by Livia Quinn
Feeling for its limbs, grasping for a handhold… appendages, the head, eyes, tender joints, he felt only a rough hide and spiny ridge like wings with razor sharp tips he needed to avoid. At one point he thought he had his hand on its head but the dome felt… weird… like a rock or faceted stone. It plowed into the bottom, dragging him through it and practically sitting on him, pressing him face first into the mud.
This was bad. If he were above the water he might have taken a deep breath to calm himself. He resisted the urge to do that knowing he must breathe out if minutely to keep the water from forcing its way into his nose and then his lungs.
He was starting to feel the effects of his struggles, his air getting low, legs still trapped by the beast. He had no idea what form it would take out of the water, as it was impossible for him to determine what it was, the way it held itself and held him. It was powerful, and it was much too large to remain hidden beneath the shallow waters of the Forge for long.
So, did the Para-moon have something to do with it being here, or was its appearance merely coincidental. Was it in league with their enemy or some kind of lone wolf? Now’s a helluva time to start thinking analytically, Dylan. And those questions would be moot before long as he was about to either gasp out of desperation and swallow a lungful of bayou slime, or his lungs would collapse.
Desperation hit first. He pushed against the creature’s sides with his hands and twisted to free his legs but it wasn’t happening. He squirmed frantically but to no avail. The thing must weigh a couple tons and only the water’s buoyancy kept it from crushing him. Maybe he should play dead. Well, before long he would be.
Fuzzily his hand came up to cover his nose and mouth, trying to avoid taking in water, but as the fog eased across his senses he knew that of course, he wouldn’t be able to hold his nose in unconsciousness and then, he would drown.
At least he knew it wasn’t Katerina. Beautiful, dark, sleek Kat. Too bad he wouldn’t get a chance to see her again, to save her… from her past. And he hated… hated…
His hand slipped off the spiny ridge of leathery skin as his mind drifted and the other floated away from his face. The reflex of his parched lungs was to fill, taking in their first wash of dirty swamp water. Then, everything went black.
Chapter 12
Seconds or minutes later he came awake violently, coughing, spewing foul swamp detritus. Opening his eyes as water drained from his limbs, he realized he was being lifted out of the swamp, and was looking down at the ridged back of the creature from twenty feet in the air. Hadn’t he, just seconds before, been in the clutches of a large creature of indeterminable species?
He blinked eyes filmed over with grit and slime and started squirming, then thought better of it because, really, he didn’t want to end up back in the water with that thing. His arms felt like they were about to be jerked out of their sockets. His feet flew around under him as the crane or whatever had saved him swung him toward land. As soon as the bank came into view the operator simply opened its jaws and dropped him to the ground below.
Dylan groaned as he crossed his arms over his chest, squeezing his triceps to massage the pain. Something nudged his ribs and, afraid the swamp thang had followed him out of the water, he rolled away from the edge. He coughed and spewed the foul tasting water until he thought he’d spew up his very lungs.
The nudge came again and when he opened his slimy eyes, his vision was dark. Had he been blinded? If he were Finrir he could heal, but without that nature available to him, it would go with him eternally. He panicked. Then the darkness moved, gray sky entered his field of vision and he got a glimpse of his savior.
Not a crane. But it definitely had jaws. Dylan’s eyes widened as he looked into the face? Snout? Teeth—certainly—of the biggest baddest looking black dragon he’d ever seen. It looked down at him benignly, which made sense because a dragon his size certainly wouldn’t be worried about a little bedraggled, powerless Finrir.
Although, maybe he was inferring the wrong thing from that look. Maybe he was about to be lunch. Dylan thought from the tilt of the dragon’s head and the one eye open wider than the other, he’d been considered for an appetizer and found wanting.
The dragon’s long toothy snout lowered until it was so close, Dylan could make out the fine edge of red around its lips and nostrils. Its eyes, the color of live flames, swirled. Uh-oh. He rose up on his elbows preparing to crab walk away when the roar came again.
Dylan looked toward the sound and the dragon looked as well, but his expression didn’t change. Not much affected him it seemed. And why should it? Surely, his kind, if there were more—and that was a terrifying thought—were the largest on Earth.
“So it wasn’t you,” Dylan said, when it dawned on him that this giant black mass of Dragondom hadn’t been the creature in the swamp. Either his mind was fogged from the power down and being held under until he’d nearly kicked it, or it was addled from the abrupt fall from those fearsome jaws. Of course it hadn’t been him. No way he could hide that gargantuan body in a six-foot deep swamp.
He backed up when fire more or less drizzled from the dragon’s nostrils as it looked off toward the sound and back at Dylan. Dylan could have sworn the expression on the dragon’s face was something akin to, Duh, you think you dragged yourself out?
Reluctantly Dylan said, “Thanks. That is unless you saved me to eat me,” that with a questioning lilt to his words.
The air shimmered and Dylan felt, more than saw the dragon shift, it happened so fast. In front of him stood a warrior. This had to be the Knight Tempe mentioned since the swords were unlike anything Dylan had ever seen.
His eyes and the surrounding skin were almost as black as his scales, and his long hair. Across his powerful shoulders were raised tattoos. His wrists, waist and feet were encased in tool worked bronze and pewter, and the hilts of those shiny crenelated sword edges were flashing visibly behind his head. He wondered briefly where all that metal went when he changed.
Dylan remembered his conversation with Tempe. She’d asked if he knew a Samurai Knight. This Knight was no Samurai. And anyone seeing the leathery tatts on his shoulders probably mistook them for bat wings, to their eternal surprise.
The Knight stared down at Dylan, then held out his hand. It was huge and square, the bronze skin smooth, not leathery or scaled as Dylan would have expected. He was not the first dragon Dylan had met, but he was by far the biggest.
“Come, mon, do you wish to lie there like a big Jessie until that Vouivre comes back? If so, I’ll be g’win. I ha’e important business at the golf course.”
The long fingers moved once to remind Dylan he was dealing with an impatient dragon, with appointments to keep (and a thousand miles before he could sleep). Oh boy, he was losing it. He took the Knight’s hand. From the strength of his grip he figured this dragonman could have easily sent him flying through the air and back into the swamp. Standing, he was nearly eye-to-eye with the warrior. “What’s this business you spoke of? Who are you?”
A smile kicked up on one side of the enigmatic face. “Yer welcome, lad. I’m on my way to help a pal. Conor de Sept Flambé at your service.” He canted his head in a slight nod.
“Dylan McGuinness. Not to be nosy, but it’s part of being an investigator—who’s your pal? Didn’t you just get here?” He doubted there was anywhere in Destiny this big humping dragon could have hidden for long. And he didn’t know of any other dragons in Destiny.
“Come wit’ me and I’ll tell you aboot him.”
“How do you plan to get to the golf course, walk?”
Flambé just stared at Dylan, his eyes shooting him an if-you-can’t-figure-that-one-out look. Dylan could just see it. Sunday morning, people leaving church, getting ready to go to the park, washing their cars, and suddenly the sun goes dark. They look up to see a fantasy creature from an old Matthew McConaughey movie—swooping down. They’d think end of the world… “Let’s save the general population from mass hysteria and take my
vehicle,” Dylan offered.
Conor shrugged, “Suit yerself. But hurry, mon, Garric is in dire need of assistance.”
Dylan led the Knight to his SUV not bothering to ask what he’d do with the swords. Some topics should probably be avoided. “Who’s this Garric, anyway? And how do you know him—you’ve been here how long?”
“Since Saturday morn.” Dylan floored the SUV taking off in the direction of Enchanted Glen. “Garric is a Paramortal shifter, like yourself. Not Finrir. With the Para-moon, he needs to be in his den to survive his recent unfortunate circumstances. As it is, not being able to shift, the healing will be prolonged.”
Dylan frowned. “I don’t know any shifters that live around the golf course.”
“Not around, on. You know him as Lancelot.”
Chapter 13
Dylan knew his mouth was hanging open. Shaking himself, because it was embarrassing appearing so uninformed to this dragon. “A shifter gator? I thought Lancelot was down at LSU. The super-vets down there were hoping to save him.”
Conor cursed and smoke accumulated in the cab. “They were about to kill him. He escaped and manage to nearly make it back to his den, but the moons have affected his strength and shifting abilities.”
“What did you call that thing in the swamp? Did you see it? All I saw was a huge mass under water. It felt like it had spiny fins, and it was trying to smother me in the muck.” Even to his own ears, Dylan thought he sounded like a toddler. How? Why? Who? Why now? Whah, whah. He was so not himself.
“The creature was Le Vouivre. She is a cousin, a dragonFae of the four elements. Don’t confuse her with the others,” Flambé said.
What did that mean? What others? Dylan wondered. “Why is this gator so important?”
“Why is any being important?” was Conor’s response, which more than anything he’d heard so far convinced him this was one of Jack’s good POPs. Yay. Jack was going to need help.
Dylan looked out his window. The dragon Knight was playing it close to his scaly vest. “Look, you can trust me…”
Flambé’s eyes tracked to Dylan’s as if they controlled the direction of his face as well; cool, black eyes that gave nothing away, kind of like Dylan’s demeanor had been everyday since his quickening with the exception of today. “If I weren’t sure of that, Finrir, I would have let Le Vouivre smother you. You ken?”
Dylan did ken, and making fists around the steering wheel resisted either a shiver or a retort.
They passed the last mile in a tacit uncommunicative quiet.
The parking lot at the clubhouse was empty so Dylan parked in front. By the time he got out of the car, Conor was already walking toward the fairway.
“Flambé, do you know where you’re going?”
The Knight placed one foot down, then placed the other next to it deliberately and turned. Dylan got the feeling he was doing a mental eye roll.
“Well, how do you know where you’re going?” This time dragonman ignored the questions, resuming his steady pace along the cart path at the side of the clubhouse. Dylan jogged up next to him, matching him stride for long stride.
The guy gave new meaning to the word stoic, and Dylan mourned the loss of the “dark and scary” tag which he’d maintained sole possession of until today. Guess it goes to show there’s always someone badder out there than you. Disconcerting thought what with the power down and beings like this Vouivre in town. And what had the Knight meant by “Don’t confuse her with the others?”
Her? With his mind racing, Dylan didn’t realize Flambé had stopped walking until he nearly sliced his nose off on one of the menacing swords. He stepped around him and saw what had caused the warrior to stop mid-stride.
A very large redheaded naked man lay on the fairway. He was face down, his strapping arms lying next to tree trunk sized thighs as if he hadn’t even attempted to break his fall.
“Is this… Garric?” asked Dylan.
Conor nodded. “Yes. Git’his legs.”
“How do you know him?” Dylan knew he was sounding like Chatty Cathy but he was feeling a little like Jack now. Getting hit with this much new information as long as he’d been around was a new experience.
“We need to move him to his den.”
“Oh, the slew. That’s what he’s doing here?” Dylan wished to God he could make himself shut up but his lips seemed to move without his brain even forming the words.
The Knight’s eyes did a swan dive and motioned for Dylan to get busy.
“Well, I didn’t know. How come he’s never shown his man form before?”
Flambé let out a breath. “He does’nae take human form unless he’s ill, or during the Para-moon. In this case whatever poison the Nucklavee used, Sir Garric is still suffering from it and, unable to get to his den, he cannae heal. Now stop asking so many questions, mon, and make yerself useful.” The burr was getting very pronounced and Dylan thought it might be a signal of the dragon’s impending shift. He shut up.
Conor stomped around to the prone man’s head, the toes of his metal plated boots even with his shoulders. Pointing at Lancelot’s—Garric’s—feet, he bent to turn him over. Dylan stooped to help. He appeared to be in bad shape, the coloration of his chest, face and thighs almost purple. “What now?” Dylan asked. “He doesn’t look good.” Dylan didn’t have any idea what a sick were-gator would look like in human form, but the purple mottling on his sunken skin couldn’t be normal.
“You pick up his legs. I’ll get his shoulders,” Conor commanded.
“Where are we taking him? Shouldn’t we call a healer, an EMT, the vet?” Dylan asked.
“McGuinness, are you always so full of questions? Grab his legs and let’s go.”
Dylan shut-up, again. He resolved to be more like his usual self, which he figured was about as likely as an addict resolving not to snort crack, at least until after the Coincidence. He would admit he was having some issues, but he didn’t intend to admit it to Flambé. That would be like a mouse sitting in front of a cobra saying, “You know I’m helpless, so eat me”. He bent and picked up the heavy lower limbs of the sick were while the Knight lifted his upper torso effortlessly. He could probably carry Garric fireman style all by himself.
“Walk,” dragonman said.
Dylan walked. He wanted to ask where they were taking him but the big man was so heavy it took all his effort to walk and not drop him. To Dylan it felt like they’d been plodding along forever. The ailing gatorman never stirred or moaned. Finally, the swordsman stopped and lowered the man’s head to the ground. Dylan followed suit, lowering his feet, breathing hard. Dylan would have bit his tongue not to ask another question, but curiosity was killing him.
“Now to place him in his den.” He pointed at the slew.
Dylan gawked, “What are you trying to do, kill him? He’s hardly breathing and he’s not in gator form. Won’t he drown?”
Conor sighed and muttered what sounded like, “Were-bears…” under his breath, then he straddled Garric’s waist, grasped his wrists pulling him forward and launched the nearly three hundred pound victim up and over his shoulder as if he weighed nothing. Son of a bitch. The dragon had been playing him. Dylan seethed.
“Ach, dinnae fash yerself, Finrir, we drakos must get our fun where we can, ye ken?”
He turned and with a mighty heave, tossed Garric into the slew. Dylan just stared. Conor turned toward him, “Now he will heal. The waters of his den have power.”
“Oh,” Dylan got it. “They tap into the Super pulse that runs through the Forge.”
Conor merely nodded not making a big deal of Dylan not knowing about Garric. Thankfully.
“So what now? Why are you here, anyway? To rescue gators and Finrirs? Why haven’t I ever met you before?”
“Ach, Finrir. You ask too many questions. This is new?”
“Probably, but it would be helpful to know if you’ll be around for the next twenty-four hours. We could use your help,” Dylan said. But instead of answering, with a
quick flick of his shoulders, Conor transformed. Literally. One second, Dylan was looking at a Knight, and the next he was eye level with two red trimmed dragon feet, the deadly claws fully extended, flexing and rutting up the fancy green fairway.
Dylan looked up… and up. He’d wondered if his first take on the dragon’s size had been skewed by his situation and the shock of being rescued. But that was not the case. This was one big sucker smiling down at him, rather sarcastically.
“Okay, see you around, I guess.”
The dragon’s head dipped almost in a bow, acknowledging Dylan’s words, then Dylan ducked as one huge foot rose and traveling over his head landed just long enough on the other side of him to push off and up into the sky; the dragon’s body followed, as if he didn’t weigh as much as a loaded semi. Dylan had to admit as he watched the ebony dragon gain altitude, he was pretty damn impressive. He just hoped he’d stick around.
He made his way back to his SUV and turned the key in the ignition but the engine didn’t turn over. What the hell? He tried again, got out and checked under the hood but in the end he knew he would have to call someone to give him a lift to Aurora’s. He decided on the likely victim. Jack.
Chapter 14
Jack’s phone rang as he drove toward Aurora Borealis. He was tempted not to answer it when he saw Unknown on the display but accepted the call. He was surprised to find Dylan on the other end of the line. “Sheriff Lang.”
“So formal, Jack.” Dylan’s voice. “Where are you?”
“I’m on my way to Aurora Borealis, Dylan. I was hoping I’d find you there as well.”
Dylan’s voice was more cheerful than usual, flippant even. “Well, you’re in luck. I’m at Enchanted Glen, and I need a lift.”
Jack frowned, not able to imagine a reason why the capable investigator would find himself without transportation and even more curious why he would choose to call him. And that led him back to how someone like Dylan could wind up needing a ride. “What happened to your vehicle?” he asked.
