Dragon Awakened

by Jaime Rush

  She glanced at the four men playing darts over in the corner and fought not to roll her eyes. Augusts. She clenched her fists at the sight of Bren, who was already giving her a cruel smile. As he always did, he made a V with his fingers and waggled his tongue suggestively in the crotch.

  She stuffed her disgust, refusing to give him the satisfaction, and turned back to Ernie. “I’m here to see you.”

  His wiry eyebrows bobbed in surprise. “You know you’re a bit too young for me.”

  “You’re hundreds of years too old for me. So stop flirting and give me an AmberBock draft.”

  “You break my heart, you do.” But he wore a smile as he pulled the draft into a mug.

  Because of their deity essence, Crescents lived longer than Mundanes—and aged very slowly. Ernie looked to be in his sixties. At thirty-four, she was a mere babe in Crescent terms, and only looked to be about twenty-two. She idly cracked a shell and lined up the peanuts side by side on the bar.

  He set the frosty mug on the shellacked bar top. “What’re you after then, if not my buff, brawny body or rapier wit?”

  So not in the mood for humor, such as it was, she swallowed back the grief that wanted to bubble out at the mere thought of saying the words, “Arlo’s been murdered.”

  Ernie digested that, his wide mouth flattening even more. “Damn. What happened?”

  She told him the scant details.

  “Breathed.” He shook his head but didn’t look shocked.

  “There’s been talk, hasn’t there? If something’s going on, it usually starts here. This place is the hub of the Fringe.” Finesse him, feed his ego. “Nothing gets past you.”

  He soaked it in, his shoulders widening. “I pick up tidbits here and there.” Then he got onto her, the proud expression hardening. “But I stay out of it. Switzerland and all.” No, he just collected on the bets.

  “Ernie, I’m not asking you to take sides. Simply pass on what people have been talking about lately.”

  His gaze shifted to the men, who were glancing their way more than at the dartboard. “Fringers have been edgy lately. Restless and downright crotchety, breaking out in scuffles despite my rules. I heard there’s a big solar storm erupting, and we’re already getting the effects of the flares.”

  “It’s not that and you know it. We’ve felt the effects of solar storms before, and it didn’t make people kill.”

  He shrugged. “Supposed to be a strong one.”

  “Share.” She crooked her fingers, ignoring her blunt, unpolished nails. At least they were clean.

  He hesitated, then relented. “There’s been murmurings, but not about your clan.”

  She took a draw of her ice-cold beer, feeling it tingle across her tongue and down her throat. Damn. Clan problems again. “What about then?”

  “Defensive, not offensive.” He leaned across the bar, as casual as could be, and flicked the peanuts off the bar. “Arlo’s not the first Fringer to be whacked lately.”

  This was getting worse. “Who?”

  Ernie held out his squat fist and flipped out one finger. This was not going to be good. “Liam Peregrine, killed a week or so ago. Breathed.” Another finger straightened. “They found something at the scene that pointed to the Wolfrums. So no surprise that Peter Wolfrum was Breathed two days later.”

  She pulled out her phone and put in the names. She had a photographic memory, but hearing information didn’t imprint worth a damn.

  He shifted his gaze to the men by the dartboard, and his voice lowered. “Larry’s grandmother, Shirley. Six days ago. I don’t know what they found, if anything, but two days later, Bobby Spear turns up dead. Breathed.”

  No, she didn’t want to be in this place again of tension, hatred and constant fear. “Bobby is—was—a kid!” she hissed. “What, seventeen?”

  Ernie nodded, his expression somber. “Good kid, too, for a Fringer, anyway.”

  She fought not to look at the Augusts and clue them in that they were talking about them. Another blunt finger on Ernie’s hand flicked out.

  Gods, no more.

  “Dan Murphy, killed two days ago.”

  “Breathed?”

  “Yep.”

  Her stomach cramped, like a demon had reached right into her insides and twisted her stomach. A sensation she fortunately didn’t know firsthand.

  “With the history between your clan and theirs, could be they thought you did it. Maybe Arlo’s death was an act of revenge, like some of the others.”

  “Did they find evidence?” She would not believe someone in her family would attack another clan unprovoked. Fringers always had a reason, or at least they believed they had one. She would know if there was a problem.

  Ernie shrugged. “Haven’t heard one way or the other.”

  She was cold all over but tried to reveal nothing of what she felt. “We didn’t kill Dan or anyone else. Six murders in ten days. That’s crazy. And scary as hell.” She finished half her beer and set a twenty on the bar. “But I’m damned well going to figure it out.”

  As she strode over to the Augusts, their bodies snapped to attention and suspicion lit their eyes. The oldest son scanned her, clearly trying to assess her intent. Come on, like I’m dumb enough to confront four of you?

  She kept a table between them and gave Larry, the oldest clan member present, her attention. “I’m sorry about your grandma.”

  Larry narrowed his eyes. “How’d you know?”

  The second oldest stepped forward. “Ernie told you, didn’t he?”

  “I heard it through the grapevine and was trying to get him to confirm it before I approached you. The way that he tried to pretend ignorance told me it was true.”

  Larry stuck a wad of chew between his teeth and gum. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about it, would you? Through the grapevine?”

  “She’s not the only one.” So they didn’t know about Arlo yet. Or weren’t mentioning it. The Fringers didn’t go around advertising when they’d lost one of their own. It revealed that your family was now a little weaker. “Sounds like trouble’s brewing again.” She curled her hands over the back of a chair. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about Bobby Spears’s death, would you?”

  Dragon energy crackled off them all at once. Bren, the youngest, and unfortunately, the one she knew best, stepped forward. “Not a thing, sweetheart. Kid was a jerk. Probably into something or another.” He came around the table and stopped too close for her comfort.

  She didn’t back away. “Why would someone kill Shirley?” The August matriarch was one of the few of their clan who didn’t cause trouble. There was no love lost, but still, it wasn’t right. “I’m not being nosy,” she said when no one spoke up. “We’ve had peace in the Fringe for years now. Six murders in ten days…someone’s trying to stir things up. I want to find out who.”

  That got a chorus of low chuckles out of them. Bren placed his hands on her shoulders, angling his hips closer. “Aw, Vee, you gonna make things right for all us Fringers? Get justice?”

  She pushed him back. “You don’t get to touch me.”

  He gave her a contrite look. “You liked when I touched you before. You used to sigh…”

  She slugged him, which slammed his head to the side. The others stepped closer, their fists tightening as Bren caught his balance.

  He laughed it off, even as his eyes still swam. “Damn, Vee, you still got a hard-on for me, don’t you?”

  “Stop calling me Vee, and I couldn’t care less about you.” She narrowed her eyes. “You do know women don’t get hard-ons, right? Or are you getting the genders of your lovers confused?”

  She wouldn’t admit how much she hated him, wanted to cut off his balls and feed them to the raccoons, because that would reveal how much he’d affected her. He’d wooed her, saying all the right things. Not how beautiful she was, how clever or sexy, but how if they got together it would heal the rift between their families. Somehow he knew exactly what to say, and she’d let down
her defenses a little and bought it.

  Finally all his questions about their alligator operation, cleverly worded and coated in mild curiosity, burrowed down to her cynical senses. He was using her to get information about their farm and shows. Not long after, they’d opened up their own tourist attraction with alligator wrestling. She’d been so mad at herself, not because her heart had been broken. She hadn’t given it to him. But her pride had taken a big hit, even to this day, and that was nine years ago.

  She turned to the oldest brother. “Did the Spears kill Shirley?”

  He hesitated, then said, “Yeah.”

  “How do you know?” She’d seen enough retaliatory murders based on nothing more than speculation.

  Bren’s expression changed to fierce. “We found that stupid skull handkerchief Bobby wears all the time about twenty yards from her body.”

  “How can you be sure it was his? He’s not the only one who wears one.”

  “He’s the only one around here who does,” Bren said. His eyes sparked, no doubt at his satisfaction over wreaking justice.

  None of this felt right to her. Not that Fringe justice ever felt right. The Spears would rear up and strike back. And the wars would start once more.

  Chapter 2

  She was either making a huge mistake or saving her family. Too damned bad she didn’t know in advance which it was going to be. Violet stood on the steps of the Guard’s Headquarters. She’d heard that it was fashioned after the government buildings on the Crescents’ ancestral island of Lucifera.

  There was no written history of Lucifera, only legends handed down orally over many generations. As in many ancient cultures, Luciferians worshipped gods specific to the island. A fluke of nature allowed several gods to become physical on the Earth plane, where they fell to sensual temptations. Eventually, two disgruntled gods and one overly righteous angel decided procreation was a bad idea and instigated a war between their progeny. The war caused a violent schism that not only reversed the gods’ physicality but broke the island apart, forcing the inhabitants to flee to Florida.

  Etched symbols like hieroglyphics adorned the two-story columns along the front of the otherwise nondescript building. Violet recognized several symbols, mostly the Dragon gods with which she was familiar. Some of her Crescent jewelry store customers requested pieces with the symbols for various gods. No one ever requested a necklace depicting the Tryah, the trio who started the war.

  And we’re on the verge of war now.

  Maybe rage and violence was in the blood, the vengeful tendencies just a throwback to the flawed beings that sired them so many generations ago.

  Crescents knew the financial services firm was a front for the Hidden’s police force. Couldn’t go to the Miami police with a complaint that your neighbor’s magick was disrupting your satellite signal. Or that your brother was murdered by a Dragon. The Guard’s main focus was enforcing Rule Number One: Crescents must never expose their magick to the Mundanes. Then there were Crescents who’d gone Red, their term for magick psychosis.

  Violet betrayed her clan with every step she took toward those ultra-tall double doors. As much as she hated the idea of going to the Guard for help, she had no choice. There was going to be a lot more bloodshed if she couldn’t convince them to intercede. She took a deep breath as she clutched the steel handle. Act like none of your family has ever been on the wrong side of their services.

  Compared to the bright Miami sunshine, the lobby was dim and cool, dominated by shades of blue. Even the woman behind the reception desk wore a dark blue blouse.

  “I need to speak to someone about a murder.” That last word caught in Violet’s throat. When the receptionist asked her name, “Castanega” came out even hoarser. She had to repeat it, and the woman’s eyebrows rose.

  Yes, I’m one of those Castanegas.

  The woman’s previously placid expression soured. “Did you commit murder or are you reporting on behalf of the victim?”

  “The victim.”

  She opened a drawer, pulled out four pieces of paper, and clipped them to a board with a practiced hand. “You’ll need to fill these out.”

  Violet could only stare at the words DEATH REPORT at the top. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the clipboard. The woman jabbed a pen in her direction and walked into the back rooms.

  Crescents in general had their prejudices against Fringers, viewing them with the jaundiced disdain bestowed to “hillbillies.” Since Fringers didn’t want outsiders poking into their business, they happily perpetuated the stereotype. Mostly it worked, and the Guard only stepped in when illegal activities might draw the attention of the Mundane police.

  The joke was on the Crescent population, really. Fringe families had taken land no one else wanted so long ago and cultivated it. The marshes and swamp areas were the most beautiful, richest, and most private of all the inhabitable land in the area. To Violet, the busy, loud city was the unwanted area.

  The receptionist returned a few moments later. “Someone will be with you shortly.”

  I bet.

  She bet right. Once all the papers were filled out, with the cold facts of her brother’s life and death crammed into lines not nearly long enough, she spent the time checking e-mails on her phone and confirming a couple of appointments with jewelry stores. Finally she played a couple rounds of Angry Birds before a voice penetrated. “Miss Castanega.”

  A young man stood in the open doorway with that same sour look. He’d drawn the short straw, evidently. She was so sick of being judged by her name, her family.

  She swallowed the weariness and plastered a professional expression on her face. He took the clipboard and said nothing more, just walked into a large room filled with desks. Expecting her to follow, she assumed. The Guard’s officers wore business attire, not uniforms. She didn’t need to see his magick tattoo identifying him as the lowest officer, an Argus. The fact that he led her to one of the desks crammed into the center of the room said as much. There were only two types of officers in the Guard, Arguses and Vegas, who handled the higher-level issues.

  Several other officers sat at their desks, both men and women. Most were engaged with a complainant, and she heard snippets of conversations about the crazy neighbor releasing orbs from his roof and Aunt Betty running naked down the street. Those officers not busy watched her openly, as though they were ready to be amused. Someone whistled the banjo theme from Deliverance.

  Idjit. That movie was set in Georgia, not southern Florida.

  She gripped her alligator purse handle tighter. The skin came from their farm, the purse from the company that fashioned them into four-hundred-dollar bags and belts. She wanted to tell these people that their operation used every part of the gator so nothing went to waste. That the income from their various enterprises provided well for the families it supported, far better than the Guard probably paid their employees. They also ensured that the alligator population thrived, that the nests in the wild were protected.

  Violet met a few curious gazes, most giving her a dose of a sneer. Her Dragon rolled over her senses, bringing everything into hyperfocus. She felt its heat as it pressed close to the surface.

  Back. Not a good place to show yourself. You’ll—we’ll—be pounced, blasted, and incinerated before we can blink.

  She pushed it back deep inside her and found the more tolerable sight of paintings situated between doors, done in various mediums, styles, and probably eras. Depictions of the gods, even the ones who fell. For younger generations, the gods were mythical, part of distant history. Her clan descended from Mora, Dragon goddess of creativity and beauty. Here she was illustrated as a gorgeous green Dragon surrounded by flowers and butterflies. She was about to snap her fangs around the neck of a bird with bright plumage.

  The man led her to a female officer’s desk. “Here, K, this one’s all yours.” He shoved the clipboard at her. “I’ve got better things to do.”

  Mia Kavanaugh, according to her nameplate, gave
him an acidic look but turned to Violet. “Please sit.” Her gaze skimmed the top of the report, and Violet could tell the moment her last name registered.

  Mia’s moss-green eyes took her in, swirling with trademark Deuce mist that, like Dragon’s flames, could only be seen by Crescents. She seemed surprised by something, maybe that Violet could wear something other than torn blue jeans and swamp waders or that she had all her teeth. Nah. She hadn’t smiled to show them.

  Mia set the clipboard down and met her gaze. “Ms. Castanega, please tell me your family hasn’t killed the Mundane who is screaming to the world that there’s a dinosaur in the swamp.”

  Dragonfire, that’s where she was going to go? “Even though Smitty’s always sneaking around on our private land with his video cameras, we have refrained from harming him. This has nothing to do with him.”

  “You piqued his interest. One of your family members obviously revealed your magick. Which makes you a reckless element—”

  “This has nothing to do with that idjit, and we are not reckless.” Well, most of the time. Wild, daring, and a little bit crazy, yes, but all aware of the punishment for breaking Rule Number One: death. “The murder I’m here to report is my brother’s.”

  “Details?”

  Don’t cry. You’re good at that, years of being teased by three brothers…now two…

  She swallowed back the rest of her thoughts and the sob that threatened to erupt. “My brother Arlo was murdered yesterday by a Dragon who Breathed his power. He was attacked on our property without provocation. But—”

  “You know the Guard doesn’t interfere with the swamp clans’ feuds.” Mia lifted the clipboard, her face relaxing as she thought her job here was done. “We will, of course, file the proper paperwork.”