rather than falling backward down the stairs.

  “What are you doing up here?”

  Tristan blinked at a broad-shouldered, bald man standing over him, recognizing the tribal tattoos covering his muscular arms and neck. He still couldn’t catch his breath and coughed up a mouthful of thick blood.

  The man stepped back in response. “I’ll get the doctor. Or Donovan.”

  Chills shivered through Tristan’s body, yet he couldn’t move. The air crushed him against the stone with a force ten times the strength of gravity—or so it seemed.

  Banging footsteps echoed from the stairway and Pink hovered in front of him.

  “Tristan!” Victor almost helped him get to his feet, then stepped back.

  Tristan couldn’t speak.
A breeze blew through the hall, coming from the front entrance, as Donovan rounded the corner. Behind him, four ghosts followed. Tristan’s eyes widen and he tried to sit taller. Maybe if he could get to the stairs….

  “Tell me what happened.” Donovan lifted Tristan’s chin to force eye contact.

  “He transported himself up from the bottom,” said Landon. “Victor and I had to stick to the stairs, so we weren’t here.”

  Tristan tore his eyes from Donovan and studied the ghosts again. They were huddled so close together, he couldn’t determine who was wearing what. They were still trying to tell him something, but again, there didn’t seem to be any sound.

  Donovan glanced over his shoulder, but had no reaction to the uninvited company.

  “They came back, the mist people,” said Pink, diving for the safety of Landon’s hair.

  “Mist people, as in, ghosts?” Donovan drew his sword and faced the open hall for a brief second. “Did they do this? Take him back downstairs and warn Samara—”

  “No.” Tristan clenched his teeth.

  “Start talking,” Donovan ordered, then spun to face the ghosts with the tip of his sword, oddly accurate considering he couldn’t see them.

  The group of ghosts responded by sitting against the opposite wall.

  Pink darted from Landon’s hair to Donovan’s shoulder. “They are sitting.”

  “Odd.” Donovan took a step forward. He glanced back at Tristan. “You’re bleeding. Did they attack you?”

  Tristan opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. One of the ghosts inched forward while Donovan’s back was turned; Tristan flinched away from a reaching hand.

  “Are you a threat or not?” Donovan said, getting angrier by the second. He put his attention back on the ghosts. They shook their heads and Pink relayed the movement.

  “The lights. The council,” Tristan finally managed. “Fight broke out.”

  Donovan’s sword disappeared and he pulled Tristan forward from the wall. “Three long gashes. If you weren’t immortal, I’d say this would be a fatal hit. Can you feel this?”

  Tristan squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden stab of pain in his bad shoulder.

  “This?”

  He grunted as both ankles were tested. The numbness around his back seemed to be retreating and every movement stretched and pulled at whatever wounds he had.

  “Obviously your back was turned to your attacker,” Donovan said angrily. “So let me guess. You were running away at the time?”

  “Jacques. I was trying to get to Jacques.”

  Donovan sighed. “So, you transported yourself upstairs and got pulled to the council, and…?”

  “I may have said some things…. Jacques is still alive. Don’t know about Molajah. Fighting….” Tristan felt his eyelids droop, then jerked awake when the temperature around him dropped a few degrees. “You know, I’ve never been actually hurt while there with the lights,” Tristan whispered. “I still need to see Dorian.”

  Donovan didn’t move. Landon and Victor moved closer, staring at the wall above his head.

  Whatever power he possessed that allowed him to heal was becoming more noticeable, making the skin on his back itch like crazy. It was also using the last of his strength.

  “Looks Russian,” Donovan said.

  Tristan glanced up at the smeared symbols forming on the wall, smudged in a streak of his own blood. He reached for his staff and got to his hands and knees, his back finally healed enough to move.

  “Come on, Tristan. Let’s have Madam Galina look you over.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Tristan accepted Victor’s hand to help him up and faced the writing on the wall:

  “It says, ‘Friend,’” said Donovan.

  Tristan eyed the ghosts who remained sitting against the opposite wall, leaving a hand on Victor’s shoulder to keep him steady. The mist people stared back expectantly, extending their hands, palms up. He wasn’t sure if they wanted something, or if they were trying to prove they weren’t hiding weapons.

  Victor jabbed him in the ribs, startling him back into consciousness.

  If they are watching you, do not appear weak, said Donovan in thought.

  Tristan nodded, though he couldn’t imagine standing for much longer. “Is Molajah dead?”

  The ghosts looked at each other, their lips moving silently until they came to some sort of conclusion.

  “Yes or no? It’s not that hard.”

  They shrugged. So maybe they weren’t sure?

  “Molajah told me the council was divided. Is that what happened?”

  They all nodded, looking relieved that he knew at least that much.

  “I’m supposed to meet someone.” He had no idea how to phrase his question. “Often when I transport myself, or if someone else does it, those lights, er, the council, seem to take control. So the question is, how do I avoid being taken?”

  “Make it a yes or no question,” added Donovan.

  “Can I avoid the council while being transported?”

  While the ghosts discussed it, Tristan glanced at Donovan. “I don’t know what to ask.”

  “Your question is valid.”

  “They’re taking too long to answer.” Tristan felt his weight shift and Victor stepped a few inches closer, keeping him upright. “I have to see Dorian. Maybe she could come here?” Tristan put all his attention back on the ghosts.

  They shook their heads no, but had all sorts of silent words to go with it.

  “It’s a ‘no’ on transporting. Why can’t I hear you?”

  One of the ghosts tapped an index finger on his temple, frowning.

  “Can you make it so everyone can see you?”

  They eyed Donovan and shook their heads again.

  “Why are you here?” Tristan sucked in a breath as the mist collapsed to the ground, reforming into a line of bowing people, including the one who’d been writing on the wall. Landon stepped in to support his other side.

  “What are they saying?” Donovan demanded, irritation once again radiating from him.

  “I wasn’t lying to the council,” Tristan said to the bowing people. “They were right. I am pathetic and weak. I don’t understand the contract, the politics, or any of these powers that may or may not be natural for me. I just want Jacques back, and I can’t handle the idea of anyone being imprisoned, and maybe that’s only because I myself am a prisoner—”

  “Tristan,” Donovan growled, drawing his sword again. “Enough.”

  “Please just go away,” Tristan begged. “I’m not your leader. Or anyone’s leader.”

  “If you want my trust,” Donovan aimed the tip of his sword at the wall above their heads, “do as he says and get out of the castle.”

  “No! I’m not leading.” Tristan’s knees buckled and the staff clattered to the floor; Landon kept him on his feet. “Don’t do as I say.” The last part was mumbled, but everyone had to understand: Some people were meant to lead, and he was a hundred percent, positively, without a doubt, not one of them.

  10

  TALKING TOMATOES

  A DRONING VIBRATION A droning vibration hummed through Tristan’s bones, making his body both queasy and numb. He reached up to feel his head, confused when a set of earphones fell into his lap. Landon and Victor were sitting in front of him, facing him.

  “Seaplane,” Victor shouted, placing the earphones back on Tristan’s head. “We’re flying to see Dorian.” The sound came through a speaker system in the headset.

  Tristan nodded that he understood and shifted his position to look out the small window, where nothing but clear sky and a vast ocean spanned the horizon. A white wing with black tips extended from above the row of windows, and the cover for the engine was painted black with red at the intake. Tristan put his attention back on Landon and Victor, and the inside of the plane.

  “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of heights,” Landon said, only half joking by the looks of it.

  “I’ve never flown is all.” How
had he been able to sleep? “Who’s flying this thing?”

  “Donovan,” Victor answered. “We took a helicopter from the castle to an airport in New Zealand, where we transferred to one of his personal jets. From there, we flew to Alaska, rented this seaplane, and now we’re heading to the island.”

  “I didn’t know Donovan had a pilot license.”

  “I don’t think he does,” Victor answered. “But he owns a whole fleet now, and has a few pilots on standby if needed. He had Landon study the airport protocols while we were in the helicopter.”

  Tristan stifled a groan and felt the blood drain from his cheeks.

  “We’ll be landing in about fifteen minutes,” Donovan said through the sound system.

  Tristan tightened his grip on the seat. “The last plane that tried to land in Dorian’s lake crashed a quarter mile off shore.”

  “Told you we should have sedated him,” Victor said cheerfully.

  “He’ll be fine once we land,” said Landon.

  “Sure.” Tristan loosened his clenched jaw and tried to roll his shoulders. “Besides, if we happen to crash, we’ll just transport ourselves to safety and everyone will be fine. Unless the council grabs me and skins me alive.”

  “Are they here?” Donovan asked.

  Tristan scanned the plane. There were two couch-like bench seats along the curved walls and Donovan’s silhouette sat beyond a fogged glass partition. Someone had lowered all the shades over the line of windows and there were no ghosts. “I don’t think so.”

  “Good. Don’t trust them with any information until we know whose side they’re on, got it? And if this rendezvous with Dorian is a schoolboy social call, I’m going to be one seriously pissed off guardian. Another thing, unless you start training your dragon brain, I’m going to start teaching you Russian so you can understand what they’re saying.”

  “Learning Russian doesn’t solve the sound issue,” argued Tristan, glad the level of irritation was getting his mind focused on something other than crash-landing in the lake.

  “You know how to read lips, don’t you?”

  “Pink! Where’s Pink?” Tristan asked, searching for the little pixie. “I need her for this.”