by Ines Johnson
The Dragon’s Reluctant Sacrifice
The Last Dragons Book 1
Ines Johnson
Copyright © 2019, Ines Johnson. All rights reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and incidents described in this publication are used fictitiously, or are entirely fictional. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, except by an authorized retailer, or with written permission of the author.
Edited by Alyssa Breck
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition September 2019
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
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Chapter One
Thwap! Crunch! Crack!
Holding still and anticipating a punch was always more painful than when it came as a complete surprise. When the opponent knew the assault was coming, the body tensed, preparing to absorb something meant to rip it apart. Corun tensed, but he was made of stronger stuff, so his jaw didn’t split open like a melon upon the impact of the direct hit.
Still, the five-fingered blow rattled his skull. The shock interrupted his brain waves. That was the main pain point; not being able to think for a full second.
Corun’s brain was his most valuable asset, the thing he was trying to protect, which had led him to agree to be punched in the face.
Pow! Blap! Boff!
He must be losing his mind to allow this to continue. That right hook to his eye and uppercut to his chin made him see cartoon stars. Holy cranial hemorrhage, Batman. Corun had to put a stop to this little experiment before it got out of hand. Too bad his opponent wasn’t done throwing out variables with a jab and a cross to his solar plexus.
Corun doubled over. A thick curl of smoke clouded his vision. The sweat that formed on his brow vaporized in the heat of his exhale. His chest heaved up and down in rapid motions as he fought against the slow burn in his belly. Meanwhile, each successive body shot acted like kindling to the fire licking up the walls of his insides.
“Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee,” sang the voice of his oppressor as he shuffled his feet, moving around Corun with his hands up. Even with the cushion of the boxing gloves, it didn’t douse the impact of Beryl’s powerful blows. The man’s biceps likely weighed fifty pounds each.
Corun ignored the performance of the fast-footed blockhead and focused on the fire inside him. He had to stunt the growth of the blaze in his gut. He had to snuff out the torch. If he didn’t, the flames would consume him, eat him alive from the inside out. Worse, the inferno would short circuit his mind.
“His hands can't hit what his eyes can't see.” Another jab, jab, and right hook from Beryl. “Now you see me, now you don't. He thinks he will, but I know he won’t.”
Corun was about to call an end to the agony of the rhyming when another deafening crack sent his face away from the walls and toward the window. The dark sky lit up as the flames contained in his belly roared into his chest and burst out of his throat. The dark gray room made of stone washed over into a deep shade of red as the beast inside him slipped its leash.
“Ha!” Beryl raised his gloves into the sky in victory. “I did it! The beast is loose. I am the greatest of all time.”
The beast was loose, but it wasn’t free.
Corun grit his teeth. Sucking in a lungful of air, his gaze fixed on the white moon outside. The pale disk was still red in his slitted vision. Corun didn’t dare close his eyes. Otherwise, he might be lost to the darkness of the beast within him.
His lungs constricted as man and beast fought for the air in there. His heart beat erratically as the organ was pulled in two different directions. It would be so much easier for Corun to simply give in to the fire inside of him, to let it burn off his weak skin.
Scales were stronger than flesh. Claws tougher than nails. Instinct stronger than rationality.
No. That was a lie. His mind, his will power, was the core of him. He would never let that go.
With a firm grasp on his reality, Corun wrangled the monster that wanted to eat the man whole. He put it—claw, scales, and all—back into its cage deep inside his gut. The fire inside of him settled to a manageable warmth. Flesh won out as scales smoothed into golden, tan skin. The moon turned from ruby red to the pink of a sapphire, and finally, the harsh ice of a diamond. The beast hunched down inside its cage.
For now.
Back in complete control, Corun shut his eyes, letting out the held breath. When he opened them again, dark wings eclipsed the moon as a different beast flew outside the window. His short-lived triumph was crushed. He might’ve won the inner battle, but he was losing the outer war.
Corun rose from the chair and moved toward the papers on his desk. Spread out on the parchment were notations and formulas and equations. A bubbling brew that changed from red to green to blue sat in a goblet over a flame.
“Aww,” groaned Beryl as he pulled off his gloves. “Are we done with beat your brother up at work day? And here I thought we were bonding.”
The experiment was over. It had been a success. Corun picked up the vile of liquid and examined it, scribbling more notes on the parchment. The inoculation was almost there, but it needed something more.
Maybe more pollen from a fairy’s anther. Or a few more hairs from a lion shifter’s mane. Probably a few more shavings from a bear shifter’s claw. With just a bit more tweaking, it could be ready to share with his brothers in a few days, maybe a week or two.
Corun put his pen down and picked up the Cube of Rubik as though it held the solution. The confounding contraption held no answers. He’d never solved the maddening puzzle. His daily attempts only distracted his beast enough for a while. Today wasn’t one of those days.
“I don’t know why you bother with those elixirs,” said Beryl. His voice was more beast than man. His eyes were perpetual emerald slits of hot fire. “Your dragon will take a chill pill if you let it sip at the nectar between a fairy’s thighs.”
That was a temporary solution and one that held little interest for him these days. Corun had dallied with a few fairies in his lifetime. The plant shifters had taken the edge off his beast when he was younger. Unlike his brothers, Corun didn’t want his life resting in the hands of a female. Be she fae or human. He was determined to be the master of his destiny.
“This stuff looks awful.” Beryl picked up the vile. “The hell you’re getting me to drink it.”
“Put it down,” Corun growled. The ingredients he had were already hard to get. He’d had to give away two rubies to get the lion shifter to shave a piece of his mane. Leander’s hair was growing back weird. He doubted the vain creature would do it again anytime soon.
“I’ll drink it,” came a voice from the corner. Their younger brother, Ilia, strode from the doo
rway. His jade gaze was intent on the vile in Beryl’s hand.
Ilia was smaller than Beryl. Still muscled, Ilia’s build was leaner with more smooth contours than massive bulk.
Beryl snatched it away, over the head of Ilia. “Not before I do.”
Corun’s warm blood went cold as his brothers faced off. Dragons were extremely competitive creatures. Competitive and prone to violence. Corun needed to get that vile from between the two of them, or this would not end well.
“You don’t need the potion, Ilia” soothed Corun in a gravelly voice. “You are much better at controlling your shifts than Beryl.”
Beryl’s green gaze blazed at Corun. Smoke came out of his nostrils as he spoke. “Is not.”
Ilia laughed, his chest puffing out. “Am too.”
“Prove it.”
Ilia’s dark eyes scanned the room, looking for a challenge. His gaze landed on the window. “Let’s jump. First to shift before hitting the ground loses.”
“Deal.”
As the two idiots turned to the window, Corun snaked the vile out of Beryl’s hand. The liquid sloshed up the side of the container but didn’t spill. Corun breathed a sigh of relief. His soft whoosh of air was followed by a loud thud and a flap of wings.
Corun didn’t look to see which brother crashed to the ground in triumph and which one soared through the air in defeat. His own dragon gave another tug of the leash. Not demanding this time. Pleading, like a pet urging its master to be let out for a run.
Corun might be able to control his beast, but he couldn’t deny his nature. Eventually, the beast would get out. And one day, the tables would turn, and the beast would slip the leash around the man’s neck never letting him out again.
Like all other shifters in The Veil, he’d been born an animal with a man living inside its flesh. And like all other shifters, man and beast fought a constant battle of dominance for control of their body.
There was only one thing that would soothe the beast into permanent submission; a sacrifice. A human sacrifice. A female that the dragon could mark and claim for its own. But that was not a route open to any shifters behind The Veil.
Not anymore.
So it was potions or powerlessness for the last of the dragons. Corun sat back down at his desk. He shoved the Rubik’s Cube aside and puzzled over a riddle he was much closer to solving.
Chapter Two
The stench of death was in the air of the clinic’s waiting room. The blades of the ceiling fan whipped round and round, evenly distributing the smell of rotting, boiled eggs. The plastic chairs were the light green color of cabbage. The cushions of the seats gave off the scent of the decomposing greens. Every time someone shifted or took a step on the floor, their sole peeled off the sticky ground and a whiff of musty mothballs wafted up into the stifling air.
No one in the waiting room was dead. Yet. But each person in this room had one foot in the grave. Including her.
Chryssie took a deep breath. Well, as deep as was possible for her. The small stream of air wheezed past her constricted lungs. It was enough to keep her standing.
She shifted her weight from foot to foot as she gave the detached looking receptionist a fake name. She tried not to favor her right side, which was carrying a heavy load in her brand new leather jacket.
Well, new to her anyway. She was sure the rich woman who had discarded the jacket at the local Goodwill had paid a pretty penny for it. Chryssie had only paid a few bucks, but the garment made her look like a badass vigilantesse.
She cocked out her hip like she’d seen Michelle Gellar do in reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Although Chryssie was probably more of a Willow with her red hair, pasty skin, and zero butt-kicking abilities. Willow spent most of her time in loafers with her nose in a book, which more aptly described Chryssie. Chryssie was unsteady in her kickass boots. Dizziness was a constant companion.
But that was before. This was today.
The boots were another necessary accessory today. She’d also picked them up at the hand-me-down store. The jacket and boots probably belonged to the same philanthropic, badass socialite. Chryssie had never worn anything other than flats, and she’d never raised her fist, let alone her foot, to kick anyone’s ass. For someone who had trouble breathing in a lungful of oxygen, it didn’t make sense for her to raise any higher off the ground than normal.
That, too, ended today.
“The doctor will see you momentarily, please take a seat.”
Chryssie shifted her weight back to her right side and turned. There had been a condom stuffed into the interior of the boots when she’d bought them, further solidifying the previous owner’s kick-ass-ness. Chryssie had kept it there. Not that she had any intention of using it anytime soon. Her time was nearly up. But the knowledge of the prophylactic in her boots made her feel even more badass.
The heels of her boots tongue-kissed the grime of the floor with a smack smack smack of each step. It was the closest thing she’d ever gotten to any carnal action. It was the closest thing she’d ever get to action for the rest of her life. Kissing was pretty much out of the question for someone who could barely catch their breath, let alone hold it while someone else stuck their tongue in her mouth.
Once the doctor was ready for her, he’d be the last man she’d ever see. Aside from the prison guards. That is if she even got out of this place alive. Society kinda frowned on letting cold-blooded murderers roam the streets.
Well, at least the poor ones.
Chryssie’s hand rested on the cold metal barrel tucked inside her jacket’s pocket. The steel was warmer than her fingers. But everything was warmer than her. Every day of her life, she’d felt nothing but cold. Cold and fatigue and weak and useless.
Looking around the waiting room, she saw so many hopeless cases. In her case, she didn’t pretend to be hopeful anymore. People came here to this hole in the wall, back alley clinic as a last resort. Chryssie would’ve been one of those a few months ago, but she was past delusions. She was out of options.
The disease had spread to every crevice in her body, and now, it was even hard to breathe. There was nothing that would keep it at bay. Before she was off to Hell, she just needed to do one more thing.
“Ms. Slayer, the doctor will see you now.”
Chryssie rose on wobbly legs. The hand in her right pocket was steady. Her heels smacked against the putrid of the linoleum towards the exam room. The stench of death grew even stronger as she neared the open door.
The tiny exam room was like so many she’d been in in her twenty years of life. Sterile sink surrounded by metallic utensils. Peeling posters that detailed the health risks of not heeding vaccines and immunizations. All the shots in the world had done nothing for Chryssie and her sister.
She didn’t bother to undress. This was the outfit she wanted to be buried in. Besides, the boots were a bitch to pull on, she wasn’t about to tug them off. Not when the whole purpose of wearing them was to kick the ass of the man responsible for killing her sister.
The door opened wider, and there he was. He hadn’t even bothered to knock to see if she was ready before coming in. He looked the same. Same handlebar mustache. Same crinkled eyebrows. Same meaty hands.
He didn’t look at her when he came in. He looked down at his charts. Just as he’d done when she was just a kid, and her symptoms hadn’t begun presenting yet. Because she’d been well, she was of no use to him. It was her sickly, eighteen-year-old sister that had had value.
“Ms. Slayer, is it?”
“That’s correct,” Chryssie said, fondling the safety on the gun. It wasn’t a stake like her heroine namesake, but she still had every intention of aiming it for this demon’s heart when the time came. “I’m desperate. I’m told you’re my only hope.”
There was a quiver in her voice as she told the lie. She’d never been good at telling lies. Why bother making things up when her reality was so harsh.
“I’ve seen these symptoms before.” The doctor still wasn
’t looking up, just down at his papers. “Constant fatigue, cold intolerance, shortness of breath, and your blood work …”
She saw the calculation in his eyes. She saw the subtraction from one column as his gaze narrowed. Then the multiplication in the other column as his beady eyes widened.
“There is an experimental drug you might try if—”
The clipboard of the charts clattered down to the floor. The papers spelling out her doomed diagnoses unclipped and scattered, immediately sticking to the unmopped mess beneath their feet. There was no smack smack smack of heels being lifted off the grime of the floor. Only the deafening click of the safety being released.
He looked up then. Right into the dark barrel of her gun. His jaw went slack, and his mouth opened wide.
“My name is Chrysanthemum Jones. You killed my sister. Prepare to die.”
“What?”
Chryssie sighed. She’d prepared several different revenge speeches. Since The Princess Bride was her sister’s favorite movie, it seemed the most fitting. Just another thing this doctor had ruined. Luckily, she had a secondary speech prepared. Like the first, they weren’t her original words.
“Don’t scream,” said Chryssie. “Don’t be afraid. This won’t hurt at all, and then you’ll be in a better place.”
Chryssie still remembered the day her sister had been taken away. She’d been in the room with her. Her small hand engulfed in her older sister’s hand. Hyacinth had been desperate to get well. Not just for herself but for Chryssie as well. They’d just lost their mother the previous year. They were all they had left.
