Immortal Coil (A Dragon Spirit Novel, Book 1)

by Black, C. I.

  Why don’t you try to find out.

  She yawned and it felt as if she rolled over in his head and drifted off. He wove another quick box around her consciousness, but didn’t believe it would hold her. His first box hadn’t disappeared because of his lack of skill, but because the strength of her will was something he’d never encountered before.

  He finished picking the lock and fished out a small backpack containing cash, a prepaid cell phone, and a key ring with spare hotel and car keys. As he walked back to the front door he called a cab on the phone. It had been a long night about to go into a long day. He needed to get to his hotel room, pick up a few things, call the Clean Team to take care of this mess, and make arrangements for a new body. His current one was too crowded.

  * * *

  Anaea floated in a viscous warmth. It enveloped her, clouding her vision and soothing her senses. She felt at ease for the first time in a long time. It had been months since she’d felt so truly and completely relaxed. Her fight against the cancer had seemed never ending and yet there had been an end. She’d chosen it and jumped... no, she’d...

  Memories of the bridge and the man swept over her and she sat up with a start.

  She was in her mother’s hammock, swinging from side to side. A gentle wind sighed through the twin maples above her and caressed her face, bare neck, and arms. She wore the breezy white sundress she’d purchased for her honeymoon with John three years ago. And while she still loved the dress, she had serious second thoughts about her husband.

  Dappled sunlight danced over her but she couldn’t bring herself to ease back into the hammock. As wonderful as it all seemed, it wasn’t right. She’d never sat in this spot while wearing that dress. She’d torn the hammock down the night her mother had died—joining the father Anaea had only known through photos and stories.

  And then she realized she was whole. Impossibly perfect and complete. The curve of her right breast was fleshy and real, matching her left, not a falsie. Like it had been before. Her throat and chest tightened at everything she had lost.

  The weight in the hammock shifted, and a masculine hand slid up her arm to her shoulder.

  “Lie back, Anaea.”

  Strong, muscled thighs braced her on either side. They were draped in thin cotton, and she ran her hands over them, feeling their chiseled contour.

  They reminded her of Mark’s legs, of his lean-muscled body, and of the relationship that would never be between them because she’d married John instead. She’d often dreamt of Mark, her college sweetheart, but never like this. Those dreams were soft and aching, filled with what-ifs, where he stood at a distance and reached out for her. But when she realized she could run to him, that she was free of her husband’s charm, he turned his back on her.

  Whoever was behind her eased her back against his chest and she glanced up. It wasn’t Mark, but the man from the bridge. A thin scar sliced through his left eyebrow, and his nose was offset as if it had been broken a long time ago. His eyes were deep brown and filled with such warmth.

  That warmth seeped through her, heating her from within, radiating safety and comfort.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, even though she felt he belonged there.

  “You’re dreaming.”

  He had said that before. She had believed him then, but she wasn’t so sure about that now, although it certainly felt like a dream with the hammock and the dress and him.

  “Just relax,” he said. “Enjoy this moment, this serenity.”

  “But who are you?” She couldn’t get the sensation out of her mind that something wasn’t right.

  “I’m only a dream.” He wrapped his arms around her, offering the comfort she had longed for since her husband had left.

  If she relaxed, she might be able to believe this was a dream. A soothing, comforting dream. Better than the heartbreaking dreams about Mark. She certainly wanted to let this man hold her and ease everything that ached within her. But the faint buzzing at the edge of her senses wouldn’t let her melt into his embrace.

  “Anaea.” He whispered her name.

  She closed her eyes, savoring the gentle tone. It had been too long since anyone had said her name with affection.

  A chill swept over her. Something wasn’t right. She could feel it niggling the back of her mind. Something about this man and people shooting at her.

  She pushed away from him, making the hammock rock. Cold panic swept through her. She’d been shot. She was in trouble, hurt, and had to wake up.

  “Relax,” he said, reaching to pull her back into his embrace.

  She scrambled out of the hammock.

  “No. I’m hurt. I need help.” She shook her head. “I have to wake up.”

  “But isn’t this better than reality?”

  “Yes...” She stared at him. His face was full of acceptance and understanding. “No... Someone has to tell the police what happened to you.”

  “Anaea.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing all thoughts of him from her mind. Just wake up. It’s just a dream. An amazing, wonderful, dream—

  No. Wake up!

  She could feel consciousness just out of reach. Just a little farther.

  CHAPTER 6

  Anaea woke with a start. She lay on the floor on a thick carpet. From her vantage in the shadowy room, she could see a pair of table legs and beige-on-beige striped wallpaper lit by a stream of weak sunlight.

  Taking a slow breath, she waited and listened. She couldn’t hear anyone nearby so she sat up to get a better look. She was between a simple desk with padded chair and a king-size bed. The heavy drapes across the window were closed tight and pale light slipped between the cracks around the edges. To her right was a door with a floor plan and fire escape routes plaque-mounted above a peephole. To her left, a door leading, presumably, to the bathroom.

  Her body ached, but not as much as she’d expected from getting shot.

  Shot!

  She been shot. She reached for her coat and froze. She wore a black trench coat.

  Where the hell had that come from?

  She couldn’t remember putting it on. Ripping open the coat revealed a lab coat and green hospital scrubs. She ran a hand over the front of her top. It was sticky with blood and there were holes in it big enough to fit her finger through.

  It wasn’t a dream. She scrambled to her feet and raced into the bathroom. Shedding the coat and lab coat and dropping them to the floor, she yanked the top over her head. Crusted blood pulled away from her chest with a sharp sting.

  She flicked on the light and stared at herself in the large mirror. Her chest, plain white bra, and the medallion were covered with a black crust. Oh God, someone really had shot her. Admittedly, she couldn’t see any holes in her body, but there were holes in her shirt. And all that blood.

  How was she still alive? She snorted at the thought. A few hours ago—well, maybe more since she had no idea what time it was—she’d stood on the Queen Street Bridge contemplating killing herself. And now she was upset that someone had shot her.

  But someone had shot her! Her mind kept repeating the thought. She couldn’t focus on anything else. There was no logical explanation for her survival. None.

  Her heart skipped a beat. She was in someone’s hotel room and she had no idea how she’d gotten there. She stared at her reflection, gazing into her blue eyes. If she looked hard enough, maybe she’d be able to see what was wrong, why she still lived.

  Red flashed, haloing her entire body for just a moment. She jumped, her heart pounding and blood rushing in her ears.

  She’d had a close call, that was all. It was making her see things, but she still turned back to her reflection to see if it would happen again.

  It didn’t. She raked a bloody hand over the half-inch-long stubble on her head and the panic subdued to an ache in her gut.

  And then she realized she was topless in a stranger’s hotel room. She snatched the robe off the hook beside the door and wrapp
ed herself in it. She needed to get to the hospital, do something about the holes that were... had been in her chest, but there was no telling when whoever had kidnapped her would return. Against all logical thought, it didn’t appear as if she needed immediate medical attention, so getting someplace safe was her first priority. She needed a top that wasn’t covered in blood and then she was out of here. And if she couldn’t find something in the next few seconds, she’d put the disgusting hospital shirt back on.

  There was no evidence in the bathroom that the room was occupied. No toothbrush, cosmetics, shaving cream, nothing. Not even a toiletry bag tucked away on the corner of the vanity. She didn’t even know if she’d been abducted by a man or woman.

  She returned to the main room, spying a leather bag on the desk. She rushed to it, yanking the zipper open. Inside was a plain black T-shirt and a pair of blue jeans. Both were too big for her and were cut in a masculine style. Underneath the clothes was a laptop, a cell phone, a knife the length of her forearm, and a thick wad of cash.

  What kind of person had her? Everything since standing on the bridge was fuzzy, save for a few shocking moments of clarity where she’d run for her life and been shot.

  She dragged the T-shirt over her head. Then she pulled the knife from its sheath and flipped it into a reverse grip so the blade lay flat against her forearm. This was crazy. She should hold the knife out, ready. But somehow she knew she needed to keep the blade hidden until the last moment. Was it a fleeting remembrance from her childhood, something from a book or a TV show?

  Besides, if she did manage to make it out of the hotel without running into whoever had abducted her, she didn’t want to draw attention by holding a knife. Then again, maybe a quick call to 911 would be the smartest option. They could trace the call and find her even if she had no idea where she was.

  She needed help, but there wasn’t anyone she could turn to. Her ex was in Tahiti with his healthy, perfect girlfriend, and she’d rather eat dirt than ask him for anything. The only other person was Mark, and he hadn’t returned her calls in two years and lived three hours away in Newgate.

  The lock clicked open. Anaea froze and stared at the door. A rapid succession of thoughts raced through her mind: hide in the bathroom—the shower was obvious and she’d be found—go out the window—didn’t know what floor she was on—stay and fight—shit.

  She squeezed the grip on the knife as the door swung open. The woman from the bridge, dressed all in black, stood in the hall with a sword as long as her leg peeking out from the folds of her coat. A strange yellow light danced around her, crackling and hissing.

  It was powerful magic.

  Anaea had no clue how she knew that. The thought just popped into her head. Maybe she’d seen one too many sci-fi movies, but without a doubt it was powerful, and in her weakened condition, it was deadly.

  Strange thoughts kept jumping into her mind, thoughts that couldn’t possibly be her own. She should be panicked, desperate, but she wasn’t. Instead, she was itching for a fight, even without magic.

  See, there it was again. Magic was crazy, impossible. It wasn’t real. Nonetheless, she eased into a wider stance and held her hands up, ready for battle. She shoved all resisting thoughts about what she was doing to the back of her mind. There was no other place to go but past that woman, and it looked like that would involve a fight.

  “Should I even suggest handing over the medallion?” the woman asked, cocking her head to one side and staring at Anaea with feral intensity.

  Anaea clutched the medallion through the T-shirt. If that was all the woman wanted...

  No, once she gave up the medallion there was nothing to stop the woman from killing her.

  The woman sneered at Anaea’s silence. “Glad to see you’re willing to entertain me.” She drew her blade and lunged in one quick motion, bringing the tip of her sword up and pointing it at Anaea’s heart.

  Anaea stumbled back, her expected panic still absent. She should have used the knife. Well, yes, but using a knife against a sword wouldn’t give her very good odds.

  The woman pressed her attack, dancing into the room with whirling sword and precise footwork. Anaea scrambled away. The backs of her thighs hit the edge of the bed as the woman lunged forward. The blade bit into her side, sending pain shooting through her.

  Anaea gasped and swung her knife. The woman leaned in, grabbed Anaea’s wrist, and bent it back, sending hot spikes of pain up her arm. Anaea’s fingers went numb and the knife fell to the floor. The woman kicked it aside and rested her sword against Anaea’s neck.

  “The medallion, if you please.”

  So much for fighting back. Anaea slipped the medallion outside of the T-shirt. It was sticky with her blood and warm from being against her body.

  A small voice in her head told her to resist, fight, anything but give over the medallion.

  But there was nothing she could do. She didn’t know how to fight and she had a sword against her neck. Maybe if she handed it over she’d live. She doubted it, but maybe.

  The magic aura around the woman flared and crackled like electricity. It bit Anaea’s skin with tiny painful jolts. The pressure from the sword against her neck increased, and the woman’s lips curled back in a dark, satisfied smile.

  “Now.”

  Don’t give it to her. The voice was louder this time, filled with urgency.

  Anaea squeezed the medallion, feeling its heat against her fingers and the edges, crusted in blood, digging into her palm.

  Don’t.

  She tried to break the chain, but couldn’t move. The muscles in her arm twitched and heat burned from her hand up toward her shoulder. She ground her teeth and shot the entire force of her will to her arm. With a jerk, the chain broke.

  The voice in her head howled and she trembled as if someone else fought her for control of her body. The heat from the medallion poured over her, tinting her vision red.

  CHAPTER 7

  The woman grabbed the chain, but Anaea couldn’t make her fingers release the medallion and her other hand clamped on top of the woman’s, pressing the medallion to her palm. The heat intensified, burning through her veins. She was on fire. If she opened her mouth and released the scream boiling at the back of her throat, she was certain flames would roar out of her.

  The woman’s eyes opened wide. She dropped her sword and used her free hand to pry at Anaea’s fingers. Against her will, Anaea held on tight, every muscle burning, smoke muddling her thoughts. Then words popped into her head. Three short words in a language she didn’t recognize.

  She forced them out, and the heat rushed through her hand, into the medallion, and enveloped the woman.

  “It’s too soon,” the woman gasped and her face went slack.

  Anaea’s heart pounded once, twice. With a sudden whoosh the heat poured back into the medallion.

  The woman dropped to the floor. Anaea kicked the sword across the room and nudged the woman’s shoulder with her toe.

  She’s dead.

  It was the voice in her head, the one that hadn’t wanted her to give up the medallion. Without the panic of a fight, she had the time to concentrate on it. It was within her, but not a part of her, and with a pitch closer to tenor it was definitely male.

  She shivered and hugged herself, but the shakes continued.

  Take her coat.

  Anaea’s gaze went to the woman of its own volition. No, not its own control, the voice’s. She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking so hard her teeth chattered.

  You’re in shock.

  “Yeah, I’m hearing voices.” She pressed her palms to her ears but knew that wouldn’t keep him out, since he was inside to begin with.

  Anaea, you’re still in danger. Get her coat and put it on.

  Her arms reached out and she yanked them back. “Stop that.”

  Then you do it.

  “Get out first.”

  The voice—he—hesitated. She sensed he was deciding what to tell her but she couldn’t determi
ne what options he was considering. It was a strange sensation, similar to the frustration of knowing you know something but being unable to bring it to mind.

  I’m here to help you.

  She snorted. “I don’t even know you. For all I know you’re just some hallucination and I can add paranoid schizophrenia to my list of problems.”

  I would beg to differ. You know for certain someone’s trying to kill you so you can rule out paranoia.

  “Gee, thanks.” She squatted beside the woman on the floor and nudged her. “Do we know who she is?”

  You don’t. I do. And trust me when I say you don’t want to be here when her friends come looking for her.

  “Well, I’m not going anywhere until you ’fess up.”

  Don’t be stupid.

  She sat back on her heels and crossed her arms. Her muscles twitched, and she willed herself to stay where she was. She could feel his frustration and beneath that a hint of fear, although she doubted he’d admit to it.

  Pressure built in her head, a heavy darkness pushed against her vision and threatened to wrap her consciousness in sleep. Every muscle trembled until she lost her balance and toppled onto her rear. She ground her teeth and shoved back with her thoughts. He could try and take over, but she’d be damned if she made it easy on him.

  Spots danced across her vision, bright specks and black voids, and her blood pounded in her temples. Then, without warning, the pressure disappeared. She gasped at the sudden release.

  Please. Need and desperation filled that one word, then he clamped down on the emotions. I’ll explain on our way.

  “On our way where?”

  I’ll explain that, too.

  She could feel his indecision. Images of a monstrous creature wreathed in shadow flashed through her mind. She gasped, and he clamped down on whatever that was, too, before she could get a good enough look.

  “Why should I trust you?”

  Because I’ve already kept you alive. The strange words she’d spoken earlier while fighting over the medallion entered her thoughts.