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Chapter 13

Declan

S oundlessly, Declan swam to the base of the cliff. His powerful kicks kept him clear of any rocks, and when he reached the base of the sheer side, he began to climb.

Only problem was, he’d been homebound for years. He could swim, sure, but climbing engaged a wholly different set of muscles. Even using his claws to stay locked to the wall, his fingers soon began to ache, and he heaved himself over the cliff ledge and flopped on his back to catch his breath. His knees were scuffed, a cut on his shin bleeding, but when he closed his eyes, all that melted away.

He heard voices on the wind.

“Really lucked out following that twinky incubus,” one gruff man said. “Who’da thought he’d lead us right to a fuckin’ dragon?”

“Thought they were all dead,” his partner agreed. “We were gonna get a nice chunk of change for the demon, but a dragon? What do you think we could get for each scale?”

Declan’s eyes snapped open, and he shoved himself up. In the dark, they couldn’t see him. Already, they were high above, digging their way through the cliff face.

He pressed himself deeper into the shadows and scrambled his way up, trying to stay silent, even though the sound of their machine would have to drown out the sound of his climb.

But then it went quiet, and he froze.

From above, he heard the sound of a scuffle. He gritted his teeth and kept moving. There wasn’t a thing he could do until he got up there.

Carefully, he peeked over the upper ledge. From there, the cavern opened up, brilliantly illuminated from within.

Right in the middle of the room, Augustine was piled on the couch, his arms behind him like they’d tied him up. Two of the men were going through treasures around the walls while the biggest watched them.

Declan needed something to fight with—something more than what he had naturally. If these guys could take down a dragon, what chance did he stand?

Slowly, he crawled up, but the men were too distracted by lifting up a gilded lamp, weighing it, speculating it was pure gold, to notice him crouching there in the shadows. He suppressed his allure as best he could, and crept along the far edge of the room, but for a creature as old and powerful as a dragon, Augustine didn’t seem to keep many weapons around. He hadn’t seen any, in fact, in his time there. It was one of the things that made Declan sure that Augustine wouldn’t hurt him on purpose. Of course, really, a dragon hardly needed a weapon when his whole body was built like a tank, when he had claws as long as Declan’s forearm, teeth that could crush anything. Hell, he probably breathed fire.

Declan tiptoed to Augustine’s own bedroom. Surely, there, he’d have some way of protecting himself. How could a man amass so much treasure and not even think about owning, like, a broadsword? Maybe a potato gun.

He’d never been in Augustine’s room before. He’d never seen his giant, luxurious bed, or the things he chose to keep nearest to himself. Declan’s heart gave a lurch at the thought of never finding out why he valued what he did, or if there was some chance it wasn’t all about appearance and compulsion.

But there, against the wall—the... the air shimmered strangely. He swore he could see something different, strange, almost like a door, so he stepped toward that cloudy patch, and when he put his hand in it, it disappeared.

Another step, and he was gone. And if he had thought what Augustine showed off in the public spaces of his home were his treasures, he really had not understood him at all.

There were books on every side, gold arranged artfully on nearly every surface. And when Declan stepped farther into the room, something shook and clattered.

“Hello?” He looked around, but no one else was there. Could humans even get into this room? Why the hell could Declan? It’d been spelled and sealed off, and it felt so much like being held in Augustine’s own arms just to enter it.

He walked around the wall. There were some weapons here, but not many, and none that Declan knew how to use. They were all ornate, more for show than anything.

Then, he heard something, hardly more than a tremble in the air, but it grew louder as the seconds passed.

“ Are you his mate? ”

Declan turned back and forth, looking for the source of the voice. There was a metallic tremble on the floor, and there, a shining sword. Above it, on the wall, there was a mount clearly intended to hold the sword. It’d fallen. Thrown itself out? Clearly, it was more than an average sword.

When he picked it up, it wasn’t overly long or heavy, and it felt warm in his hand.

“Augustine’s?” he asked aloud.

“ Yes, August’s .”

A shiver ran up Declan’s spine. “He says I am. Name’s Declan.”

Though the sword didn’t speak, not exactly, he was filled with the sense of laughter.

“ Dragons typically know what they’re talking about. I’m William. ”

Did they? Declan didn’t actually know much about dragons. He hadn’t asked. He’d just been offended. He still thought his reasons had been valid—sensible, even—but they seemed less important now.

“Well, now he’s in trouble. Can you—can you help?”

The air around him changed, getting colder, like the sword—William—was angry at the mere thought. “Absolutely.”

A magical talking sword was as good a help as any, not that Declan had any idea how to properly wield a sword. Here’s hoping William had some clue what he was about, because a nymphubus in a Speedo, swinging medieval weaponry he’d hardly even seen before, let alone used, wasn’t going to get the job done on his own.

He crept into the main room, where Augustine was laid out face down on a couch. He was unconscious, but Declan would save him. He had to. So they could... talk. Or something.

“You ready for this?” he whispered.

William hummed in his hand, and Declan rushed the room.

The first guy, he took by surprise. Declan hadn’t lived decades by being spineless. Sometimes, a demon had to go for a quick kill. From behind, he slid the sword tip between the man’s fourth and fifth ribs. The human made a gurgling sound, and when Declan pulled back, the man slumped forward.

His companions rounded on him.

“What the fuck?”

“Well, look what we have here.” The bigger one, with a hardened face, started to smile. “Two for one tonight, Johnny. Boss’ll be thrilled we got the little demon too.”

“Fuck you,” Declan hissed.

The slighter guy raised a weapon and shot something at him, but like the sword was acting on its own, Declan lifted his arm and sent the shot flying away from him. Something crashed, but Declan didn’t have time to look away.

The bigger guy was coming at him, swinging what looked like one of Augustine’s very own candelabras. William the super sword crashed into it over and over, but when one of the candelabra’s arms hit Declan’s arm, pain shot down from his elbow. He cursed, and William flew out of his hand. The sword clattered to the floor. Dumbfounded, Declan stared after it.

The man stomping toward him raised his fist, and it crashed into the side of Declan’s face. He blinked away stars, stumbling back even as the man lashed out and grabbed his neck.

Fangs bared, he hissed and clawed at the man’s jacket. It didn’t tear, no matter how he slashed at it.

The man had a hard, craggy face. His hair was trimmed short around his ears and a dullish blond.

“Dragon skin,” he sneered between his stained teeth. “Can’t touch me, pet.”

With his fingers flexing on Declan’s neck, the man shoved him back into one of Augustine’s antique chairs. The salt water still clinging to Declan’s swimming clothes would ruin the upholstery. All of Augustine’s lovely things.

Another man came up behind him, jerked his arms back, and tied them behind the chair. Declan struggled, curling his fingers to try and catch the rope around his wrists in his claws.

“None of that,” the man behind him warned. Then there was a snap, a crack, and pain shot through him like a current.

He screamed. Magic tore through his body. When the pain subsided, Declan slumped forward. Across the room on the couch, Augustine had woken up. He was struggling to free himself. Declan held his eye.

“I’m sorry,” Declan whispered. His eyes stung after the pain, and—and because he’d failed, and all the fragile hopes he’d carried with him to the shore were dashed in August’s bruised face.

This was his fault. He’d led them here.

The brute above him clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth and gripped Declan’s chin. “Lookie here, pet. I want to see those fangs of yours up close.”

He pushed Declan’s lip back with a thumb. Hissing, Declan bit him, and he jerked back, sucking blood from his fingertip.

“Little fucker,” the man hissed. The back of his hand crashed into Declan’s cheek, and he tasted blood he was reasonably sure was his own.

With a fist in Declan’s hair, the man jerked him upright again, sneering. “You’ve got a pretty mouth. I want to see what you can do with it, hm?”

His friend laughed behind Declan, squeezing his shoulders and holding him still, freeing the man in front of him to reach for his belt. “Don’t bite me again, pet,” he warned, “or I’ll kill you and fuck your corpse raw. And believe me, I can get about as much for a dead incubus as a living one, so don’t try me.”