Wyoming Dynasty (American Dragons Book 10)

by Aaron Crash

  Heridan wasn’t feeling the mission. I do like chocolate Donettes better. Fucking Tessa, I will try not to kill her. She should’ve known better!

  Steven sighed. Let’s not murder anyone who isn’t actively trying to murder us today, okay?

  I can’t promise that, Heridan sent.

  “I should’ve brought a chocolate something for her,” he muttered to himself.

  Nefri and Uchiko left their bikes. Both disappeared around the sides of the building, weapons out and ready.

  Aria and Heridan stayed with the bikes.

  Steven crunched across the gravel. He stopped to look into the window of the truck. Inside, the white upholstery was spotless, like it was brand-new. On the seat lay a box holding cassette tapes, homemade, all labeled with country favorites in precise, neat lettering: The Charlie Daniel’s Band, Hank William’s Jr., Merle Haggard, and The Highwaymen, which meant Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, and Kris Kristofferson.

  In the back was a brand-new suitcase, Armani, strapped to tie-offs with frayed bungee cords.

  Steven stopped and looked for the Mercedes-Benz. There had been one parked next to the truck, but now it was gone. Or had he been seeing things?

  “Magica Divinatio.” And he saw into the past, when he and the four women had pulled up. There had been two vehicles parked there, and now there was one. He saw the Dairy King across the street.

  The magic faded. Heridan and Aria were leaning against their bikes. The old restaurant wasn’t Dairy King though, but an A&W Drive-In. A faded sign claimed their root beer floats were the best in the West!

  “This place doesn’t exist,” Steven said.

  Tessa would’ve made the obligatory Loki quip. It all felt like an illusion.

  Well, whoever the illusionist was, he’d done a masterful job of creating George’s Torch. Steven pushed open the torn screen door, and the rusty hinges squeaked. He then opened another door with a faded St. Paulie Girl poster pasted inside, blocking out the window.

  The air-conditioning took away the heat. A few tables were scattered around. Each had four different kinds of chairs around it. An antler coat rack hung on the wall near a jukebox. The rest was country roadhouse with stools, a bar, and glass shelves holding liquor bottles. The only thing strange was the bright red case, like from a carnival, holding cones of cotton candy, blue and pink.

  A big man was eating a cheeseburger on a paper plate overflowing with fries. A big mug of beer sweated in front of the meal. The man was missing the pinkie on his right hand. No, he was missing the pinkie fingers on both of his hands.

  From the back came some noise and cursing. That would be the owner/bartender doing something. Was he the master illusionist? From the county records, it was George Roy Hooker, and he’d lived a fairly normal life—three ex-wives, a few kids, nothing special. He was a high-school dropout, had worked some odd jobs, and then took over the bar when the owner sold ten years prior. It all seemed legitimate. Could Cactus Bill be wrong?

  Something wasn’t right. Cars didn’t disappear. Restaurants didn’t change names in mere minutes.

  Bob Wayne turned. He wore a leather coat with fringe hanging off the arms. Underneath was a dress shirt tucked into jeans. He had a leather belt with a big buckle, mother of pearl, and polished boots. There was a red sheen to his clean-shaven face, which was rough, rugged, and square-jawed. He had a dimple in his chin and pale blue eyes. His hair was blonder than his daughters’, less red, more sandy.

  He lifted his chin. “Steven Drokharis. Well, now, when my daughters called me, I thought they might be kidding. But here you are.” He talked with a slow drawl, and yet, his accent wasn’t as thick as Chazzie’s.

  The Wayne twins had given Steven the details of their father’s life in broad strokes. Bob Wayne was about two hundred years old, the son of a Ronin Dragonsoul who hadn’t amounted to much. Bob hadn’t either, not really. He’d kept a small Escort of three women, only that was later in life. For the most part, Daddy Wayne wasn’t so different from Joe Whipp, only he didn’t leave his family at home, but took them with him on his adventures working as a hired gun for Primes in their wars with each other. Scheming, fighting, lying, he made a good living, though he never had the power of a true Dragonlord. Then the youngest of his three wives gave him twins, right off the bat. Two girls were enough for Bob Wayne.

  In the late 1950s, right around the same time that Liam Strider lost his Escort, Bob Wayne ran into some bad luck. One by one, he lost his wives. One died fighting in a minor skirmish between Primes. Another was poisoned by a former business partner—that was Chazzie and Pru’s mom, and they’d been so little, they didn’t remember much of their mother. The final wife, alone, missing her sisters, killed herself. From then on, Bob Wayne would pick up human women, to play with, but he kept on the move, his fathering done once he married his daughters off.

  Both twins agreed their father had done his best with them, but in the end, he hadn’t wanted kids. He did what he could to raise them right, in a strict, utilitarian manner, and then cut them loose once they found their home with Carlo Bart Baxter. They’d not talked in years if not decades.

  And yet, Bob Wayne haunted them in a way only fathers can haunt daughters.

  Wayne motioned for him to sit. “Can I buy you lunch, partner?”

  “No,” Steven said. “That’s okay. This place isn’t real. I want to know why you wanted to meet here. And why I couldn’t fly in or use Magica Porta.” He’d save his other questions, about Collidium and Joe Whipp, for last.

  Bob Wayne squinted at him. “Mr. Drokharis, this place couldn’t be more real. I don’t get what you’re selling, partner.”

  “I’m not selling anything.” Steven remained standing. “Why here?”

  “Wanted to see my old friend,” Wayne said. “George and I go way back. And it was close to you, only about three hours, right?”

  “Right.”

  The Texan Ronin pointed to the stool next to him. “Come on, partner. Sit. We’ll talk a bit. Though I do have to get going. I have an appointment to keep in Blackhawk. I have a poker game.”

  Steven walked up to the bar, on high alert. “I’m still not understanding this. We could’ve talked on the phone. We could’ve met in Cheyenne. I could’ve just teleported in.”

  Wayne shrugged. “I don’t like phones. Don’t get me started on that email business. No, partner, I wanted to share a meal, have a beer, and talk to my son-in-law. Then I’ll tell you what I know, and we can go about our business. Is that a deal?” He drank his beer and set it down. “You fly in, you could bring an army. You teleport in, well, we know how that deal worked out with the demon army you killed. No, I like to be safe. I’ve learned to be a cautious man. Betcha my daughters told you why.”

  “Because of your wives,” Steven said.

  “That is correct.” Wayne slid his fries through ketchup. “Because of my wives. I envied both your fathers on that account.” He snapped his fingers. “Can I holler back to George to get you something?”

  “No. I don’t trust you, and I don’t trust George. Sorry, Mr. Wayne. You lost a wife to poison. You know.”

  “Not even some cotton candy?” Wayne asked. “I’ll buy.”

  “I was never much for cotton candy.”

  The Texan Ronin sighed and smiled sadly. “I guess I don’t blame you, partner. But I don’t have to like it. You know, I heard about that Sabina having a daughter. I met her, on more than one occasion, married to various Primes. She’ll be a good mother, I would imagine. And you have a lot to live for now that you’re a father. That’s important work. For a time.”

  “For a time?”

  Wayne nodded. “For a time, certainly. You raise your kids, and then you send ’em out into the world, and both parts are important. Living through your children is just plain sad. I was never gonna do that. And you shouldn’t either.”

  “I don’t have to,” Steven said. “I have more life than I can handle sometimes.”

 
; “But your big battles are most likely behind you, partner. And your life is gonna be long. Just giving you some friendly advice.”

  “Noted.” Steven could see why Bob Wayne had severed ties with Chazzie and Pru. In his mind, he’d done his business and could be done. Any contact would mean he was trying to live through his children, and the proud Texan Ronin was never going to do that.

  “Do you know Joe Whipp?” Steven asked.

  “Sure I do. Me, Joe, Rhaegen Mulk, and Stefan Drokharis, we’d throw cards around every now and again. Stefan and I were Ronin, Mulk was the big Prime, and Joe Whipp was just a human who liked a thrill. Playing poker with dragons did thrill him without a doubt.” Wayne turned those pale blue eyes on Steven. “Both men were good. You probably don’t believe that. Compared to Mulk, though? Come on. Joe would’ve been better if life had allowed him to be. Sometimes, life forces us into a corner. One thing about Joe, he’d always come out fighting.”

  Steven wasn’t sure he believed that. “He didn’t fight for his family.”

  “And that was his big mistake and his greatest hurt,” Wayne said.

  “So, this poker game in Blackhawk, my foster father will be there, won’t he?”

  Wayne smiled, and it was wistful. “Sorry to see that life has pushed you into being all about business. I’d have liked to see my daughters with someone who knows how to live a little. Okay, partner, we’ll cut to the chase. Tomorrow night, Friday night, we’ll start around eight at the Ameristar. We have a back room. I’ll get you a seat.”

  Steven felt a knife in his gut. Seeing Joe Whipp at a poker table wasn’t going to be easy. “Who else will be there?

  “Me, Joe, you, we have a guy named Frank Sport, who is a Magician who used to work for Roy Right. Frank never went up against you, though. I got Frank out of that life because I knew Roy wasn’t ever gonna make it far. Then we have Rhakshor Khat, who likes to gamble. He prefers Kridapatram, also known as Ganjifa, but he tolerates poker. He and Mulk were close, which is why he set Aria up with Rhaegen. Rhakshor wanted to bring a guest, maybe his son, Godha, but I don’t think so. That makes six, including you, if you’re game?”

  The dread in Steven’s stomach wasn’t going away. “Rhakshor might not want me there.”

  “It’s my game,” Wayne said. “I get to choose the players. No, Rhakshor will be fine. You have to promise not to go after him, though, right, partner?”

  Steven laughed. “I only go after people who go after me. Tomorrow night, I’ll be there.”

  Wayne grinned. “It’ll be a big surprise for everyone.” He paused. “You know, what you’re trying to do, this whole revolution thing? I’m glad it’s working out for you. This is exactly what Stefan always wanted. He’d be tickled pink, I’ll tell you what.”

  “And how will the revolution affect you?” Steven asked.

  The Texan Ronin squinted and sipped more of his beer. “I found a good life among the humans, working, gambling, creating businesses and selling them. I figure I’ll get into the IEG business, for a bit, and make some money. Get some housewives smiling at me. You see, I never wanted empires, I just wanted a life I could enjoy. I’d suggest you look into that, partner.”

  “But your daughters want it all and want it now. Where did they get that from?” he asked.

  Wayne had another wistful smile. “That was me, son, overcompensating. I worried they’d not make it at all, so I made sure they made it all the way. Looks like it was a good move on my part, if I do say so myself.” The Texan Ronin gave him a grin. “Oh, and I wasn’t gonna say anything, partner, but I think that crown might be a little much.”

  Steven half-grunted, half-sighed. “It’s a circlet, but that doesn’t help the situation that much. It’s a magic item, and to be honest? It’s just easier to wear.”

  Wayne chuckled. “It must be powerful.”

  “It is.” Steven thought about offering to restore the man’s lost fingers, but it felt awkward to bring it up.

  They lapsed into silence. The only sound was the air-conditioning chugging along.

  Wayne finished his beer. “Hey, George, we’re done here. You wanna come out so I can pay you?”

  Nothing. All sounds from the back were gone.

  Then both his Animus and his Morta core lit up as he got hit with messages from Tessa, then Sabina, then Heridan.

  Quinnestri is gone again! I was sparring with her, and she vanished! Steven, she was kidnapped again, I know it, and it pisses me right the fuck off.

  Hola, Steven. The unlucky man has his own luck, mi amor. He’s seen you, and he likes you, I think. That is not a good thing. You don’t want the lost king to like you.

  The bar is gone, Steven. Al the buildings are gone. They were here, and now, poof, gone. Where are you? I will unravel the fucking galaxy to find you.

  It was hard to unravel all the screaming in his mind, and he had to close his eyes because the three women were all so loud.

  When he opened them, Bob Wayne was gone, the bar was there, and the air-conditioning had stopped working.

  He walked to the door and pushed it open. Instead of a Wyoming plain, dotted with sage, he saw an endless land of salt, nothing but salt, flat, white, and wavering in the heat from the white-hot sun in the sky.

  There was a good chance he wasn’t on Earth anymore. Okay then... where was he?

  A shell hit in the distance, throwing salt, sand, and debris. Smoke boiled from the explosion and the ground shook.

  Steven sped onto the sand, leapt, and shifted into a dragon. And that was when the creatures hit him. They had six legs, an exoskeleton, and fangs, so many fangs, rending his flesh.

  A dozen Shaze were on him, hungry for his flesh and his Animus.

  Impossible! The shadows of teeth and talon had all been destroyed. Or had they?

  In the blink of an eye, he’d found himself in Collidium’s next game, and this time, it was far more complicated than just a series of doors.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  QUINNESTRI OPENED HER eyes, and she was chained to a chair again, her power gone. She was in an old human restaurant, a diner, she thought they called it, or some kind of quick food place, though it seemed abandoned, and old, so old.

  Not quick food, fast food, the stuff Heridan liked.

  Faded red plastic seats were connected to cracked tables, dusty and falling part. There was a kitchen, but the sinks had been stripped and the stoves were gone. The windows were as dirty as everything else. Through them, she saw a flat landscape of white. A few other buildings rose from the white in the distance.

  Next to her was a handsome man with reddish-brown hair, a clean-shaven face, and pale blue eyes. He was chained as well, but even without her magic she could feel the dragon in him.

  A second man was wearing a wig, but it had fallen to the side of his head, exposing his bald scalp. He was a portly human, definitely human, but somehow familiar. He wore the formal dress of successful humans, the suit and the tie.

  The human cursed. “Fuck me. I hope this is worth it.”

  “Damn,” the Dragonsoul sighed. “I knew meeting up with Steven Drokharis wasn’t going to do me any good. Who are you people?”

  “I’m Quinnestri, a queen of Aqualyra and...” She paused because, suddenly, she knew she had another role, an important one, a fate she was only just beginning to embrace. “And one of Steven’s wives.”

  “Bob Wayne here,” the dragon said. “And you’re Robert Stains. I’ve seen you on TV. Well, shit, I don’t suppose you know what’s going on, Bob.”

  “Robert,” the human growled. “Call me Robert.”

  The dragon chuckled. “Sure thing, partner. You be Robert. I’ll be Bob.” He nodded at the elf queen. “So, Your Highness, any ideas?”

  Quinnestri did have some ideas. She’d found something about the lost king, the wanderer, the unlucky number. But then all her thoughts were wiped away as an explosion hit outside. The windows shattered. Shrapnel shredded the red plastic booths. The concussive b
last threw Quinn, the human, and the Dragonsoul across the floor.

  When the elf queen opened her eyes, she was lying on her side, shoulders straining against the restraints chaining her to the chair. She was no longer in the restaurant, and she was alone.

  She lay on a concrete floor. Empty shelves were in front of her. Beyond them, simple planks were hammered into wood with cracks of light between them. The light allowed her to read a package in front of her, something called Black Cats, which seemed to be fireworks. She had to think. There was a summer festival on this world, in the human political structure to which Wyoming belonged. The words came to her... the Fourth of July, yes.

  Fireworks were explosions.

  Could they be causing the destruction outside? More explosions rocked the little shop and dust rained down.

  She closed her eyes and prayed for Steven to find her, to save her. She wasn’t ready to be done, yet, and she had so much to tell him. And so much to atone for. If her life was to have any meaning, it would be here, with Steven, earning the forgiveness of all the worlds on the Stair.

  Boots clacked on the concrete floor. A figure stepped over her, crushing the package of Black Cats. It was a cowboy boot under jeans for a moment, and then the footwear and the dress changed. Whoever stood over her wore calles, the traditional footwear of soldiers tens of thousands of years ago on Aqualyra. She saw the seal of a king on the side, embossed gold in the leather.

  Those boots confirmed her research and her memories. She knew who this Collidium was.

  A voice spoke down to her, and it had an American lilt to it, which should’ve been impossible. “Well, my queen, you and your Vandrus Dree kept me asleep, so I missed my chance at a game with the Zothoric. However, I found a new opponent, a new game, and this is all very exciting. When your dragon lover reaches out, tell him the rules.”

  He laughed.

  Quinn tried to turn, but she couldn’t get herself up to where she could see the villain’s face, only his calles and the muscled, hairless leg. He was straddling her, humiliating her.