I was cold and dizzy, but I wouldn't let them know that. I remembered guns, knew they hurt. I was predator, but if I gave them an opening, I'd be the prey. My wings were chained to my sides. I could barely feel the left one, anyway. Only the fact that I had the valued one between my teeth stayed their hand. I sucked on the ring while I tried to think. All I came up with was how numb and tired I was.
And hungry.
Another voice—Starman?—called, "Release him, Vern."
Fire. I could make fire. Couldn't I?
Why couldn't I make fire?
"Look here, dragon!"
I heard a squeak and a scuffle behind me, but it was just humans dealing with humans.
Above to either side, I heard the flutter of wings, smelled the distinctive scent of pixies. I dismissed them as well.
I wanted to make fire. Why couldn’t I? I sucked on the hand, tasted more blood. I was hungry, but I didn't eat. Not sure what stopped me.
My prey's voice shook as he spoke. "So, it would seem we have a Mexican standoff."
"Faerie has no Mexico!" a high-pitched voice sounded from above.
The vent covers flew off with the ripping of bolts and fell on human heads with a clang.
Then there was gunfire and shouts, and my prey was pulling away from me, screaming. "Trickie Pixies! No—Not Trickie Pixies!" In his panic and need to escape, he punched me in my wounded shoulder.
I bit down through flesh and bone.
For a moment, there was only the sound of his screams and the intoxicating taste of fresh meat. I chewed, eyes closed in bliss, oblivious to the chaos around me. The stone left a warm trail down my throat as I swallowed. Dimly, I heard a song, like angels, pure and compelling, and calling for peace. I heard everyone around me still, but when I opened my eyes, I found my prey had fled.
No matter, there were plenty more. I reached around, grasped the chains with my mouth and pulled. They cut into my wings when they snapped. No matter. I'd hide and heal once I'd filled my stomach. For now, I was dragon, wild, free, and on the hunt! I let out a full-throated roar and leapt at the nearest human.
A virgin in mottled blues and blacks ran between us. She held her hands before her, as if her puny form could stop my magnificent bulk. "Vern! Vern! Stop. It's me! It's Grace!"
Grace?
"Vern," she spoke gently, and her voice called to something in me. I paused, blinking. I should remember something about this princess...no, maiden...no, nun. Grace. Sister Grace. I knew her. She knew me. We—
"It's all right, Vern. Remember me." She stepped toward me. Her voice lilted; on a level beyond human hearing, it sang. So lovely, the singing. Trust me.
My instincts warred against thought. Survive! Eat! I was so hungry. So empty. Cold.
Numb.
Grace.
"Grace?"
"It's all right. I'm here." She touched my flank. Feeling my chest heave against her hand, I became aware of how heavily I was breathing.
Then the column of darkness in front of my eyes flowed over all my vision, and I felt my legs give out under me.
* * * *
"Vern! You have to wake up. We have to get out of here!"
"Grace?" I shook my head, trying to clear it. Big mistake. My stomach gave a lurch, but there was no way it was letting go of whatever was in it. "What happened?"
I glanced around. A dozen henchmen lay on the ground, trussed up like cattle, a pixie standing on each them with their daggers pressed lightly against an ear, eye or other sensitive spot. Charlie was unlocking Heather's manacles. And Grace.
"You're all right." That was all I could focus on. It was all that mattered.
"For the moment. We have to get out of here. Operisiel says there are more coming."
"What happened to the Feds?"
Charlie ran up, hand in hand with a weeping Heather. "Never mind that! What's the best way out of here?"
Grace started to the door Joe'd brought me through. Heather and Charlie followed, a protective cloud of mercenary pixies gathered around them. I hurried. Every step brought new agony to my shoulder, my foot, my wing. Sheesh, pick a body part. They all hurt.
There was something in my stomach.
Grace jumped into a small troop truck and started the engine. "Get in!"
Charlie helped Heather in then glanced at me. I jerked my head to the cab, and he climbed in behind her. I leapt into the back, landed badly, and yelped as I shouted, "GO!"
Grace took the turns at speeds that sometimes caused two wheels to come off the road.
We might have capsized if I hadn't been there to play ballast. The whole thing reminded me of the trip down the Munchy, Munchy Mole tubes, only with a hundredfold times the pain. I curled into a ball and told myself dragons don't whimper. I concentrated on remembering what I'd put in my stomach, and what I discovered made me grin. My reconnected sentience began a tirade of bad jokes: I didn't get fries, but I did get the toy surprise. Got to hand it to that McThing.
Especially now.
I laughed, even though it hurt.
Since a nun was driving, it's probably not appropriate to say we shot out of the building like a bat out of hell, but we did destroy a garage door without even slowing down.
Chapter Ten: With Remorse
By the time we'd gone from a fast bumpy ride to a fast smooth ride, I'd pretty much decided on hibernating for the next century or so. I was making a mental list of people I should probably say goodbye to, when the little window between the cab and the back opened, and Charlie squeezed his way through, a lunchbox and thermos in his hands.
"Bye, Charlie," I managed to say. "Sorry I'll miss the wedding. You and Heather tell your kids about me, and I'll look them up, 'k?"
He settled himself beside me and unscrewed the top off the thermos. I smelled the warm, heady scent of coffee. Other scents tickled at my nose, but I refused to acknowledge them.
He said, "Don’t talk that way. You'll worry Grace, and she's got enough to think about right now. Smell that? Caffeine. Plus a sandwich—peanut butter and jelly, sorry—and some other junk."
I was so desperate, I even ate the brownie. It wasn't enough. It wasn't what I needed. I barely registered Charlie going on about the discussion in the cab. I caught bits and pieces as I faded in and out of awareness. No way of contacting Rakness. Grace wanted to go to a church, but Heather said sanctuary didn't work like in Faerie. She wanted to go to the police, but how would they explain Charlie's bloodied weapons and Grace's stolen information? It wasn't like they knew where anything was, anyway...
Sleep. I needed sleep. And food. Real food. Muscle and sinew and bones to suck the marrow out of...
We hit a pothole, and I winced. Charlie said a few American idioms not for polite company. The scent I'd been trying to ignore blossomed. Strong. Undeniable.
"You're bleeding," I gasped. I licked the saliva gathering around my teeth.
"I know. Grace did what she could, but her power is drained, and—"
"Get back in the cab!"
He blinked at me, uncomprehending. "If it's all the same, I'd rather stay here. There's nothing more she can do, and I'd rather Heather not see me this way. She's already so upset."
I barely registered his insignificant protests. Adrenalin surged through me. My vision both sharpened and narrowed on Charlie, his hand pressed on the again-open wound. I clenched my jaw against the desire to snap toward him. Survival instincts warred with friendship inside me. Idiot human! Why didn’t he run?
"She'll panic more if you don’t leave!"
"Vern?" Finally he caught the crazed, feral look in my eye. He rose slowly. "Easy. I'm going. Just relax."
"Gas station!" I spat out Calloway’s phone number. "Pay phone. Map. Meat."
He backed up to the window, wobbling in part because of the motion of the vehicle, in part from blood loss. Such easy prey. I grit my teeth, told myself he was a friend. I dug my claws into the metal of the floor, but whether in preparation to leap or to keep myself from p
ouncing was anybody's guess. "Real...meat." I gasped.
He reached behind himself to open the window. "We'll try—"
" Feed me! "
He turned and ducked through.
Forcing myself to watch his legs disappear through that hole and not lurch after him hurt worse than all of McThing's bullets. I howled; then bit into my own leg and let the pain carry me into oblivion.
* * * *
Something furry and warm bumped up against my snout. I didn't even think. I just snapped out with my mouth and downed in three bites.
"Eww!"
I heard Agent Calloway sigh. "Heather, if it bothers you so much, why do you keep looking?"
"Because I'm worried about him, you idiot! Oh, why doesn't he open his eyes? Vern?
Vern, can you hear me?"
Why hadn't I opened my eyes? It seemed such an effort. This time, something feathery and also recently killed was tossed in front of me. Smelled like chicken. I actually didn't much care for chickens. So much work with the feathers and all. Need overcame lethargy, however, and I held it in place with one sore claw while I scrapped off the feathers with my teeth and spat them out.
"There, you see? The last two, he ate feathers and all."
I did? I'd be paying for that later. I forced my eyes open.
I was in the truck, but we'd parked inside something. My blind spot had narrowed to a pencil instead of a pillar, and with a little twisting of my head, I could compensate. A barn. A really old barn. Through the open tailgate, I could see a roof with slats missing, lots of hay, the fender of a rusting tractor. Heather, dressed in old jeans and loose T-shirt she'd knotted in the front, watched me worriedly from her perch on a hay bale. Calloway stood near the tailgate, a dead rabbit in his hand and another I could only smell. Probably near his feet.
"Vern!" Heather squealed. Her eyes flooded with tears. She pressed her hands against her mouth to hold back her sobs. She didn't move from her spot, however. I must have really scared her.
"Well, it's about time!" Calloway exclaimed with a mixture of happiness and impatience that told me he'd been worried, too. He waved the rabbit before him. "We really need to get you out of the truck. Shall I put these out here for you?"
I'd have dearly loved to tell him where he could put that rabbit, but there was a lady in the room, such as it was. I pushed myself up. I didn't hurt quite as bad, though I still felt numb in the wing and shoulder, and my joints ached like I had arthritis. I had to move slowly, but at least I could move; and with a little effort, I made it look like I only advanced slowly for Heather's sake. As soon as I was clear of the truck, however, I folded back to a resting position. "Where are we?"
"Around eighty miles south of Ocra. Sorry about the accommodations. We couldn't put you in the new barn. You'd spook the livestock. Rakness made the arrangements." He winked at me.
I wanted to tell him what I thought about Rakness' ability to arrange things, but the thought triggered a rush of memories. To cover my disorientation, I reached out and took the rabbit from his outstretched hand. I bit slowly, savoring the textures of soft fur and slick muscle, enjoyed the crunching of each bone. I heard Heather make a gagging noise behind her hands.
"Where's Grace?" I asked, my mouth still full.
Calloway shrugged. "She insisted on going to Mass. Charlie is in the hospital. Bar fight is the official story. We've worked it out with the police. No one knows we've found 'Rhoda' yet.
We thought it'd be safer to get you all back to Los Lagos first. He's lucky—the bullet missed the vital organs, and he didn't have any broken bones. Lost a lot of blood, though, so they've kept him overnight. We've arrange for his transfer this evening; he should be strong enough by then.
The pixies are sleeping in the hay above us. Skyhopper is coming to pick us up; Grace insists you cannot fly in a Mundane plane in your condition. You'll be home in Los Lagos by midnight tonight."
I nodded. Anything more felt like too much effort. I stretched my neck out, and Calloway handed me the last rabbit.
"So you want to tell me what happened back there?" he asked.
"No." At the moment, I wasn't quite sure myself, and I didn't really want to know, either.
I looked at Heather. "You okay?"
She nodded, but her head bobbed too fast. Physically fine, then, but eighteen was still very young in this universe.
The agent's face softened. I wondered if he had a teenage daughter to go with the two-year-old. He wiped the palms of his hands on his jeans and went to sit next to her. He tried to put his arm around her, but she flinched and jumped off the hay bale. She took a step toward me, uncertain. Behind her, I saw Calloway shrug.
I was sooo the wrong person for this. I wasn't even a person, if you counted the laws of this country and the opinion of many of its inhabitants. I'd come closer to losing my sanity than I had in over a hundred years, and for a perverse moment, I'd enjoyed it. I was an injured animal; aching and irritable, and I had no doubt I'd feel even worse once I'd digested some of my food and got some energy back. I still had a feather caught between my molars. I was not the right candidate for comforting a frightened child.
But Grace had fled to the one source of strength and comfort she most desperately needed, and Heather's True Love, her Hero, was in a hospital listed as a bar fight victim. She'd refused Gene Calloway's offer of comfort; under the circumstances, a stranger was more frightening to her than I was.
Where was the grandmotherly type when you needed her?
She stood there, frozen and trembling. A scream waiting for an excuse.
I met and held the agent's eyes. He took the hint. "Tell you what; let me go find a bucket of water for you to wash down that meal with." Without waiting for an answer, he hopped off the hay bale and headed out the broken and tilted door.
Heather gave a little gasp and turned her head toward the exit to watch him go, but otherwise did not move.
"Heather? You all right?" I asked as softly and gently as I could.
"I. I, um..." She glanced from me to the exit and back again. Silence stretched. Her eyes flickered to my tail, the hay, my wings, the exit...anywhere other than my fangs. The feather started to irritate my gum, and I tried to use my tongue to pry it out from my teeth without calling attention to my mouth.
I have comforted humans before; usually with my big dog act. But Heather didn't see a dog. She saw a beast, a fairy tale creature more befitting of Grimm's stories than Disney's. Even a rabid dog would be cuddly by comparison. No way would she fall for my soulful eyes routine and come lean her head against my flank. If I was going to help her, I'd need words. I prayed for inspiration.
She wrung her hands and looked at the ground, tapping one foot nervously.
"Did Charlie ever apologize for the shoes?" I asked. Yep. My inspiration always caves under this kind of pressure.
She blinked at me. A laugh forced itself out of her mouth. "I loved those shoes!" she said through compulsive giggles.
Her laughter was contagious; or maybe it was post-stress hysteria. I found myself grinning and snickering. "Well, I'm no judge of ladies' footwear, but—"
"Those were Gloria Quattrinis. They cost six hundred dollars!" She grabbed her stomach and laughed. She staggered a few steps closer to me.
I was chortling out loud, uncaring of the twinge of pain with each spasm. I, too, took a couple of steps forward, moving away from the blood-stained spot where I'd had my snack. I didn't get too far. It hurt too much, and I was laughing too hard. "I'll put it on my bill to BILE!"
She closed the last of the gap between us. "No! No! Let's send the bill to McThing!"
I laughed so hard, I coughed up feathers. Fortunately, this just sent her into renewed fits of laughter, interspersed with the occasional "eww!" She flopped down cross-legged beside me and leaned forward over her knees, wheezing as she tried to catch her breath.
"You know…" I started, taking a few big breaths of my own, "I saw you and Charlie do that roll off the ottoman to brin
g your handcuffs to the front. Both at the same time! You looked like you'd practiced that stunt."
"Oh, we have!" she said, looking up and smiling at me. "I have to do it in a scene of Live and Let Fly. " Then the horror of the events rushed back to her. Her face paled, her eyes widened and stared both at me and through me at the same time. "Oh, Vern! I was so scared! I thought, I thought we were going to-to—"
She threw herself forward, lunging into my wounded shoulder. My vision flooded, but I somehow managed not to yelp. The wing on that side was useless, but I enfolded her awkwardly with the other while she cried.
And with each tear that fell on my hide, my wounds felt a bit better.
* * * *
When Calloway showed up some forty-five minutes later, Heather had cried herself to sleep against my good shoulder, leaving me to think about how dry and sticky—and furry—my mouth felt.
"'Bout time," I snarled. As predicted, I had entered the sore and cranky stage. I wanted to go home to my comfy lair, call in a Healing Mage and a veterinarian, send the bill to BILE, and then sleep for a week. I did not enjoy being kept waiting by a Fed whose contribution so far had been to send us into the fray without backup and toss me a few carcasses.
"I thought I should give you two some time," he said, staggering in with the large washbasin. Water sloshed but didn't spill. It even sounded refreshing. He set it in front of me on the opposite side of Heather. I delved into it.
"Thanks," I said when I'd polished off half the bucket.
"I'm here to serve." He smiled.
I'd have liked to wipe that self-depreciating grin off his face. Where were he and the other
"public servants" when we were getting attacked by maniacal mechanical moles and shot at by a swarm of mad minions? "You want to serve? Go find me a gallon and a half of ethanol. Or ninety-three octane if you can't get that."
"You serious?"
I let him know with my glare how serious I was.
"You won't, uh, set fire to anything?" He glanced around the dry tinder that made up the building.
Live and Let Fly Page 12
