Old Evil (The Last Dragon Lord Book 2)

by Michael La Ronn

  ***

  Dark stood behind his parents as they addressed a seaside village. A crowd of elves and humans gathered in a meadow to pay tribute to them.

  “It is our hope that we can come to an amicable arrangement,” Smirnagond said. She stalked through the crowd as she spoke. She towered over their heads. As she passed, elves and humans ducked away from her.

  What a relief to see elves living in huts with thatched roofs instead concrete fortresses. What a relief to see them subservient, afraid, respectful!

  “Our problem is not with you,” Smirnagond said. She was unsmiling, unafraid, even as hundreds surrounded her. “Be industrious, pay us dragons our tribute when we ask for it, and you will find that we Darks can be your allies. More than Karagarn. But whether we are allies or enemies depends entirely upon you.”

  Alsatius stepped forward. “And trust me, you don’t want my wife as your enemy. My son is just as wicked—isn’t that right, my boy?”

  On cue, Dark poured a wooden bucket of blood across the grass. The rest of the royal entourage followed suit until the grass was stained with it. The crowd groaned and covered their noses. Some vomited. Others cried.

  “This is what happens when you disobey,” Alsatius said. “You become an example.”

  “We dragons, elves and humans have one thing in common,” Smirnagond said. “Respect for our elders. You are all future elders. What a terrific observation and prophecy I am giving you today! What do you want your progeny to say about you?”

  Even though it was a rhetorical question, she paused for a long while, sneered at a woman holding two babies and said “Far better that you live to find out.”

  She spread her wings and the crowd of people dropped to their knees and began to pray.

  “Well done,” Alsatius whispered. “They fell right into line. They thought it was real blood.”

  It wasn’t.

  It was cow blood, gathered from the last two weeks’ worth of tributes. But that was his and his father’s little secret.

  “It’s not about violence,” Alsatius said. “Any brute can crack bones and drink blood. And maybe it will work for a time. This is about fear. That’s the invisible ingredient that holds this all together. Violence is just the dressing, my boy. Bloody no doubt, but a dressing, indeed.”

  ***

  Dark stood on the balcony of his family palace as a sea of dragons paid tribute to him. The crowd bustled with color, a mosaic of scales in the mountain valley below. They stood on the ground, flew through the sky, circled the palace to get a look at him.

  This was his coronation.

  He was the Dragon Lord.

  It’s too soon.

  I wasn’t meant to lead. Not yet.

  Why hadn’t he been able to revisit more memories of his parents?

  “No!” he cried. “Turn back time!”

  But the crowd roared.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Norwyn. The white dragon stared at him with cobalt eyes, and his mouth twisted into a frown. “My lord, are you ill?”

  Norwyn!

  He hadn’t changed. Still white as a cloud, with piercing blue eyes like a calm ocean. His best friend, his advisor—the only one who understood him and his family, for he was more stoic than even them.

  Dark embraced him. “I have waited a thousand years to thank you.”

  Norwyn’s eyes widened. “Thank me for what?”

  “You fought for me.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You were the only one I could count on, and even in the farthest corner of my mind, I never doubted you, Norwyn.”

  Dark remembered that this was a memory. He sighed and said, “I don’t know what got into me.”

  “It’s quite all right.”

  Norwyn stepped aside, and Fenroot led Dark’s parents onto the balcony. Alsatius was a shell of his former self, with a blindfold around his eyes. Some of his teeth were missing.

  Smirnagond was covered with cuts, and she limped because all of her legs had been broken and the bones healed unevenly. Her mouth was sewn shut, and magical stitches glowed pink and purple, a subtle reminder that no spell could ever undo them. Looking into her fierce green eyes, Dark sensed both sadness and pride.

  Dark growled at the sight of Fenroot. “You were supposed to be dead.”

  But Fenroot didn’t hear him.

  Dark rushed at Fenroot and slashed him, but his claws went through the silver dragon and no one noticed the attack.

  Dark screamed and slashed at Fenroot again, but nothing. Dark stood heaving, wishing he could end Fenroot again and again. But then his eyes went to his father, who looked desperate and anxious.

  “Has he begun his address yet?” Alsatius asked. “I want to hear the address!”

  Alsatius groped around, but Fenroot helped him and reassured him.

  “Where is he?” Alsatius asked.

  “I’m here,” Dark said.

  Alsatius re-oriented himself in Dark’s direction. “Ah, it feels good to hear your voice. I’ll never get used to this blindness. I would give anything to see again, just for a moment.”

  “I promised you I’d find a cure,” Dark said. “I won’t rest until I do.”

  It hurt him to make the promise. It had hurt even then, but it really hurt now.

  Alsatius reached out his hand and touched Dark on the chest. “Show the world what you’re made of. Show the dragon race that its greatest days are ahead.”

  Norwyn leaned in. “He’s right. We should get this over with, my lord.” He glanced over the crowd, taking them in. Dark knew that Norwyn was strategizing, but he couldn’t decipher what the white dragon was thinking. Dark inhaled deeply and then exhaled. He spread his wings and the crowd roared louder than he thought possible as he walked to the edge of the balcony and began his speech.

  ***

  He could see only black.

  He heard his voice filling the darkness. As it spoke, the very words lit up in his field of vision, hovering like wisps of light that disappeared quickly as he said them.

  “My children, you have betrayed me. You have turned the magic of this world into poison, and you would dare use that poison against me. I should dispose of you all. But I will spare this village under two conditions.”

  He remembered this. He had given this speech on the beach in an elven village just before his betrayal. He had rounded up a hundred elves who cowered under him in fear.

  Then voices sang.

  Smile for us, old dragon lord,

  for the world may soon stop spinning.

  Shadow’s flame is you, old lord,

  and this dead world needs your kindling.

  The voices were out of tune.

  They were mocking him.

  They were attacking his confidence.

  “Argh!” Dark screamed. “Stop replaying this memory. I don’t want to hear it!”

  They had tricked him. The entire village was a part of a resistance. Why hadn’t he seen it?

  I let my ego drive my actions, he thought sadly. I allowed my enemies to exploit my weaknesses.

  Then he heard screams of men, women, and children.

  Roars.

  The crackle of flames.

  The attack.

  Fenroot’s pained roar rising from the woods.

  He heard himself scream Fenroot’s name.

  “Fenroot!”

  No, Dark thought. No, you stupid dragon, don’t run into the woods!

  But all he saw was the blackness. He heard his footsteps tracking frantically through the underbrush.

  “Fenroot!” he cried. “Fenroot!”

  No! Turn around! Stop chasing him!

  “A little help, my lord,” Fenroot said.

  Don’t help him!

  Dark heard himself scream. He relived the pain again as the curse surged through his body, breaking his bones.

  Not again! Damn you, Fenroot. Damn you, and everything you stand for!

  Then, voices again
.

  “Did the curse work? Will he die?”

  “Wasn’t he supposed to be dead by now? It didn’t work!”

  “Quiet,” Fenroot said.

  The darkness disappeared in a flash and he saw Norwyn fighting Fenroot in the woods. The two dragons danced around snapping ferociously at each other’s necks.

  A long, slender dragon floated over them. He had green scales, a white mane, and a crooked smile. Dark reviled him on sight.

  Moss, you traitor. Norwyn, watch out!

  As if to punish him, the memory flickered away, replaced by the darkness again.

  Dark felt his body drifting, like he was floating down the banks of a slow-moving river. There was no sight, no smell, no sound. Just the stillness of his own mind.

  This was the real prison. Not the cage. Not his captors. The replays of the memories. The missed opportunities.

  He wished he could go back. He wished with every scale in his body.

  I failed my parents. They died like animals. I should have ended their suffering when I had the chance.

  I lost everything.

  I have become nothing.

  A voice cut through the darkness. It was Miri’s voice. He didn’t know why he was thinking of her now, but there was no doubt—it was her.

  “Yet you are still alive,” Miri said.

  I am still alive.

  “When your parents were cursed, what did you do?”

  My entire life changed.

  “In other words, you changed course.”

  “Yes.”

  “You recalculated your odds, and then you forged a new path. Isn’t that what we all do?”

  I suppose you are correct, Miri Charmwell.

  “At some point you have to accept things as they are.”

  Then he heard his father’s voice: Magic has its cost. Sometimes, my boy, we must accept it.

  The two voices blended together, talking over each other. Then he heard other voices.

  Fenroot.

  Moss.

  Norwyn.

  Lucan.

  They all talked over each other and Dark couldn’t understand what they were saying.

  Miri’s voice began to yell.

  “Dark. Dark. Dark!”

  He felt the strange need to open his eyes and release himself from it all.

  To his surprise, his eyes opened.

  The world swam back to him.

  He was awake. The dream was over, or at least he hoped it was as the sleepy fog disappeared from his head, allowing his single eye to focus.

  He was in his cell. His body ached. Sunlight shone through the skylight window.

  His eye was heavy with sleep, and he didn’t know how long he’d slept.

  He became aware of his own beating heart. It beat like a hummingbird flapping its wings. A rush of anxiety, fear and hopelessness overcame him until he remembered Miri’s voice.

  “At some point you have to accept things as they are.”

  Dark struggled to remember all the memories he’d been through. But he heard her voice again.

  “Dark. Dark. Dark!”

  He looked up.

  Miri was there, in a wide-brimmed hat with a notebook in her hand, and she was smiling.

  IX

  Lucan plopped on his bed as the detective entered the hospital room.

  “Mr. Grimoire, I’m Demetrius Shalewood,” the detective said. He was human. He wore a black suit and had black eyes and dark skin like cocoa. If Lucan wouldn’t have known, he could have passed for a soldier off-duty. He was rather short, with a round face, mustache, nappy hair, and a quiet but stern disposition.

  “Shalewood?” Lucan asked, shaking the detective’s hand, “Are you Amal Shalewood’s husband?”

  “Yes, but this has nothing to do with the election. You’ll get no political opposition from me.”

  “Tell your wife to drop out and I’ll believe you.”

  Demetrius frowned. He pointed to a chair by the window. “May I?”

  Lucan nodded.

  The man pulled out a notepad and pencil and he sat in the chair, crossing his legs. He scratched the date and Lucan’s name on the top of the page in neat handwriting.

  “You do your detective work in pencil, eh?” Lucan asked. “Never seen that before. Do you ever just say fuck it and start doing chiaroscuro in the middle of an interrogation?”

  “All humor aside, we’re on the same team, Mr. Grimoire.”

  “Riiiight.”

  Demetrius continued, ignoring the comment. “You’re lucky to be alive. I’ve seen victims who took bullets after casting deflection spells. They didn’t live to tell about it.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  There was awkward silence and Lucan whistled.

  “Who tried to kill you, Lucan?” Demetrius asked.

  Lucan checked his watch. “A nut ball, that’s who. But that’s all I can say until my attorney is present.”

  Demetrius raised his eyebrows and shifted uncomfortably in the chair, letting out a frustrated grunt.

  “And you have an attorney because...?”

  “Because I’m running for governor, that’s why. Look, I’ll cooperate and tell you what you want to know. But I’m not saying anymore until my attorney gets here.”

  Technically, the conversation was over and Demetrius couldn’t push him further. Not legally. Lucan wasn’t a target; he was a sympathy witness so the detective wouldn’t have any leverage. But he knew better than to start talking to an MCU detective unfiltered. They had a way of nosing into everything.

  Demetrius closed his notebook and gave Lucan a resolute look. “Then I’ll wait.”

  Well, this was going to be weird if they had to sit here longer than two minutes.

  Demetrius stared at Lucan unflinchingly, as if he were studying him. He had that detective gaze, and eyes that observed everything.

  “You’re killing me, Shalewood,” Lucan said. “I know I’m sexy, but goddamn.” He pointed to a food tray in the corner of the room. “You hungry? This hospital food is shit.”

  He’d had a bowl of cantaloupe and it tasted like wet rubber. He’d spit it on the floor and told his guard to get him a hamburger.

  “If it’s so bad, why do you think I would eat it?” Demetrius asked.

  Lucan shrugged. “Just being courteous, man. Want some coffee, then?”

  “No thanks. I stopped drinking coffee years ago.”

  “A detective that doesn’t drink coffee,” Lucan said. “You’re a man of mystery, Shalewood.”

  They sat in silence for a while. Outside, sirens wailed on the highway toward Skyscraper Park. An airplane’s engine droned as it passed overhead. The blue sky was speckled with clouds, the kind of bright day that made Lucan wonder what everyone in the city was doing. This was a day for campaigning outside, drinking on the beach, making love—anything but being stuck in a hospital.

  “Can I ask you a personal question?” Lucan asked. He lie back on the bed and propped his head on the pillow. He pulled a sandwich bag of cashews out of his shirt pocket and tossed a nut in his mouth. “It’s not like we have anything else to talk about in the meantime, you know?”

  Demetrius looked at him blankly.

  “What was it like working in the same department as your wife?”

  “Like any other job.”

  “Even though she was your boss as the MCU Chief?”

  “We didn’t let that come between us.”

  “What do you talk about at home?”

  “Magic.”

  “God. Those must be some interesting conversations. How did it feel when she ordered the pay cuts?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “It’s public record. It’s everyone’s business.”

  “If you’re trying to find out if I’m disgruntled, or if I support the governor, Mr. Grimoire, I’m sorry to say that you’re going to be disappointed.”

  “Not at all,” Lucan said. “I respect Magical Crimes. Just a little conce
rning that you folks can’t get anything done anymore.”

  “I’ll wait outside,” Demetrius said.

  Lucan smirked. But at that moment, a woman in a gray suit entered the room. She had short hair and carried a portfolio with the Grimoire family crest inscribed on it.

  Lucan sighed with relief to see his attorney. Rosemary Sage had gotten him out of a lot of legal troubles. He had called her the night he found Old Dark and asked her about some hypotheticals. She was good-looking too, with an athletic frame. She could be a real fury in the courtroom.

  “Glad to see you’re all right,” Rosemary said. She nodded to Demetrius. “A moment, please.”

  Demetrius gathered his things and shut the door behind him.

  “So what happened?” she asked.

  “I got shot.”

  “Obviously. What else?”

  “I was bleeding a lot. I’m okay now. End of story.”

  “You’re surprisingly talkative today.”

  Lucan chuckled. “Well, let me ask you something. If the man who tried to kill me was angry at me because of a payroll dispute, what would the consequences be?”

  Rosemary rubbed her temples. “Lucan, what does this have to do with your payroll?”

  “The guy who shot me, his kid worked for me.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I hired him as an assistant. He was an errand-boy.”

  “When did you hire him?”

  “Four days ago.”

  Rosemary’s jaw dropped. She began to pace around the room with her arms folded. “Is this related to the thing you called me about a few days ago? The bog you said you weren’t at but possibly could have been?”

  “That was a hypothetical payroll question, remember—but yeah, maybe.”

  Rosemary sighed. “And why was he angry, Lucan?”

  “His dad wanted more money.”

  “His dad? How old is this kid?” Rosemary asked.

  “Hell if I know. Nineteen, maybe twenty.”

  “You didn’t verify?”

  “He’s in college, Rosie. It’s fine.”

  “How much did you agree to pay him?”