Page 2

Chapter 2

WOOLEN AND HEAVY. EVERYTHING FEELS too soft, too feathery…my body…my mind. And yet the panic in the reedy feminine whisper pierces through the murky depths I’m shrouded in like a hot lance through dandelion fluff.

“A dragon. They have us tending to a dragon, a female dragon, like that’s just some normal, everyday, no-big-deal thing.”

“It’s only an issue if you make it one, Gina.”

“Everything about this is an issue , Pete. She’s a dragon. You know, the kind that burned half the planet in the Fae Wars and then declared themselves rulers of everything that didn’t go up in smoke.”

“I’m pretty sure they call themselves drakes when they’re in this human-ish form. And they saved our asses after The Bearing. We’d all be slaves to the fae right now if the dragons hadn’t done what they did.”

“I don’t care what they call themselves. I care that we have one of their females unconscious in the bed behind you, which means The Horde is going to come down on all of us. You know how they are. They’re ruthless when they think they’ve been wronged. Just ask the wyverns. And if there’s one thing that’s guaranteed to incite their wrath, it’s messing with one of their females. I’ve never even seen one before. That’s how psychotically protective they are of the few that are left.”

My muddled mind tries to make sense of what’s going on, but when I reach for clarity, my cumbersome limbs can’t seem to find it in the foggy haze all around me.

“Shhhh, Gina! You’re getting yourself worked up for nothing. The Horde isn’t going to show up and burn the town to the ground.”

“And how do you know that?”

“One, because not all of them breathe fire. Different subgroups, or kiths as they call them, have different abilities—”

“Pete, spare me the lecture. The Dragon Horde is not going to send us their Healers or the dragons that grow flowers and talk to trees. They’re going to send the Thrashers, their punishers and trackers. You know, the massive scary ones who hunt down the troublemakers and show the rest of us why messing with the top of the food chain is a bad idea. Again, do you really need this history lesson after what they’ve done to your own people?”

“This female was brought here because we were the closest trauma center. We didn’t hurt her, Gina. We saved her. And before you go throwing my people in my face, the sorcai that rebelled with the wyverns were dealt with. Rightfully so. That’s the Arcane way. I know you humans like to think you’re entitled to things the way they were before The Bearing, but you morons were the ones who started shit with the fae and almost got yourselves wiped out. The Arcane intervened, like you begged us to, and now you get to fall in line like the rest of us.”

I try to swat away the hissed conversation that’s buzzing around me like a pesky mosquito, but I still can’t get my arms to work like they’re supposed to.

In fact, nothing seems to be working. I’m pretty sure I’m wrapped in cotton and trapped in sand, and it’s making everything too slow and yet somehow too fast.

I do understand one thing though, I should be dead.

I should be, but I’m not.

“Gina, if your prejudice is going to keep you from doing your job, you need to go notify shift lead so they can send someone else in here who can help. We are required by law to report any cases that even faintly look like they’re linked to blood brokers. The fact that the victim is a dragon doesn’t matter. The Horde is sending a team to investigate and collect her, and we need to get her cleaned up so that they don’t fly into a rage and burn us all alive when they see the state she’s in. Now, get to work or get out.”

“Thought you said they don’t all breathe fire,” the woman grumbles quietly. “Can’t you just bibbity bobbity boo her clean with all your superior sorcai magic? I know you’re licensed for it. Why do you even need me?”

“They found some sort of strange magical block in her blood when they were testing it to figure out what she was. Even the higher-ups don’t recognize what it is or why. They don’t want anyone messing with it more than they already have, which means no more unnecessary magic around her. We get to do things the old-fashioned way today. Now, get to work.”

A cold cloth brushes against my forehead, and I groan a weak protest, not liking the chilly touch. A squawk of fright sounds off next to me, followed by the scuffle of feet scurrying around. Harsh worried whispers press in against me like a scratchy quilt, but I lose track of the noise and time as it all grows too fuzzy and too fragile to hold onto before growing quiet.

The sand I’m trapped in pulls me deeper, disarranging my senses even more. I float, both light and heavy for a while, neither here nor there. Until the long past hazy conversation comes back and I manage to cling to a part of it that feels important. The statement tries to escape my grasp. It wiggles and writhes like a slippery fish, but I hold on tight, forcing the words to replay in my mind over and over again.

The Horde is sending a team.

The words are weighted. Heavy. But I’m still floating all over the place, and it’s hard to connect the dots into a picture that makes sense.

The Horde.

My heart rate picks up, and the murk starts to clear.

The Horde.

And then my mind seems to reboot, and it all clicks together.

The. Horde. Is. Sending. A. Team.

I pull in a sharp, steel-edged breath as adrenaline floods me, and I sit up, ignoring the cords attached to my body that strain against the sudden movement.

Shit. Shit! I can’t be on The Horde’s radar. The blood brokers and the Tainted were bad enough. The Horde is the equivalent of jumping from the frying pan into the mouth of an angry churning volcano or—you know—a fucking fire-breathing dragon.

I force my eyes open, blinking furiously against the sudden light that overwhelms me.

Sunlight.

Something I haven’t seen or felt for months.

Operating on pure panic, I give myself no time to marvel at the bright heat. My eyes immediately start to water from the staggering illumination. I wipe at them with a shaky hand as I try to decipher the blurry images surrounding me. The first thing I can make out is the plastic tubing leading away from my arms. Fear instantly throttles me at the sight, and my mind transports me back to my cell despite my other senses telling me I’m not there anymore.

Fright crawls up my throat and I claw at it, desperate to keep it at bay. I frantically search for Wistan. I know that evil bastard is lurking somewhere nearby, just waiting for me to be conscious enough to carve new tally marks in my skin. I don’t see him anywhere and confusion sweeps in, followed quickly by relief when I recognize that I’m in a room. A sterile-looking room. Alone. Which is odd, but it’s not a cell. Not a cage. I’m not tied down. They always tie me down when they’re going to bleed me.

I expand my senses, searching for dampeners in the room or anything else designed to weaken me. That fucked-up brand of magic has been a staple in every cell the blood brokers have kept me in from the moment I first woke up in one, but I don’t sense anything here.

My gaze darts back down to the cannulas in my arms and the small tubes attached to them. More ease trickles through me when I realize they aren’t robbing me of blood, but rather feeding some kind of clear fluid into me. I take in the silent machines to my right and left, the bed I’m sitting in, the simple sheath covering me, and belatedly I put it all together.

I’m in a hospital.

I’ve seen them in movies, and a few members of the pack we trade with back home have talked about being treated in one, but I’ve never experienced it myself. I’ve always been careful not to go anywhere where my blood might be exposed.

I connect the clues of my environment with the whispered, fuzzy conversation I was in the middle of earlier, and my heart simultaneously leaps and plummets.

Somehow I survived my fall.

The blood brokers don’t have me again.

And The Horde is on their way.

A brittle, groggy groan slips out of me, and I force myself to swallow down another as I swing my feet around to the side of the bed. Surprisingly, I don’t hurt anywhere. Where there should be agony, there isn’t so much as an ache. For someone who smashed through too many layers of branches to count and then shattered themselves against the hard ground of a merciless mountain, that shouldn’t be the case. I should be suffering from debilitating pain, and yet all I am is stiff.

Probably because I’ve been lying in this bed for too long and now my bones are in no hurry to leave it. Aside from that though, I feel surprisingly okay. Nowhere near as strong as I was before I was taken, but certainly more robust than I have been in months. Then again, I felt closer to death in my cell than I did falling off a cliff, so that’s not saying much.

“There’s our fighter,” an animated voice warbles as a lanky man strides into the room.

I startle, shocked by the invasion of noise and the sudden appearance of the stranger. My alarmed thoughts shoot straight to The Horde . I was very young the last time I met a dragon male face-to-face. They’re colossal. Something this guy is not. So unless The Horde recently stopped wearing scale armor and started wearing baby-pink scrubs, this guy isn’t one of them. He must work here.

The male’s bright brown eyes twinkle softly with intelligence as his gaze bounces from me to the flashing machines standing sentinel on both sides of the bed. I scent his magic before its tepid touch brushes lazily across my senses. It’s not dark, it doesn’t smell spoiled, he’s not Tainted, but he’s—without a doubt—sorcai.

The presence of any kind of Arcane magic has my instincts and reactions once again at war with my rational mind. Without second-guessing why, I leap at the stranger. Before he can so much as gasp in surprise, I yank the IV from my inner elbow and wrap the tubing around the male’s neck. I pull as hard as I can until he’s grasping frantically at the coiled plastic, his face turning a welcome shade of deep red.

My arms tremble with the effort, even though this puny sorcai is making his death far too easy. I feel better than I have in ages, and yet I can still feel the effects of what the Tainted have done to me over the last four months. I pull even harder on the IV tubing, but all too quickly, the fight and strength start to drain out of my limbs.

I growl in frustration, angry that underneath the burst of strength and adrenaline I just had, I’m still frighteningly frail, still so hollow. I search for my dragon as I force the sorcai to his knees. His long fingers desperately claw and slap at my arms as pained gurgles bubble out of his mouth.

Worry plumes through me when I still can’t reach even the faintest hint of a dragon inside. I’m accustomed to being blocked from the power and the ability to transform, but I used to be able to at least sense it stretching under my skin. Now there’s nothing. It’s been like that since I was taken, and I worry I’ve been cut off for so long that it’s gone for good, and I don’t know if it can come back.

Maybe only part of me survived the last four months.

A sizzle of electric power fills the air before a bolt of magic slams into me from behind. I’m thrown from the sorcai’s back into a wall as streaks of magic strike painfully all around me.

“What is happening in here?” a woman demands, her hands held threateningly in front of her as more strands of bright yellow power flicker between her readied palms.

The sorcai I was choking shakily pulls the IV tubing from his bruising neck, his loud coughs bouncing off the walls of the room as another man comes running in. He’s a shifter, predator class, although I can’t immediately tell what animal since it’s not one I’ve come in contact with back home. He’s not in scrubs, but the stethoscope hanging off his neck tells me he’s probably a healer.

I scent the air for the telltale sour fetor that all Tainted carry. They try to hide it, but I can always sniff it out. Just like the sorcai I was trying to strangle, this shifter’s scent isn’t rancid, meaning he hasn’t been in contact with anyone I’m running from. The room still smells sharp and clean with a hint of burning ozone that’s growing stronger as the woman just inside the doorway continues to eye me angrily, her yellow magic and her unanswered question still flickering in the air.

“Where am I?” I demand, the question friable and frail as it scrapes out of my throat like fine grit sandpaper.

The unexpected hit of magic has my legs wanting to buckle, but I lock my knees and lean against the wall, refusing to go down. I may feel like I’ve got tissue paper for limbs, but I sure as shit am not going to announce that to any of them.

The shifter healer moves to a machine that’s flashing red and presses a few buttons until the lights fade to a soft complacent white once more. “You’re in Lairwood. Hikers found you in Newden. You were transferred here when your injuries were more critical than their facilities could handle. You’re lucky to be alive.”

“Newden?” I croak as shock rings like a gong in my head, making everything go quiet before it gets loud again.

I was on the other side of the divide when I was taken. Ren, our Flight, and I were tracking a Relacour in vampire territory. I didn’t sense the trap until it was too late. I didn’t think the Tainted would risk moving me through so many territories. Looks like the branches of their network are farther reaching than we realized.

“You’ve been here for several days. We didn’t know if you’d wake up,” the shifter tells me as the woman helps the man I attacked to his feet.

He rubs his throat as he looks at me, his pink scrubs now ripped in a few places and disheveled. I’m surprised by the contrition I find floating in his stare. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m very sorry,” he rasps, his voice almost as coarse as mine.

I stare at him blankly, dumbstruck by the apology. Maybe I’ve taken one too many blows to the head while I was held captive, but I attacked him and he’s sorry. That’s not how things work where I come from. He watches me expectantly, like he’s waiting for my pardon, but the only thing sitting on the tip of my tongue is unease. I don’t know what to do with his sorry other than not trust a breath of it.

I look around the room and I don’t know if I’m searching for answers or an escape. I need to get out of here. I need to get home.

Home.

It dawns on me that home might be even more impossible to get to than I thought. The realization comes like a kick to the chest, and it’s all I can do not to stagger and sink to the ground. Enslee might have closed the wards to me and Renatta after we were taken. Our Flight would have told her what happened, and she’d have acted accordingly. Which means I may not be able to get back in.

Certainly not if The Horde is on to me. That would bring death right to the hidden front door of the others. I’m sure the Burner king would like nothing more than to discover there are survivors of his successful coup d’état all conveniently gathered together. That would definitely make it easier for him to wipe us out once and for all.

We’ve been successfully flying under the radar, biding our time while we figure out how to break an unbreakable curse. But until we’re free of it, we need the world—and especially the king and The Dragon Horde—to continue thinking that the Syphons are all dead.

A tremor moves through my hands, and my breathing speeds up. The need to run and hide builds in my blood, and I fight the urge, knowing I’ll get nowhere fast without some sort of plan.

I need to get out of here. Then I need to find a communicator—not one in the hospital though. I can’t risk The Horde discovering that I contacted anyone, and they’ll scour this place first. I can’t chance a missing communicator being noticed.

I try to think through what’s coming my way. If I’m lucky, they’ll only send one operative team, or Flight, as dragon hierarchy classifies them. Unlike my ragtag Flight back home, The Horde will have the best of the best. Burners, Channelers, Thrashers, and Renders. But it’s the Thrashers I’m most worried about in this case.

Physical threats in every sense of the word, from their impenetrable skin to their offensive abilities, Thrashers are also the best trackers of our kind and renowned tacticians. It’s possible that the Flight they send might not have one, but it’s not likely, which means I need to get as far ahead of them as I can, and fast.

Fragile threads of a plan in place, I focus back on my surroundings and realize the other two sorcai left the room. The shifter is the only one still here, and he’s apparently talking to me. I tune in, barely catching the last of what he’s saying.

“We’ve given you a concealment charm to help with the scars. It will hide the look and feel of them while you wear it. The charm should last around a month before you’ll need a new one,” he declares, gesturing to a silver band that fits around my right ankle.

My gaze drops to the innocuous circlet. It could easily be mistaken for a trendy piece of jewelry, but I can feel the hum of magic against my skin. The spell work is refined and potent. Whoever did it must have been very expensive. I want to immediately rip it from my body, but when I reach for it, the smooth skin of my arm gives me pause.

I stare at my limb, at the expanse of pale skin that’s no longer carved up and tally-marked. I turn my arm over, seeing the underside is just as smooth. A confusing mix of emotions rushes through me. Pain, relief, shame, anger—everything swirls together and mixes into a whirlpool of turmoil and wonder. I reach behind me and run a hand over my smooth upper back. I don’t know what to think about the absence of scars. I know they’re there—they were gouged just as deeply inside as they were outside—but the shifter is right, I can’t see or feel them.

For a second, I can almost pretend I was never taken.

My blood wasn’t stolen and sold off to the highest bidder.

Renatta wasn’t tortured and killed in the cell next to mine.

If I never remove this spelled band, I can make believe all of it was just some horrible nightmare, a fucked-up figment of my imagination.

If only I couldn’t still hear Ren’s screams or the way she begged at the end. If only the magic anklet could erase every memory I have of being bled as Wistan laughed and carved a tally into my skin solely to commemorate my inability to stop him.

Anguish squeezes my chest, but I refuse to acknowledge it. I have bigger things to worry about right now, The Horde being at the top of that list.

“We would greatly appreciate it if you’d wear the charm until after The Horde’s retrieval team talks to you. I hope you understand, but we need to prepare them for the magnitude of your injuries. Our facility and town won’t hold up to a dragon’s temper,” the healer concludes, his last statement more of a plea than an assertion.

Despite my efforts to remain outwardly calm and collected, one of the machines next to the healer starts flashing red, betraying the rapidly increasing thrum of my uneasy heart. He hurries to press a bunch of buttons to calm the disgruntled tech, and I start pulling wires and tubes off of me to help the process.

“We didn’t know that you were a dragon when you came in,” the healer nervously rambles. “You didn’t have a dragon mark or any other kith designations, and for some reason, you don’t smell like a dragon, but when your blood work came back—oh no, don’t do that!” he yelps when he turns back to find me yanking another electrode from my body.

The shifter moves closer to try to stop me, but a warning growl rumbles out of me, and he instantly freezes in his tracks. He lifts his hands in a placating gesture, his eyes widening with even more worry when I glare at him and continue disconnecting myself from all of the machines and IVs.

“Please get back in bed, dragoness. You need to rest. Your body has been through a lot, and healing it isn’t going to be a quick process with the fall you sustained and with what…” The healer hesitates for a moment before soldiering on. “With what was done to you before that.”

I try not to roll my eyes at the clumsy way he tiptoes around the horrid condition I know I was in when I was brought here. Not to mention the magical block suffocating my abilities that they discovered but don’t understand. I’m sure his imagination has provided him with a laundry list of fucked-up things that probably happened to me, things too awful for him to even whisper, and yet, I lived through them.

It doesn’t matter though. There will be plenty of time to revisit all my traumas, but I’ll do that far from here and far from The Horde. Irritated and anxious to get going, I run my fingers through my hair as I start to pace. A flicker of shock moves through me when my fingers rake all the way through without getting caught on a single snarl. My hair is clean. Such a simple, benign thing finally makes everything really sink in.

I’m free.

I’m actually free.

I escaped Wistan and his band of blood-stealing bastards.

Now I just need to get somewhere safe.

The healer watches me warily like he’s debating whether The Horde will flay him alive if he dares to try to restrain me. I study him for a moment and realize I’m going about this all wrong. I need to be artful, not an asshole, if I want freedom. I can’t muscle my way out—I’m not strong enough—and these people are way more scared of The Horde than they are of me. I need them to let their guard down so I can sneak out from under it, which means I need to be a good little dragon and pretend I want to be rescued.

Forcing the mounting tension from my body, I adopt a contrite and compliant mien. I nod my head at the healer, slumping my shoulders like I’m suddenly too exhausted to move, and start to drag my feet back toward the bed like he wants me to.

“You’re right. All of this has just been a lot,” I tell him, gesturing around the room and batting my eyelashes like I’m fighting back poor-little-girl tears. “Thank you for saving me, and thank you for helping me get back home.”

The shifter blows out a breath, and the strain in his posture instantly melts. “Of course, dragoness. We’re happy we could be of service. I’m going to get you some new lines,” he quickly announces, like he’s eager to escape before I can change my mind and start being difficult again. He waves a hand at the pile of electrodes, wires, and plastic tubing on the ground. “Once everything’s reconnected, we’ll make you as comfortable as possible until your people arrive.”

“Of course. But before you go,” I rush, stopping him as he turns to leave. “Is there somewhere I can clean up before they get here?” I do my best to look and sound fragile and cooperative.

I watch a flash of hesitation sweep across his face, but I’m hoping what I am, and what’s about to be thundering through the halls of this facility soon, overrides his sense of authority so he gives in to what I want.

Female dragons are watched over and protected like the rarest treasure—and there’s nothing a dragon likes more than treasure. Fighting and fucking are high up on the list, but claiming, whether that’s a territory, a Flight, a Wing, or some priceless precious dragon commodity, that is a key tenet of our species.

“You’re right. Neither you nor this facility deserves The Horde’s wrath,” I press when it looks like he’s about to decline my request. “It would probably be best if I’m a little less…disheveled when the others get here.”

I offer him a small smile after slipping a little regal affectation into my tone, one that suggests I’m not used to hearing the word no . The healer’s eyes dart nervously toward the door, like he can already see a team of angry drakes storming his way, ready to punish him for daring to deny me anything.

“Of…of course,” he stammers. “There’s a washroom there.” He points toward a doorway that’s behind me. “I’ll have an orderly bring in some spare scrubs while I get new lines for you. Anything else you need?” he adds, the sharp tang of fear suddenly filling the room.

“No, just freshening up will make a world of difference.”

The shifter nods quickly and starts to rush out. His shoulder clips the frame of the doorway hard. I wince, but he doesn’t so much as pause or rub at the bruise that has to be blooming as he hurries away.

I suppose there are some perks to being at the top of the supernatural food chain regardless of whether or not I want to be there.

Anxiety churns in my gut, and the need to move, to get going, nips at my limbs.

Now…to get the fuck out of here.