Games of Fate (Fate Fire Shifter Dragon Book 1)

by Kris Austen Radcliffe

  Pain ratcheted from her kidneys and roared through every joint in her body. A gasp pushed between her lips.

  She leaned over the planks and vomited up her med, the water, and the little bit of bagel she’d eaten after getting out of the shower. Her body rejected what it once tolerated. Her nasty did not like stim meds. Not at all.

  Harold yelled from the house. Something about Marcus having a seizure. He wouldn’t wake up. The words ran past Rysa’s ears so fast she couldn’t catch them.

  She fell off the bumper and her arm scraped along the gravel. Her shoulder hit hard. Her nasty growled—and coupled itself to Marcus’s ability.

  Parcae sickness ate away at his body. It chewed and it raked and it was slowly ripping him apart from the inside.

  He’d done so much for her. She couldn’t let him die this way.

  “Dragon!” she croaked.

  Chapter Eighteen

  When Rysa was little, before school lasted the whole day, she would play on the patio under the olive tree for hours with her plastic forest and her animals. The neighbor’s dog—he was huge and black and a monster—growled and snarled, but she wasn’t afraid. He couldn’t get over the wall between her yard and his.

  Until the day he did.

  His front paws hit the top of the painted blocks. He bared his teeth and barked. Then his back paws scraped away chunks of concrete. He tore for her and her toy horses and the juice box Mommy had given her for a snack.

  Her mouth opened, but no words, no sounds, came out. Just her little body needing to throw up and run and curl into a ball all at the same time.

  That’s how Rysa felt when the vision’s jaws clamped down and she screamed “Dragon!”

  Only desert, dust, and low buildings the same beige-gray as the earth existed inside the vision, in an isolated bubble of time. The sky burned as blue as a wall of plasma flame. The square fence of razor wire could rip apart anything that might climb over it. Unknowable boundaries cut it off from the universe, but somehow Rysa got in.

  No insects buzzed. The sun scorched and Rysa’s skin should prickle, but this unreal world made no noise and laid down no touch and she’d lost her sense of direction. Up, down, left, right, all swung around her like a carnival ride.

  Yet blood stained the ground. A hand lay in the dirt next to her feet. Burners gorged themselves on a five-course Shifter meal.

  Behind her, deep in the courtyard, two SUVs, their doors flung wide, sat at an angle to one another.

  Ping.

  A sound.

  They were out of sync, the tan vehicle faster than the black. Ping Ping.

  She’d moved from silent visions to talkies. But the sounds swung with the unhinged directions and made her want to vomit up not just her guts, but her lungs and her heart, too.

  On the other side of the courtyard, a lean man with hair auburn like Rysa’s, eyes blue like the sky, thundered a seer through the courtyard. It felt familiar, like her mother’s chimes-in-the-storm, but it blasted forward. This man’s seer rode a train into the future, and like a train’s whistle, it dropped low as it moved away, drawn out into hammers beating on metal in the center of a thunderstorm.

  A dark-haired, dark-eyed woman knelt at his feet. Her seer shifted higher, compressed as it approached the present. Hers, cymbals.

  Faustus. Ismene. Her mother’s brother and sister. Her uncle. Her aunt. People she’d never met, but who she knew, deep down, were family.

  L’avenir et le passé de la Premiere Jani.

  The future and the past of the Jani Prime.

  French? Rysa’s gut tangled into a tighter knot. If French froze her in place inside this world whipping in funhouse circles, could she find Marcus?

  Ping. Ping. Ping.

  Faustus slapped Ismene and she cried out, but no sound left her mouth. Rysa read Faustus’s lips: My sister is a whore.

  Ping.

  A whisper in her ear: “Qui est la Premiere Jani Triade maintenant, Père?”

  Who is the Jani Prime Triad now, Father?

  Rysa jumped, but nobody stood next to her. Yet they were here, invisible like Dragon, two brothers and their sister.

  Family, but not her uncle and aunt. These three would have been consigned to the kids’ table with her during holidays, whispering in French, all snarky, because they were older.

  Her cousins. And they were better.

  Power oozed from the French words whispered in her ear. These three would steal her toys and tear her holiday dress because they could, and no one dared say a word about it.

  They knew how to wage war. They filtered fate through strategy, and they were not to be trifled with.

  Her cousins—the Jani triad. Les Enfants de Guerre. The Jani Prime wasn’t so Prime after all.

  Faustus slapped Ismene again. Whore. But it was the same slap, replayed. This place was an afterimage, a memory. Rysa watched the moment her mother’s triad died.

  “Je l’ai cousu.” Next to Rysa’s ear, the female laughed. “I stitched it.”

  “Les Brûleurs sont illisibles. Papa ne savait pas. Burners are unreadable. Father didn’t know.” The future-seeing brother kissed Rysa’s cheek.

  Rysa screamed, but no sound left her throat. She staggered, but the vision twisted into hot reds and ripping teeth. Ping.

  “Nous allons la trouver, cousine. Celle que nous avons manquée. Puis elle ira à sa triade. We will find her, cousin. The one we missed. Then your mother will go to her triad.”

  Chicago, the attacks in Wisconsin, they were all inciting events designed to throw the present into chaos and force the last member of the Jani Prime out of hiding. Had Rysa been a side effect like the nausea her pill gave her? Was she to be something Les Enfants de Guerre threw up all over the world?

  “Oui.”

  The vision swung. The slaps reset. The pings grew louder.

  Noise exploded into this unreal world. A severed arm hit the side of the tan SUV with a dull smack. It slid down, wet and sucking, and thudded into the dust.

  Burner giggles echoed from the four corners of the enclosure.

  Rysa grasped her ears and tried to block out noise. Too loud, too grating, she felt as if she’d see the spots again. But this time, when the spots popped, they’d rupture her eardrums.

  She knew the real intent of locking her to the Burners—it removed the threat of her Prime seers. One Enfant laughed. Revulsion wafted off another. They’d deal with her mother. Then they’d deal with her. They were, after all, the children of war.

  The female’s fingertip touched Rysa’s nose. “Imaginez que vous êtes en sécurité. Pretend that you are safe.”

  But she wasn’t. They’d find a way in. They’d rip open her soul and let in cockroaches to suck it dry.

  Ping Ping. Ping. Marcus. Where was Marcus?

  Ping Ping Ping. The dings erupted into full music and the resonant beauty of the past filled the courtyard as a bubble of safety between her, the blood, and her cousins.

  The vision wavered. Faustus and Ismene froze in mid-slap. The SUVs flickered. Right next to Rysa, so close she heard their heartbeats, one brother held Marcus by the neck.

  This brother, the past-seer, flinched. He pressed his temple. “Bâtard. Je vais percer votre intestin, vieil homme.”

  Marcus, young and handsome and not at all an old man, with his thick black hair cut short, his body lean and strong, and his eyes bright with intelligence, grinned as he grasped her fingers.

  The past-seeing brother of Les Enfants de Guerre looked down at their joined hands. Fear registered in his eyes.

  Dust swirled. The wind howled, and a deafening scream reverberating between the buildings. The vision of Faustus and Ismene hiccupped.

  Marcus stood to the side of her uncle, his head low and his iron eyes predatory.

  But Marcus held her hand.

  When the dog had attacked, when she was a child, her mom stepped between Rysa and the black hate hurtling across the yard. Her dad caught the animal in mid-lunge. His big arms c
ontracted under his shirt and both her parents danced and the dog slammed against the concrete patio. It broke and a wet crack echoed off the yard’s fence.

  The dog had whimpered once.

  Now, in her vision, talons slammed Les Enfants de Guerre into the dirt. They sloshed, and for the moment, broken. Wherever their real bodies squatted forcing this attack, all three vomited.

  But they didn’t whimper.

  The Marcus holding her hand touched her cheek. “Thank you.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Rysa’s scream echoed through the house. Ladon held her on his lap with his arms tight around her shoulders to contain her thrashing limbs. Above her, Dragon smashed against the ceiling. Plaster fell and white chunks dropped into her eyes and Ladon’s hair.

  “Dragon!” She pitched off Ladon’s legs, “We’re out of the vision! It’s okay. Stop!” He’d smashed the War Babies. He’d followed her into her blackout and pulled both her and Marcus out of its depths.

  The beast calmed and his body draped over the couch. He touched her cheek and her shoulder. He held his head so close as he looked her over that she breathed in his heat.

  “Marcus guided him into the vision.” Ladon’s entire body leaned into hers. “We heard French.” Growls rolled from both the man and the beast. “The War Babies.”

  A wave blasted between Ladon and Dragon. The beast roared.

  “Where are they?” Ladon let go of Rysa and slammed his fist into the floor. A crack echoed through the room when a floorboard shattered. “I will smash all three of their skulls!”

  “They killed my aunt and uncle and they sent the Burners after my mom. All the attacks were to make sure that they’d be the Prime triad.” How could anyone knowingly unleash so much death?

  They’d bound Rysa to the Burners so she couldn’t become a threat to their power, but they didn’t understand what they’d unleashed.

  The Ambusti Prime. She was a thermonuclear bomb they’d accidently detonated because their talisman—their filter—was war. And war justified all weapons.

  She’d pant if she didn’t hold it together. Pant like some terrified poodle and fall onto all fours with her tail between her legs.

  Ladon ignored her commands for distance. Ignored them and wrapped his body around hers the way Dragon had when she’d activated.

  She scrunched against his chest.

  “They won’t hurt you.” His words rumbled through the room.

  Marcus appeared in the hallway. He leaned on Harold’s shoulder and shuffled into the living room. “I don’t know where they are. Not physically. They could still be in France, for all I know.”

  Harold’s face reddened. “You let them in on purpose? You had a seizure!” He helped Marcus to the chair but kicked at Ladon before Marcus hit the cushion. “Get out!”

  Ladon caught Harold’s leg. “You touch her and I will snap your knee. You will shriek for months. Do you understand, pedes? No one touches her.”

  Harold had been kicking at Ladon’s ribs, not Rysa’s arm. But Ladon didn’t care.

  “Ladon, let go.” He’d break Harold’s leg with the sheer pressure of his grip. Gently, she pulled his hand away.

  Harold staggered back. “Don’t come back here! You kill him too and I’ll hunt you, you bastard! I don’t care if I’m a normal, I’ll slice you open and—”

  “Harold!” Marcus sat forward in the chair. “This is not the Dracos’ doing. I set myself out as bait. I knew they couldn’t resist.” Pain radiated from him like he’d been stabbed.

  But Marcus gripped the chair arm with the same conviction Rysa had seen in the eyes of his younger self while they were in the vision. The sickness might take its due, but he would stand against the War Babies until the day he died.

  “Only they would have the gall to inflict the damage they did in order to force Mira out of hiding.”

  “You knew it was them?” Ladon hit the floor again. Another crack reverberated through the living room. “Why didn’t you say?”

  Marcus closed his eyes. “Daniel predicted they’d unleash ruin on the world.”

  Rysa stiffened. Her. He meant that they’d unleash her. She’d bring ruin down on everyone.

  Marcus pointed at her. “Only one Prime per family.” He waved his hand in the air.

  He didn’t mean the burning. He focused in on her cousins’ original intent—getting her mother. It took them twenty years to cut through her mom’s cloak. Now they wouldn’t let up until they accomplished their goal.

  Marcus’s hand shook. “Abilene, Texas, twenty-one years ago, Les Enfants de Guerre destroyed a Shifter medical facility. Set Burners on the place. No one knew that they’d murdered their own father and aunt.”

  Harold knelt next to the chair and touched Marcus’s back. “The healers stopped helping after that.”

  Marcus’s fingers jittered over the torque around his neck. Three cables braided around each other, each strung with a dragon hammered from entwined gold and silver. The beasts lined up across Marcus’s throat, tail to snout. “Ladon-Human divided our insignia and fashioned us each equal parts. I’ve worn all three since my brothers passed.”

  Both his hands shook. “Les Enfants de Guerre activated on a dagger. A terrible piece, said to have belonged to Alexander the Great himself.” Marcus stroked one of the little dragons. “I saw Daniel.” With a deep inhale, he sat tall in the chair, his head held high. “It’s my time. This was fated long ago.”

  The other Marcus in the vision had been his identical triplet brother, Daniel. But he’d died a century and a half ago.

  Rysa flew across the room. This couldn’t be happening. She couldn’t cause Marcus’s death. Seeing Daniel wasn’t a sign he should die. It couldn’t be. “That doesn’t mean—”

  He touched her shoulder. “You must go. They will protect you.” He nodded toward the door.

  Ladon stood and dusted his knees. “Go south. I will call Dmitri.”

  “We will stay here,” Marcus said.

  “No! You go south! Dmitri will help.” Ladon pointed at Harold. “You take him to Branson. You pack all your weapons and you get on the interstate. Stay with Dmitri’s people until Dragon and I grind that unholy triad into paste.”

  Harold ignored him. “Damn it, don’t say it’s your time.” He pushed at Rysa but she wrapped her arms around Marcus’s chest.

  She tried to hold the sobs in, to keep them under control, but it didn’t work. They jumped out of her chest. “I won’t let you die!”

  “Harold!” Ladon bellowed.

  Harold pulled away and his gaze darted between Marcus, Dragon, and Ladon. He opened his mouth to yell something, but Dragon knocked his shoulder.

  “We cannot protect you. You will be in more danger if you come with us. Go now, while they’re distracted.” Ladon extended his hand to help Harold stand.

  “What…” Marcus blinked, but Rysa didn’t feel his seer. He waved between Harold and Ladon. “It will be fine. Rysa, do you see it? Everything will be fine.”

  She wiped away tears. “Fine?” He wasn’t making sense.

  Harold looked between Ladon’s extended hand and Marcus’s face. He nodded and gripped Ladon’s wrist.

  Ladon hauled him to his feet.

  “…Yes…” Confusion washed over Marcus’s features. “Shifters.” He pointed at Ladon.

  Harold touched Marcus’s forehead. “He’s got a fever.” He looked up at Ladon. “Dmitri damned well better help.”

  What did she do? She’d hurt him.

  “It is time for you to leave.” Marcus gripped Rysa’s arm. “Be careful.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Ladon, phone in hand, watched Harold pull out of the driveway. He would take Marcus south, to Dmitri’s enclave. They’d crammed their old truck full with as many of their belongings as Dragon could fit inside and Ladon had put Harold’s swords under the driver’s seat, along with two of his guns.

  Dmitri yelled vulgarities through the speaker of Ladon’s whining smartphone.
Ladon glowered at the phone as if his stern look could worm its way through the device. Threatening did no good. Nor was it necessary. Dmitri understood what was at stake and he would provide the support Ladon required. “Are you finished?”

  The Russian fell quiet.

  “And find Sandro Torres.” He hit the off button without finishing the conversation. The War Babies were as likely to go after Rysa’s father as they were Marcus. Just to be thorough. Just to cause as much agony as they could.

  Rysa waited on the bumper of the van with half a shackle in her lap. The beast concentrated his flame as well as used a torch they’d found in the garage to heat a link he’d cut from the chains. This was his third attempt, and he’d gotten this one to a dull glow. A couple of taps with a hammer and it rounded to fit her wrist.

  She paid no heed and stared silently at the now empty porch swing with her chin in her hands. The beast nuzzled her side. An ache vibrated to Ladon as a brief flitting through her ever-present connection.

  Ladon wanted to offer comfort, but boundaries needed to be reestablished. Respect shown. So he stayed back.

  Dragon quenched her new talisman bracelet in water from the hose. She slid it onto her wrist when the beast held it out. Then she handed him the shackle half and turned away, her wrist and the burndust surrounding it dropping against her thigh.

  When she came out of the Texas vision, she’d allowed him to touch even though she’d declared a need for distance. And she’d calmed his fury before it erupted onto Harold, for which he was eternally grateful.

  She’d helped him as much as Dragon had helped her.

  Ladon watched Dragon circle around to the back of the van. Neither he nor the beast did well in the modern world. They’d yet had a reason to try.

  Ladon glanced at Rysa as he tossed the phone into the van.

  Modern or not, mannered or not, he and the beast would help. They’d find Mira. His gut told him she wasn’t dead—the Burners wouldn’t harm her until her system cleared of dust. Plus, no Fate could see her, so the War Babies did not know her location any better than Ladon did.