Incendiary (The Premonition Series (Volume 4))

by Amy A. Bartol

  I give him an are-you-serious look. “Naw, I think I’m gonna have to wing it,” I reply sarcastically.

  “A shield might be helpful,” Reed suggests as both dragonheads inhale deep, powerful breaths. “Heat-resistant,” he adds with both his eyebrows risin’.

  “Noted,” I reply with an air of confidence I don’t really feel.

  The dark, knotty eyes of the dragon shift dully while it spews a torrent of flames from its mouths. I just have time to whisper words that cause an invisible wall of energy to form in front of me. Kneelin’ behind it, heat wraps ‘round the wall and singes the edge of my wing along my left flank.

  When I open my eyes, Anya is standin’ directly in front of me, tryin’ unsuccessfully to block the magical fire. Reachin’ behind her back, she pulls a golden arrow from her quiver, quickly ratchetin’ it on her bow. Releasin’ the shaft, the bow makes a low, musical twang as the arrow flies straight through the head of a dragon, like mist, and embeds in the door.

  In frustration, she turns on Reed with a torrent of Angelic words.

  “I am thinking, Anya,” Reed replies, unruffled. “Russell will just have to play with it until we decipher the enigma.”

  Zee frowns. “There are more weapons than words to describe them,” Zephyr says in a low tone to Reed.

  As a suggestion, I offer, “Could it be magic?”

  In response to my answer, the enraged dragon roars, breathin’ brimstone at me again. Feelin’ like I’m meltin’, I hunch down behind the shield I had created. When I glance up again, the dragon appears to have grown, its heads nearin’ the vaulted ceilin’.

  “No, not magic,” Reed replies, standin’ within the inferno, like it is a mirage, as the flames abate.

  With a feminine growl, Anya grasps Zephyr’s broadsword from his idle hand and rushes the dragon, choppin’ at its heads. She is only successful at cuttin’ the air as the sword passes through it like an apparition.

  “Why can’t y’all touch it?” I ask with my jaw clenched. But then, the dragon tears free from the door with a rain of shatterin’ wood. Sweat glides down the side of my face; I swipe at it irritably.

  The monstrous, wooden reptile lunges, snarlin’ at us, but the angels all hold their ground in its presence. Anya’s ebony wings stretch in front of me like the night sky in her attempt to stop the creature from reachin’ me. Ripples of energy, like waves in a pool, distort its polished scales when it passes through her like a dream.

  “Its faerie magic doesn’t truly exist for us,” Reed answers my question, while the dragon rams its head at me, knockin’ me back, as a whoosh of air expels from my lungs. “But, it seems to work well on half-humans. We have to solve its riddle by naming the weapon to open the door.”

  “A battle-axe?” Sorin asks the dragon.

  Enraged by his answer, the dragon’s wooden wings unfold. Destroyin’ a tapestry, the fabric tears loudly on its serrated edge. Shriekin’ and growin’ in size, it takes up a wider girth of corridor.

  I cringe inwardly and call out, “It’s gettin’ bigger,” while dodgin’ the crushin’ blows from the dragon’s tail as it labors by me.

  The angels form a huddle in front of the door. “Let’s not guess—for Russell’s sake,” Reed orders the Powers with a modicum of pity.

  “Yeah, don’t guess!” I agree grimly, as I back up. My hands are slick with sweat. “What was the question again?” I ask Zee with a look of supplication.

  Zephyr responds with an air of patience, “When confronted by the knowledge that all is lost, save the disgrace of death, what is your weapon of choice?’”

  Reed’s head snaps up as a smile spreads from his eyes to his lips. He utters somethin’ that has to be Faerie. Then, he murmurs, “Immortality.”

  I crouch down low so I can lurch away from the next burst of fire before it fries me, but instead, the energy in the room instantly shifts. Then, not unlike a vacuum suckin’ up a dust particle, the dragon is swept up off its feet; its scales liftin’ like shingles in a windstorm.

  I’m pulled off my feet, too, bein’ sucked toward the Archive Room doors in a rush of wind. Anya flies from the ground then, to get directly in my path in order to keep me from becomin’ part of the enchanted door by clutchin’ me to her.

  As the wind eases, her hypnotic-green eyes stare up into mine while we both use our wings to remain aloft. My hand slips from her back to her face, cuppin’ her cheek, as my thumb caresses her luminous skin. Her eyes close and I don’t know if I can survive not kissin’ her where her sooty lashes contrast against her pale complexion.

  Leanin’ down, my lips near hers, but just as they would’ve connected, she eases back from me. Openin’ her eyes, she looks away, causin’ my hand to slip from her cheek.

  “Immortality,” she says in a thin, haunted tone. “It is a weapon with a double-edge.”

  Turnin’ away from me, she flies back down to the ground, before followin’ Sorin, Elan, and Tycho into the Archive Room. Reed and Zephyr wait for me by the carved door that is now just that: a door.

  “Injured?” Reed asks in an assessin’ way.

  I shrug, noncommittal. “Just my pride,” I reply before punchin’ one of the inanimate dragonheads on the door, splinterin’ it to pieces.

  “Good thing you are not in short supply,” Zephyr grins.

  “I’ll say,” I agree, flexin’ my fingers and watchin’ Anya gaze ‘round the nearly empty room. “Looks like they took almost everythin’.”

  “All but one suit of armor and a battle-axe,” Zephyr comments.

  An exquisite suit of silver armor, edged in gold, stands alone in the center of the room. The tunic-style plackart of the armor is deeply etched with intricate scrolls, and on the breastplate, a set of golden wings is centered. I don’t need to look behind the plackart to know that the back of it has two, long plackets, slits in the armor, created to accommodate the wings of the wearer.

  Matching, silver chainmail cuisse protect the wearer’s thighs from harm as the greaves, in this case silver metal boots resemblin’ the framin’ of a lead glass window, protect the calves and feet.

  One silver gauntlet of the armor holds a seriously deadly-lookin’ battle-axe. The serrated edge of the silver axe-head resembles the arch of a wing, while the long shaft of the axe is notched for grippin’.

  “That’s Evie’s,” I state with a growin’ frown. “Brennus gave it to her ‘cuz she went right to it when he brought her here. It belonged to him. He made it himself.” My gaze shifts to Reed’s. “Damn, it’s like he knew we were comin here.”

  “I told him that I would come when the contract was broken,” Reed replies.

  “Do we let Red see this thing?” I ask, indicatin’ the armor.

  Reed walks slowly to the armor and pauses in front of it. A reflection of Reed’s face shines on it, etched with complex scrollin’ marks. He reaches his hand out, restin’ it gently against the cold metal of the breastplate where his face had been. His hand tenses and he crushes the golden wings affixed there. When he pulls his hand away, the metal moves too, poppin’ back out and smoothin’ until it is like new again.

  “She would look beautiful in this armor. Did you know that it will mold to her shape if it desires her?” Reed asks me, not lookin’ away from it.

  “Is that right?” I ask, tryin’ to imagine somethin’ like that.

  “Yes. But then, it would always remind me of Brennus,” he adds, frownin’.

  I frown at the armor now, too, sayin’, “We could use it for target practice when we work on our spells.”

  “It’s for her. She’ll decide what she wants to do with it,” Reed says in a low tone. He squeezes the device on his ear, activatin’ his microphone. “Archive Room clear.”

  Preben’s voice sounds in our ears, “Weapons?” he asks.

  “Gone—just a present here for Evie,” he replies. “We’re moving on to the South Tower—the Harem.”

  “We’re nearing the East Tower,” Preben reports.

&n
bsp; “Most of the dead freaks were housed in that part of the castle,” I chime in.

  “It should smell lovely then,” Preben replies. It’s obvious to me that some of Brownie’s sarcasm is rubbin’ off on him to claim another victim.

  “Yeah, good luck with that,” I reply with a reluctant smile.

  Leavin’ the Archive Room, we move down the corridor connectin’ the West Tower to the South Tower. This hallway is even more disturbin’ than the last one, ‘cuz pools of dried blood lie in testament to what can only be tantamount to a slaughter. Overturned tables and broken vases make it look more like a barroom after a brawl than the palace I remember.

  Passin’ by bloody handprints smeared across a wall, I hold mine up to it. Mine’s much larger. It must be from a woman.

  “They’ve redecorated,” I say in a low tone.

  Glancin’ at Anya, she looks stone white against her midnight wings. “Stay with me,” I order her with a stern look.

  “Why?” she shoots back with her shoulders straightenin’.

  “‘Cuz cannibals are what they eat,” I reply matter-of-factly. Her eyes narrow at me, but she doesn’t disagree.

  More eerie wooden doors hang at the entrance to the South Tower, otherwise known as the Harem, but these doors are capriciously left un-enchanted.

  “Movement,” Reed warns.

  I strain my ears, tryin’ to hear somethin’, but the silence only grows louder the more I try. “Remind me never to be your neighbor,” I whisper to Reed. “Should we knock?” I ask, liftin’ my chin toward the doors ahead of us.

  “No,” Reed replies. “They already know we’re here.” Reed pushes one of the doors back slowly. A strong reek of Gancanagh mixed with blood seeps out from it. My flesh crawls when Reed says softly, “They’re attempting to surround us.”

  I search the intervenin’ spaces between the end of the corridors and us. Our position in front of the doors leaves us vulnerable not only to what’s in the Harem, but also to the south corridor and the east corridor that both connect in front of it in an L-shape.

  A fragile, feminine voice pleads softly, “Help me…please,” as a young woman staggers over the debris-ridden stone floor toward us from the adjacent east corridor.

  Goose bumps run the length of me when I notice her neck above the sexy collar of her white blouse. Bloody trails from puncture wounds no longer cry like tears from her.

  Glancin’ at Reed, he says in a low tone to me, “Be ready.” His eyes focus not on the girl in the hallway, but on the tower doors juxtaposed to us.

  “I need help,” the girl whispers again, and somethin’ in my chest tightens. My eyes fly to Anya as I imagine her with the same bloody tear streaks on her neck.

  “There are more behind her at the end of the corridor,” Zephyr informs me in so low a tone, that I don’t think anyone but me hears him.

  The dark wings on Anya’s back recoil in reaction to the pitiful plea from the apparently fragile victim, pinnin’ them back as if in dread. She steps forward when the girl falters again, intent, it would seem, on helpin’ her.

  “Anya!” I growl in a sinister voice that doesn’t sound like my own.

  It works ‘cuz she stops several paces away from the girl. But when Anya looks back at me over her shoulder, she misses the intimate smile that flickers over the injured girl’s lips, revealin’ her nefarious nature. A fraction of a second after that, the newly formed Gancanagh leaps forward, runnin’ at Anya with the supernatural speed of a born predator.

  Anya must’ve seen the horror on my face, ‘cuz she turns back and tries to raise her bow, but her fingers fumble on the string and the arrow slips from it. A click resonates in the hallway while the fangs of this fresh-turned Gancanagh engage in her mouth. The flash of white from their syringe-sharpness triggers me. I disregard the onslaught of other undead females comin’ at us from inside the tower doors at my side.

  In this moment, I finally understand the problem viscerally: this illness is terminal. One touch will render all of my pathetically conceived plans to protect Anya obsolete. She’ll respond only to them and she’ll never be mine again—not once, not ever.

  With a risin’ tide of feminine Gancanagh crestin’ the threshold of the Harem tower, I ignore both their ambush and the fact that gettin’ to Anya is likely a doomed effort. The beautiful bloodsucker is almost on top of her. I sprint past Zee, who blocks a slue of reekin’ killers from gang-swarmin’ me. He uses his broad sword in a sweepin’ motion, carvin’ a sprawlin’ tideline of blood as heads flail from bodies.

  Reed is almost invisible the way he moves through the Gancanagh; he’s a shadowy silhouette leavin’ a trail of dead corpses littered on the floor. I brush past Sorin, Tycho, and Elan, all locked in battle with the nearest enemy.

  Red, polished nails reach out toward Anya’s face as a girlish leer lives within dead eyes. The irony of this moment is that my illness is just as terminal as the one that destroyed the soul of this stark-white killer. I know that if she touches Anya, I’ll be as good as dead inside, too. I understand now that Anya is what she says she is: she is my aspire.

  As I acknowledge that fact, I surrender to the darkness that grows ‘round me in my need to be fast enough—to be the wall that stops the toxic fingertips from reachin’ the delicate skin of my angel. Cold-black emptiness surrounds me at once as I become blind and deaf in less time than a heartbeat. In an empty, torturous ache of utter nothingness, I'm pulled through darkness to materialize in front of Anya.

  The cold hand of the undead touches my neck. Shock registers in her lackluster eyes when she realizes I’m the recipient of the soft caress meant for Anya’s cheek.

  “That’s my angel,” I growl while my red wings block her from Anya.

  She spares one glance to where I had been a second ago, several yards away, and like me, she doesn’t really know how I got here. Placin’ my hand on her icy forehead, a glow of light issues from it, liftin’ her off her feet and throwin’ her backward. She lands in the middle of the corridor, now completely dead.

  Screams come from the other Gancanagh amassin’ in the east corridor, but they’re more like shrieks of horror at what I’ve done to their friend than war cries. These are not hard-edged faeries who met their undeaths fightin’ for their lives. They were human women, many of which are teenagers, who succumbed first to the seductive intoxication of the Gancanagh skin, most likely becomin’ a meal for one or more of the fellas, and then turned into vicious killers and were left, much like a rodent problem, for the new tenants.

  A ripplin’ murmur of feminine voices permeates the air, while I reach back and pull Anya protectively into my arms. My wings curve ‘round her instinctually as phrases like “The Red Menace” and “The Other” are spoken in dread-filled whispers. The Gancanagh nearest us in the east corridor attempt to retreat by turnin’ and pushin’ each other as if we’ve dispensed tear-gas on a crowd of protesters. But, somewhere at the back of them, comes a barkin’ command for attack.

  “OY! Da other is nuting,” a clipped, masculine voice says. “Ye’re powerful now—immortal and he is merely lunch.” It’s apparent by their continual shovin’ to get away from me that they aren’t buyin’ Declan’s lie.

  “Ah, no, you gotta be kiddin’ me,” I breathe, seein’ Declan and Faolan standin’ behind the females, urgin’ them on. “You’re hidin’ behind girls now?” I call to them. “I thought I smelled the stink of cowardice.”

  “’Tis na cowardice,” Declan calls back, soundin’ offended. “’Tis strategy. We’re teaching dem domination trough war…and we’re teachin’ ye dat when ye kill us we’ll jus make more.”

  “You’re hidin’ behind their skirts,” I taunt them. “And y’all know that they’re not powerful.”

  “Ahh, but dey’ve a powerful effect on ye, do dey na? ’Twould hurt ye ta kill dem, especially since dey were once so very human,” Declan explains with a calculated grin.

  “Whah would hurt him more is takin’ his aspire from him,” Fa
olan says in a conversational tone to Declan. “Ye know, since being wi’ our queen, I’ve had a real craving for aingeal, and her dark wings are terribly sexy.”

  Faolan’s fangs shoot forward in his mouth with a decisive click as he smiles coyly towards Anya. Anya growls at him as her eyes narrow to slits. With the sound of fightin’ still goin’ on behind us, I know that I need to keep them at bay for now.

  “Fay,” Declan asks, “would ye say dat ’tis a mite greedy ta try ta keep two aingeals?”

  “’Tis, Deck. ’Tis really very greedy, da other,” he agrees, shakin’ his head at me, while several undead females plow past him in the other direction. “Whah do ye say ye give us Genevieve and ye can keep da other one?” he asks, lookin’ at Anya.

  I stiffen.

  “Would dat make her da other’s other?” Declan asks Faolan with a grin.

  “’Twould,” Faolan agrees with a nod.

  “Anyway,” Declan smiles at me, “we’re already very partial ta our queen—no offense—ye’re really quite lovely and under different circumstances, I’d luv ta taste ye,” he adds, shruggin’ at Anya.

  “Look here,” Faolan smiles, “we’ll trow in da house for ye—sorta a weddin’ present.”

  “’Tis more yer style now, anyway—whah wi’ all da destruction, ’tis much more like da trailer park dat ye’re used ta,” Declan says smugly, and then his face takes on a grim visage. “Now, where is our queen?” he asks me between his gritted teeth.

  “You look dead-serious, Declan,” I say, smilin’. “Red said y’all have a tendency to turn moody all of a sudden—it could be from all those female hormones all y’all been drinkin’. It makes you edgy.”

  Without even tryin’, Declan creates a fireball and throws it at me. I tense, pullin’ energy to me and lettin’ it pulse out of my hand. My magic stops the fireball midway between him and me.

  “Your elf dart looks like it has lost its way,” I say, allowin’ the fire to shimmer in stasis for a few seconds before I shatter it in flaming shards of fire and spew it back at them.

  The fire misses them as Declan deflects it. It hits several of the fleein’ Gancanagh females, catchin’ their clothin’ and hair on fire, but although they scream in terror, it’s apparent when the flames die out almost instantly that their toxic skin is unharmed by it.