by C. I. Black
Not until Andy, at least.
Andy had given him the vase and table, determined to prove to Diablo that he could control his beast and have nice things.
Diablo gated to the vase and shoved his hands back into his pockets. He wouldn’t touch it, wouldn’t risk letting the beast crush it.
But the beast was so strong. Stronger now than it had been when he’d found a confused kid with an out-of-control empathic ability. Andy—Pete at the time—had barely been able to figure out which emotion was his. His parents had been on the verge of locking him in a mental institution. Schizophrenia, the doctors had proclaimed. They wouldn’t have known schizophrenia if it had roared at them in the face.
His hand swiped at the vase and he jerked up his magic, gating away before destroying the one thing that represented everything Andy had done for him.
Who would have thought a sixteen-year-old human mage would have helped a four-hundred-year-old drake? But he had. They had helped each other.
And Andy was supposed to have lived a long human life. Diablo should have gotten at least fifty more years with him.
He growled again, but a tentative meow stopped him.
Two green-gold eyes peered at him from the shadows of the hall leading to his bedroom and office. Andy’s kitten—Darkness—had come out of hiding.
Diablo’s beast stilled. He needed to be in control until he could hand Darkness off to someone more appropriate. It had been evening when he’d remembered to retrieve the kitten, and then even later that evening when he’d remembered to go back to get all of the cat’s stuff—like its food and litter box. After that, he hadn’t wanted to wake or disturb anyone.
The sleek black kitten eased from the shadows, sniffed at his pant leg, then rubbed against him.
He squatted and held out his hand for her to smell, and she butted her head against his fingers.
“I’ll find whoever killed him.” He didn’t know how, but he would find a way. He owed so much more to his friend, but finding justice would have to suffice. It was the only thing left he could do for Andy and the only thought that calmed his beast.
The kitten butted his hand again.
The beast growled. “I promise.”
* * *
Grey gated into his suite at Court. He hadn’t wanted to leave Anaea but the compulsion to return was overwhelming. It had started late last night and grown until he could barely think of anything else. Thank the Mother, Anaea had told him to meet her at Nero’s house later. He was certain he wouldn’t have made it through breakfast. He probably wouldn’t have made it from the kitchen down the hall to the foyer, and he needed to be in full control when he went with Anaea to face her lawyers today.
The compulsion twitched through him and he strode past his living room, packed with floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with movies: every format, every language he could speak, as many as he could get his hands on.
He marched down the hall to his bedroom, the compulsion driving him to his wardrobe. He pushed aside his suits and removed a small hidden panel, revealing the keypad to the locked door of the secret compartment along the back.
Realization flooded him. The only thing in the compartment was the Handmaiden’s grimoire. The spell she’d cast on him, woven into his mind, must have activated. She needed her book back.
No. The word flashed through him. The Handmaiden didn’t want her book back. He needed to give it to Anaea.
His throat tightened. Giving the book to Anaea had to mean the Handmaiden wasn’t returning. She wouldn’t just give something like her grimoire away—even if the grimoire wasn’t necessary for the Handmaiden to cast spells. Sure, he’d never fully understood or felt he knew the Handmaiden, even though he’d been sworn to her service for almost seven hundred years. And there were moments when she’d seemed something more than just a dragon, but that was because of what she was, the only dragon sorcerer. She’d single-handedly built Court and rebirthed souls to keep their species alive—more or less. He didn’t want her to disappear. He wanted to continue serving her, have her fend off his playful flirtations.
But the spell didn’t confirm or deny that she was returning.
Except what else could giving the book to Anaea mean?
He typed in the code and opened the compartment, revealing the leather-bound book.
Her last words to him had been to reread one of her diaries and deliver the grimoire when the time came. She hadn’t said she was leaving forever. Of course, she hadn’t said she was coming back, either.
He grabbed the book. Electricity snapped through his hand and with a yelp, he dropped it. It fell open at his feet beside the wardrobe.
It had never done that whenever he’d touched it before, but maybe the activation of her spell in his head had triggered something in the book as well.
He reached again for the grimoire, a little more tentatively this time, but stopped before touching it. The book lay open to the rebirth spell. In a blink, the page was seared into his memory. Every detail, letter, and age stain was now there forever. The spell required great concentration and power. Interestingly, it didn’t actually require a medallion. The medallions had been made to save a dragon’s soul in the event the Handmaiden wasn’t present at death. Any spell the Handmaiden had in her grimoire, she could also cast by strength of will alone.
He flipped the page, blinked, memorized between one heartbeat and the next, and blinked again. Half of this page he already knew. It was about vessels, bodies. The rebirth spell could put the spirit back into the same body—she’d done that to Payne, now Gig.
What Grey hadn’t known was that the spell wasn’t just restricted to dragons. It could be cast on any being, if that being had enough of a connection to the earth’s magic. He also didn’t know that the spell affected the rebirthed being’s soul magic, making it stronger. If he begged the Handmaiden to rebirth him, he might become a faster healer. He’d lose all his memories, everything that made him him, but that horrible night would be forgotten and would never haunt him again.
He reached to turn the next page. The last sentence was unfinished and talked about the affects on the rebirthed being’s memory. But his bedroom shimmered, the reek of garbage flooded his senses, and water dripped around him.
Mother, not now.
“How fast can you heal?”
Not fast enough. Blood had poured from his neck through his fingers. He was helpless and they were going to finish what they’d started and remove his head.
“Not now,” he growled. He shoved at the memory and grabbed the grimoire—the compulsion flooding him again, consuming his memories and making him snap the book closed and hug it to his chest. It didn’t matter if he didn’t understand all the ins and outs of the spell. He had to get the book to Anaea. Dragon-kind needed her to learn how to rebirth souls. And maybe she’d do what the Handmaiden had refused. Give him peace.
CHAPTER 15
The youth center operated out of an old, reclaimed church on Well Street. The red brick was stained black with a century’s worth of grime, and the front steps, while they had been cleared of snow and ice, were crumbling. Snow drifted in fat, lazy flakes, muffling the sounds of the city around Capri, as if the church sat outside of the earthly dimension, like the Dragon Court.
Capri rubbed her temples. Her headache, the one she’d gotten in Elmsville and which had taken her over a week to get rid of, was back. Or maybe it had never gone away. It certainly hadn’t been drinks last night. She’d barely touched her margarita and had begged an early—or rather earlier than usual—night to do some digging around on Miller.
She popped two painkillers, choking them back without water. They probably wouldn’t do much, they hadn’t last time—and her soul magic had done nothing to ease the pain, either, for some reason—so there was nothing else she could do but grin and bear it and pray a miracle happened and the pills worked. She sighed and got out of her SUV to wait for Miller.
Hiro hadn’t lied. Melissa Slater, a then up-and
-coming reporter, had ripped Miller’s career to shreds. Internal Affairs hadn’t had proof he’d set that fire and killed that kid, but there were too many unanswered questions. The suspicion had been laid. From the look of it, no one had stood by Miller—except for maybe Hiro, but the Medical Examiner’s voice hadn’t counted for much since she wasn’t a cop. Capri knew all too well how dangerous it could be when your coworkers didn’t have your back.
No, Miller’s only option had been to agree to a transfer, and it seemed the only place willing to take him had been small-town Elmsville. Which didn’t explain why Miller was back and digging into Andy Reynolds’s decapitation.
Miller’s navy Camaro pulled onto the street and parked behind Capri’s SUV. He got out of the vehicle and ran a hand through his dark locks.
Capri’s heart stuttered. He looked so much like Eric it hurt. Why the hell had she kissed him? It only made everything that much more difficult. She had no idea how she was going to concentrate now, knowing how his lips felt against hers. Just like Eric’s… better than Eric’s.
Heat swelled across her cheeks. She shouldn’t have kissed him, and she certainly shouldn’t have agreed to work with him. But while the first had been pure foolishness, a loss of her senses, the second was practical. He didn’t strike her as someone who gave up, and if he was determined to pursue this case—even if it was an illegal pursuit—it was better to keep him close than be constantly tripping over him.
“Hey,” he said, and jerked his chin toward the youth center’s steps. “Shall we?”
“Yeah.” But she couldn’t help feeling he was asking something else, something more intimate.
She bit back a growl. Foolish drake. Focus on the job. She needed to know what was going on, or at the very least, have an idea of what was going on, before Hiro told Tobias. A drake caught off guard was often a dead one, and she hadn’t survived this long by being caught flat-footed.
Miller tugged open the heavy front door and motioned for her to enter first. Eric used to do the same thing. Miller had more in common with Eric than just looks. And his lips—
No. Focus.
Hiro might think a fling with a human was a good idea, but Capri knew differently. The only thing to come from it was heartache. She couldn’t let herself forget that.
The old church’s small lobby appeared unchanged from its church days. The hardwood floor was worn in a track leading into the sanctuary. The aroma of dust and wood polish enveloped her. Beyond, the pews had been removed and replaced with folding chairs and tables. The place was quiet—which didn’t surprise her since it was mid-morning in the middle of a school day—and cold, which did surprise her… although maybe not. Heating an old church probably cost a lot, and she doubted the center had a lot of money.
A narrow door at the back opened, and a man stepped out. With a wide chest, muscular arms, and short hair, he looked like a cop or an army vet. Certainly the way he walked toward them and how he held his body said he had combat training of some kind, which was probably a good thing to have when dealing with potentially troubled youths.
“Can I help you?” he asked, his tone wary.
Capri pulled out her badge. “Special Agent Jones. This is Detective Miller. We’re following up on Andy Reynolds’s death.”
The man narrowed his eyes. “I’ve already talked with Detective Cooper about Andy.”
“We just have a few follow-up questions, Mr….?” She resisted the urge to use her earth magic. It would be better if Miller didn’t notice anyone acting strange—and Capri had a feeling Miller was attentive enough to notice someone conveniently spilling whatever information she needed as strange.
“Hastings. Sam Hastings, counselor, janitor, whatever else needs to be done.” He crossed his arms.
“But you’re not the administrator?” Capri asked.
The muscle in Sam’s jaw twitched. “No. That’s Ms. Mitchelle. From the Steele and Westwood Corporation.”
Interesting. Capri schooled her features. Steele and Westwood was owned by Nero, the doyen of the Major Black Coterie, and his Third in command was Raven Mitchelle. This was certainly a dragon connection to Andy Reynolds.
Ryan frowned. “So your youth center is run by a corporation?”
“And we’re grateful for whatever money we can get. What do you want?” Sam asked.
“We just have a few questions,” Capri said.
Sam glared at them for a moment then blew out a harsh breath. “It’s been a difficult few days.” He snorted. “A difficult couple of months, actually.”
“Months?” Miller asked.
“They say things happen in threes. I never believed it, but Andy makes three.” Sam turned back to the narrow door. “Let’s talk in the kitchen. It’s warmer down there.”
“Big corporation doesn’t pay the heat and upkeep?” Miller asked.
“I’m sure we’re just a tax write-off. They pay enough, just enough, and for the most part leave us alone.”
They followed Sam down a narrow, rickety staircase to a tired kitchen that was only marginally warmer than the empty sanctuary. Six youths, an even mix of boys and girls, huddled around a table at the back. Beside them, on another table, sat a makeshift shrine with three pictures, each with a small lit candle beside it. Two of the pictures were of kids; the third, on the end, was Andy Reynolds.
All six teens glanced up at them, their expressions hard. But Sam shook his head ever so slightly, and they turned back to their conversation.
Light wavered around two of the kids: a girl with spiky green hair and half a dozen piercings in her face, and a heavy-set boy with gorgeous chocolate eyes and a bad case of acne.
“Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?” Sam asked.
Flickering halos enveloped the heads and torsos of the two teens. Capri blinked. It had to be a trick of the light. But the auras remained.
“Special Agent?”
“What?” She dragged her attention back to Sam. He didn’t have an aura.
“Coffee? Tea?”
“No, thank you.” The teens’ auras flickered at the edge of her vision.
Damn it. Things just got complicated. She’d seen that aura twice now in as many weeks. These kids were mages, humans with the ability to cast an earth magic spell or with enhanced physical abilities. The very thing dragon-kind feared. The very thing Diablo and the Asar Nergal were in the process of hunting down because of Zenobia, former doyen of the Major Green Coterie, and her attempted coup.
“Like I told Detective Cooper, I don’t think Andy’s murder is connected with my kids’ accidents,” Sam said.
The girl with spiky green hair shifted. Her aura rippled, and Capri struggled not to stare. If there were mages in this youth center and the Asar Nergal knew about it, perhaps that explained what Diablo had been doing in Reynolds’s house last night. Maybe this was the dragon connection to Reynolds.
Somehow, Reynolds had been connected to Zenobia and her coup. One of Zenobia’s drakes had been body-sharing with these kids until they’d developed a connection to the earth’s magic—since that was the only way they could have a mage’s aura—and because the coup had failed, someone had killed Reynolds, tying him up as a loose end.
Of course, Zenobia using Nero’s youth center was even more ballsy than Capri would have given the green drake credit for. There was no way Nero would have been involved in the coup. He was a Traditionalist and solidly aligned with Regis. If Zenobia had used Nero’s center, it was as a fuck you to Nero, and there was no telling what he would get Regis to do to Zenobia once he learned the truth.
“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt him?” Miller asked.
Sam sighed as if he’d been asked the question over and over again. “No one wanted to hurt Andy. Everyone liked him. He was dependable. A great guy. We could always count on him.”
Green Hair shifted again, the light from her aura flickering against her brow and lip rings. That girl knew something. But of course she did. She was a
mage. Although using children was a new low, and from an army perspective, not particularly advantageous—and if Zenobia was anything, she was a drake who took full advantage of every possible situation.
Capri turned to the table of teens. “Can you think of anything?”
The heavy-set boy with the aura dropped his gaze and shook his head. A brunette girl, not much bigger than Capri, stood and glared. “Stop pretending like you care. Come on.”
The others at the table stood, their chairs squealing on the linoleum floor, and they shoved past Capri. She grabbed Green Hair’s elbow, subvocalized her power word, and slid a thread of magic into the girl’s mind.
“What do you think?” Capri had to be careful that Miller didn’t notice anything.
Green Hair jerked her arm free of Capri’s grasp. “You don’t really care about what I think.”
“Sure I do, and it’s clear you have an opinion.” Capri slid more magic, just a little bit more, into the girl. She was dying to share, to show up the cops who knew nothing, prove how smart she was.
“Do you know something, Vicky?” Sam asked.
“All I know is that Andy had a fight with Mr. Pimm last month at Tyler’s funeral. Then last week, I saw Mr. Pimm and Andy arguing in the parking lot. Mr. Pimm was really upset.”
“About?” Miller asked.
Vicky glanced at the memorial, and Capri drew on more magic, but didn’t push it into the girl, hoping she wouldn’t need it.
“Tyler Pimm died in a warehouse fire last month,” Sam said. “Howard Pimm and his son hadn’t gotten along in the last year or so. Every couple of months they’d have a fight. Last month, Andy found out Tyler had been squatting in a warehouse on Second Avenue, but hadn’t been able to convince him to go back home.”
“His dad was a freak. I wouldn’t have gone home, either.” Vicky flicked her lip ring with her tongue. “But I don’t know why he was at the warehouse. He could have crashed with Kevin.”
