In the Shadow of Dragons (Aftermagic Book 1)

by Sonya Bateman

  Julian had offered to have her healed. With magic. One of the Knights, Abram, could fix minor injuries like bruises and scrapes. She’d declined with a sneering comment about how being banged up would make her seem more genuine.

  She’d ended up seeing him after all. He insisted on bringing her to his office for an awkward conversation about what to expect, as if he knew anything about the Darkspawn. She was supposed to be prepared to leave everything behind, tonight. Just pick up and go with them to some isolated, secret place and pretend to hate all things BiCo until some vague time in the future when Julian could get her out.

  At least that wouldn’t be a stretch now. Hell, maybe making her hate him had been part of Julian’s plan too.

  She couldn’t bring her phone, her identification, her weapons, anything that might give her away. And she’d have no way to contact him out in the Badlands. Even if Zen could somehow track her outside the city, her telepathic reach or whatever wasn’t that far. So she’d have two choices for getting out once she knew the location of their base: take off alone through Hell’s Half Acre and hope they didn’t chase her down, or participate in one of their raids and get away in the city to contact Julian.

  Neither option was comforting.

  She finished her drink and thought about signaling for a fresh one when Selby headed down the bar toward her, smiling. “Hey there,” the bartender said, stopping across the counter. “Sorry about the cold shoulder when you came in. I was right in the middle of inventory for tonight.” She tapped a temple. “Do it all up here. Saves paper. You need a refill, honey?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.” Some of the tension eased, and she smiled back. “But I did want to tell you I’m sorry about last night.”

  “Sorry? You kidding me?” Selby laughed and slapped a hand on the counter. “Honey, you’re a goddamned hero standing up to those bullies. I was glad as hell when Goddard said he’d bail you out. You earned it.”

  “Thanks,” she said, hoping her discomfort didn’t show. For some reason she’d never considered that people would view the patrols as bullies. They were supposed to be for protection. But after last night, she was starting to come around to the bully camp. “Hey, speaking of Goddard, have you seen him tonight? I think I’m meeting him here, or … something.” The man hadn’t actually said he would be here. He only said she’d make some new friends.

  “Oh. That.” Selby glanced toward the end of the bar. “Actually, your party just arrived,” she said. “I just thought you might want another drink first. You seem nervous.”

  She was, but she couldn’t let these people know that. Whoever they were. “I feel pretty good. Thank you, though,” she said, looking in the direction of Selby’s glance. A few stools down was a lone woman with a bottle of beer, then a couple holding hands, and further a group of three men. Two cowboy hats, one baseball cap. “Er. Is that my party?”

  Selby let out a snort. “That is a bunch of crusty old barflies taking up space at my counter,” she said. “Your folks are in the back. I’ll take you.”

  “All right.”

  She slid from the stool as Selby headed for the gap at the close end of the bar. “Come on through,” the bartender said.

  Teague frowned and moved through the gap. When she did, Selby pointed behind her, and she turned to find a swinging door with a round glass window, not visible from the bar. It led to what looked like a kitchen.

  She went through, and Selby came in after. The kitchen was small, stocked, and clean, all stainless steel and tiles. “We only use this twice a week. I got a guy comes in to make appetizers. Not the cook type, myself,” Selby said. “Right down here.”

  The woman headed for the back end of the room, another door, and Teague followed. This one opened on a corner of a hallway that headed to the right. Four closed doors, two to a side, and another turn ahead leading back to the bar.

  Selby stopped at the second door on the left and faced Teague with a kind smile. “You’ll do fine,” she said. “Don’t worry if they go rough on you. It’s not personal — just part of the job.”

  “Great. Thanks.” She hadn’t been worried about that particular idea, until now.

  The bartender nodded and laid a hand on the door. For a second, Teague could’ve sworn it glowed when she touched it. “Go on in, whenever you’re ready.” Selby patted her shoulder, then walked the rest of the way down the hall and turned the corner, headed for the bar.

  Teague figured she’d just go inside, but she found herself hesitating. Was she really going to do this? Walk away from her life, throw in with a bunch of terrorists and murderers, risk everything for a man who’d dumped her when something prettier and more influential came along?

  She finally decided she was — but not for Julian. For herself and the other Knights. For the people who needed the kind of protection only BiCo could provide.

  With a bracing breath, she opened the door.

  The room was lined with empty kegs on one side and shelves of paper supplies on the other. There was a window at the back, two card tables in the middle, and two people seated at one of them. A man and a woman. The woman was short, trim but not petite, with pointed ears and cropped strawberry blonde hair framing a heart-shaped face. The man was much bigger. Almost as big as Grogan. Brown hair to his shoulders, alert brown eyes, Magesign across the bridge of his nose.

  She had guns. He had a sledgehammer.

  The woman stood and moved toward her. “Close the door, huh?” she said. “You’re letting all the ears in.”

  Teague reached back and pushed, heard the door click shut. She had a feeling the ears comment was partly to see how she’d react to the elf bits of her — so she wouldn’t react at all. “Uh. Goddard,” she said.

  Not what she’d envisioned saying. There was more to that statement, but it wouldn’t come out after the awkward pause.

  “Huh. I’m not Goddard.” The woman stopped in front of her and glanced at the man. “Are you Goddard?”

  “Don’t think so,” he rumbled.

  “Well, that settles it.” The woman flashed a smirk at her. “You must be Goddard.”

  “Goddard sent me,” she said, finally managing to breathe. “Sorry. I’m Teague.”

  “Oh, good. I’m Darby.” She offered a hand, and Teague took it. “That’s Sledge,” she said. “I gotta say, I’m glad you’re not Goddard. I didn’t bring enough money to talk to him tonight.”

  She laughed, something she would’ve thought impossible a few minutes ago. “Tell me about it,” she said.

  Darby seemed to make up her mind about something. Hopefully, it meant she’d just said the right thing. “Come on, have a seat,” she said. “And a drink.”

  When they headed for the table, Sledge was filling three shot glasses from a bottle of fireball whiskey. “Nice to meet you,” he said, nodding at Teague as she sat down. “Aren’t you hot in that jacket?”

  The hint of suggestion in his tone made this seem like a subtle test. No matter how she’d tried to fool herself into thinking it would pass as a tattoo, it was obvious her Magesign went past her neck. “Yeah, I guess I am,” she said calmly, removing the jacket to drape it on the back of the chair. “Does that window open?”

  She thought Sledge nodded, just a bit, but she couldn’t be sure. Fortunately, Darby’s reaction was more open. “Nice pattern,” she said, gesturing at her arm. “I feel bad for people who get those smudgy, bruise-looking things, you know? But you’ve got style, like me.”

  “Thanks.” The lingering tightness in her chest finally eased. She watched as Sledge distributed the shots around the table, picked up her glass when the other two did. “What are we drinking to?” she said.

  Darby tapped a finger on her chin. “New friends?”

  “Sounds good.” She clinked the glass to Darby’s, and then Sledge’s. “To new friends.”

  Tossing the shot back was easy. Strong cinnamon, whiskey burn. But almost immediately, her vision blurred and the whole world started spinn
ing.

  Hell of a shot, she managed to think. And blacked out before she could put the glass on the table.

  CHAPTER 25

  Madden Ranch

  August 9, 7:35 p.m.

  The house was dark and silent, windows shuttered, paint peeling. But the light over the closed barn entrance was on. Naomi hoped that meant Scott was still here, somewhere.

  She drove slowly down the long driveway, parked beside the house with a view of the barn, and turned off the engine and headlights. She hadn’t been out here in years. Scott was the only person she knew in the Brookhurst area, and after he’d basically gone dark with the second Eclipse, she had no reason to head out this way.

  For a few minutes she watched and waited, looking for any sign of life. The house itself wasn’t exactly falling down, but it definitely didn’t seem lived-in. The front yard and the stretch between the house and the barn were … puzzling. As a general rule, Wyoming grass was either sparse and short, or lush and well-trimmed, depending on how much money you invested in your lawn. This was cultivated, but almost wild. Longer grass, natural plant groupings with no borders, the crushed stone path leading to the barn lined with lights shaped like mushrooms.

  And the trees behind the barn were a lot taller than she remembered.

  She almost tried Scott’s phone again, but it was obvious he wasn’t going to answer. No sense going to the front door, either. It might not be as bad as it looked on the inside, but if he still lived here, he wasn’t in the house. So she’d check the barn. He used to keep a few horses here, and he could be tending to them. Maybe he’d retired to care for the horses full-time or something.

  It took another minute to gather enough nerve to get out of the car. Outside, the night was almost as silent as the house. The soft sound of a warm breeze rustling the grass, the occasional chirrup of a cricket or two. Nothing more.

  Naomi headed for the stone path and the gentle glow of the mushroom lights. When she stepped onto it, she realized that the mushrooms — toadstools, really — looked incredibly realistic. Right down to the fuzzy caps. Curious, she crouched and stroked the top of one with a finger.

  She jerked her hand back fast. It felt real. Cool, firm and fleshy with a soft burr. And the stalk bent like stiff rubber with the pressure. She reached out again, hesitated, and carefully parted the grass at the base of the mushroom, looking for stakes or wiring.

  It was rooted in the ground, a living plant. A real, glowing toadstool.

  That was impossible.

  It took every ounce of courage she had not to turn and run back to the car, drive out of here and forget she ever knew Scott Madden. But she couldn’t do that. She knew too much, and at the same time, not nearly enough.

  She had to find out the rest.

  Determined, she moved down the path toward the barn. One foot in front of the other. The big, sliding center doors beneath the light didn’t seem to be locked, but she’d rather not go in that way if she could help it. Sudden fear made her want to investigate things in there before she made her presence known.

  Just in case she had to run for it after all.

  There was a smaller door on the right side of the barn, where the roof dipped down to a lower section. She headed there, tried the latch. It opened easily. Inside, a wood-framed doorway to the right led to a room full of tools and equipment. There was light coming from the main barn area to the left, so she went that way.

  She stopped beneath the edge of an overhead loft, just outside the light, where she could see most of the barn. The large open area in the center, the floor covered with hay. Carved columns she didn’t remember seeing before, dark wood with intricate twisting designs. The light came from steadily glowing torches mounted on the columns. They looked like electric torches, not flames — but she remembered the mushrooms. So maybe they were something else.

  There was a line of whiteboards mounted along the back wall. Below that were bookshelves that seemed to grow from the planks. She couldn’t see the space beneath the loft, but there were five stalls on the other side of the vast room, most of them filled with shifting shadows. A bulky shape occupied the last stall, suggestive of a horse. But she couldn’t make out enough of it to be sure.

  She took a fortifying breath and stepped from under the loft, into the light. “Hello?” she called softly. “Scott, it’s Naomi. Are you here?”

  There was a scraping sound, and then the sharp clop of a hoof on wood, loud in the silence. So he did have one horse left, at least. After a long pause, a rasping voice said, “Omes? Is it really you?”

  “Yes, it’s me.” She moved in another step. “Where are you?”

  “You shouldn’t have come here.” There was a terrible sadness in his voice, verging on fear. “You shouldn’t see me.”

  She’d almost decided she didn’t want to, after all. “I have to know, Scott,” she said. “The Eclipse, the HeMo … please. Whatever is going on, you have to tell me.”

  The horse shuffled impatiently. Was he in the stall with the animal? His voice appeared to be coming from there. “I’m so sorry,” he said in that sad, fearful voice. “I didn’t want you to see.”

  Before she could ask see what?, the stall door opened and the horse emerged.

  At first she ignored the cold spike down her spine, the sheer terror that drove her heart into her throat. A small voice in her head prattled inanely, attempting to puzzle out why Scott had been sitting on a horse in a stall this whole time. That didn’t make any sense. But finally, she had to allow herself to see what was right in front of her.

  Scott was the horse, from the waist down. And himself from the waist up. He was an impossibility, a fairy tale.

  He was a centaur.

  And she was going to faint.

  CHAPTER 26

  The Badlands

  August 9, 7:51 p.m.

  Teague’s first thought when she came around again was friends don’t drug friends. Something close to panic came with the thought. They’d put something in her drink, knocked her out. And now things were different than when she’d passed out.

  She forced herself to stay calm, to figure it out one step at a time. She was still in a chair, but that might be the only thing that was the same. She was tied to it. Hands behind what felt like a wooden slat back, feet individually to the chair legs. A rough cloth something over her head, a bag or a sack. She couldn’t see anything, even with her eyes open. But she wasn’t blindfolded or gagged.

  And the air smelled different. Not the closed, stale and sour-sweet atmosphere of the bar, but kind of earthy. Damp. She didn’t feel a breeze, but she heard a low, steady hum and an irregular dripping sound, far away and echoing slightly.

  She wasn’t in Five Cowboys anymore. She was somewhere else entirely.

  Then she heard muffled voices. Two of them, male and female. The voices sounded like they were coming through a blanket, and she couldn’t make out any individual words.

  Panic made a fresh attempt to grab hold. They’d kidnapped her. Somehow they knew she was a spy, and they’d taken her wherever this was to kill her. Or possibly torture her, and then kill her.

  Goddamn it. If she wanted to live, her only chance was through magic.

  She held her breath and listened. The voices were still muffled, still far. She braced herself as best she could and twisted her hands around inside the ropes, until one of them faced the other. At least she knew her own magic couldn’t hurt her.

  She’d learned that when she tried to blast herself into oblivion, all those years ago.

  Calling on the magic was like remembering to breathe. She tried to throttle it back, but it still resulted in a dark violet flash she could see through the hood when she blasted the ropes to shreds.

  The muted voices immediately stopped. There was a heavy, flapping sound to her left.

  She yanked her hands free of the damaged rope and reached for her ankles. Before she could blast the bonds, a clear male voice not far from her said, “Hey, relax. No one’s go
ing to hurt you. Sorry about all the cloak-and-dagger stuff, but it was necessary.”

  It wasn’t Sledge, but she knew the voice. She just couldn’t quite place it. Reluctantly, she straightened in the chair and reached for the hood, preparing to blast whoever he was if it turned out to be an unfriendly recognition.

  No one stopped her when she pulled the hood off. She was still blinking, trying to adjust to the light in wherever this was, when the almost-familiar voice groaned, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  She finally placed it a split second before she made out his face. The Prophet.

  Noah was very close to calling Sledge and Darby in, and telling them to bring this one back.

  Goddard’s amazing new recruit was Miss I-Don’t-Need-Your-Help from the Warrens. Of course it was. The only things stopping him from knocking her right back out and having her ass carted to Casper were the details of her performance last night, which Darby had relayed from Selby Block, and the actual investment he’d already made having to pay Goddard back for bailing her out. Plus, there was the display she’d just pulled in here. Her magic was solid. Strong.

  Her attitude, not so much.

  “You used magic,” he finally said to the glaring girl. “Hypocrite much?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Please tell me you’re not with Darby and Sledge,” she said. “I’d rather be kidnapped.”

  “I can arrange that.”

  “Would you?” She gave him a saccharine smile, but it turned into a scowl pretty fast. “Look, can you at least untie me? This isn’t exactly comfortable.”

  He almost refused. But despite her combative tone and snide remarks, she had the potential for a strong asset. Darby said she’d been nothing but nice to her and Sledge — so apparently, it was just him she didn’t like. And he probably had to put up with it. He sighed, pulled a blade from his boot and hesitated. “If I cut you loose, you’re not going to kick me. Or blast me. Right?”