Page 4
Chapter 4
THE HOT AFTERNOON FINALLY RELEASES its grip on the day, and the conceding sun finally dips behind the tall buildings. Hints of orange and pink begin to flirt with the bright blue of the sky, but I keep my head down and focus on putting as much distance as possible between me and downtown Lairwood.
I’ve made solid progress so far. I’ve done a good job of doubling back through the maze of streets, compounding my scent, and leaving what false trails I could. A good Thrasher will work through it, probably faster than I’d like, but it should buy me some time.
A group of ourocycles zoom down the flyway next to me. The magi-tech that powers the speed bikes snakes around the front and back of the engine, creating a glimmering figure eight that I find strangely hypnotizing.
I would do a lot of fucked-up things for something that nice back home.
Wind whips past me in the wake of the cycles, and the faint hum of magic that always accompanies them fades as they get further away. An airtram blows a warning horn as it picks up passengers before lifting off and puttering away.
Just like during my other forays into bigger towns and cities, I find myself quickly overwhelmed by the sounds, sights, and scents of this place. I never realize how quiet the deadlands are until I visit more populated places and am bombarded by everything that moves, makes noise, or smells.
Joining a group of people waiting patiently at a crosswalk, I keep my gaze focused on the sign that will light up when it’s my turn to walk. I try not to do anything that will paint me as out of place. I’m sure the hospital knows I’m missing by now. Someone would have found the orderly and the healer I tied up, and I keep expecting a stranger to notice me and then loudly declare that I’m the dragon everyone is looking for.
It doesn’t happen of course. People barely glance my way, too caught up in their own minds and issues. The few who do notice me don’t give me more than a cursory perusal. It should calm my nerves, and yet they’re still strung taut as a mech bow.
The crosswalk chimes and I follow the crowd across the street. I decide I’m far enough away from the center of Lairwood, and I’ve done enough to throw anyone off my trail. It’s time for the next phase of my plan.
A door swings open just ahead, and I observe a small cluster of people pouring out of what looks like a noisy bar. It must be happy hour, not that I’ve ever been to one. The group laughs and jokes and carries on as they file past me, and I make a split-second decision to grab the door to the bar as it starts to swing closed.
I stride in, deciding that this is as good a place as any to blend in for a bit while I work through my checklist to get the fuck out of this random city. With practiced efficiency, I quickly scan the interior as my eyes adjust to the dimmer atmosphere.
There’s an outdoor beer garden that’s full and a bunch of tables inside hosting a few large groups. I head to one of the long bars that run down each side of the establishment, pulling out a stool and plopping down onto it. There’s an older man seated on the far end, but he doesn’t even look my way. Neither does the bartender as he continues to mix a couple dozen drinks. A handful of his prepared concoctions suddenly lift from the bar top of their own accord before darting over to a high-top table out in the beer garden, not one drop spilled.
Shelves of liquor gleam like polished gems under the dusky mood lighting of this place, but I’m more interested in the bright neon board that’s flashing what forms of payment are accepted here. The universal sign of a numbered bracelet is first on the list, indicating that they take credit transfers, and a glowing red drop of blood declares that direct donation is an option too.
My eyes land on the ticker flashing today’s rate for the different species of magic. A drop of dragon’s blood could probably buy this whole block. Not to mention it will definitely flag The Horde and a blood broker somewhere, so I absolutely won’t be pricking my finger for some overpriced bottle of microbrew.
I run my hands down my bright blue borrowed scrubs. They’re a few sizes too small and a little too tight on me, but I doubt anyone is going to pay much attention to that in here. Folding my arms on the bar top, I lean forward and focus on a vid screen feed playing in the corner. It’s one of many on the far wall, each of them displaying all kinds of different programs. Stare at any one of the holovids long enough, and it’ll filter the sound directly to you.
I home in on the one with a man and a woman sitting behind a crescent-shaped desk, both dressed smartly and staring at the camera while they prattle on about whatever the powers that be consider newsworthy.
“Paragon City is busy with arrangements for the upcoming four hundred forty-third Liberation Day,” the blonde woman chirpily announces as the sound sifts to me. “With celebrations fast approaching, Arcane leaders of all kinds are getting ready to flock to the city for the festivities, and, of course, the annual Blood Rite. Let’s go to Florent for more details on what King Noctis and the dragon clans have in store for us this year.”
“That’s right, Dani, planning and preparations are well underway, but what everyone wants to know is how will the Crown top last year?”
A tired-looking bartender steps into my line of sight, and the sound of the news program quickly sifts away. His leathery skin and scruffy salt-and-pepper hair give him a grizzled quality. The lines around his silver eyes and frowning mouth tell me that his scowl is a permanent fixture and not personal. He quirks a dark eyebrow expectantly, and I hesitate. I can’t buy anything, but I know I need to if I want to keep sitting here.
“Do you charge for water?” I ask tentatively, immediately regretting the stupid question, but it’s out there and there’s no taking it back now.
You can’t get a fuck you from someone for free in The Scorch, but maybe a place like Lairwood is a bit more civilized. If not, maybe he’ll take pity on me. I look better than I have any right to—thanks to the healers and the charm they gave me—so if pity doesn’t work, I can try to flirt my way into sitting here for a bit longer.
I survey the grouchy male again, fingers crossed on the pity option.
He looks me over for a moment and then shrugs one shoulder. “Is that all for you?” he asks, a glint of annoyance in his overworked gaze.
“Yes, thank you,” I offer, hoping a small dose of manners might get me a second glass if needed.
He doesn’t say anything else as he plucks a cup from a stack and fills it from the tap. The water is cloudy and a bit more orange in color than is probably healthy, but I keep my mouth shut as it’s set down in front of me. The bartender trudges away and I stare at the glass of liquid and the sediment already settling on the bottom.
Eh, I’ve drunk worse.
Lifting the cup to my lips, I force myself to sip the contents instead of chug them like my instincts are telling me to. It’s a silly reaction, especially since I’m not even thirsty. It’s more the fact that I can ask for water and get it, that I can drown myself to my heart’s content and no one will stop me—well, no one aside from the pissy bartender, that is.
“Are you on call?” a nasally voice asks.
I turn, looking for the owner of said voice, not seeing anyone until I look down. He’s about hip height and built like a wine cask, with wiry sandy brown hair and a long thick neckbeard that’s a shade darker. I have zero interest in talking to him, but the credit band on one wrist and the communicator on the other keep me from telling him to kick rocks.
He gestures to my murky drink and then at my scrubs with his stumpy hand as though the gesture provides all the context his question needs.
“On call?” he asks again as though I must not have heard him the first time.
“Something like that,” I answer vaguely, careful not to outright lie. I don’t think gnomes can smell them, but just in case they’re one of the few Arcane—or Arcs, as they’re often called—that can sense or scent deception, I proceed with caution.
The gnome’s eyes spark with interest. “I always wanted to be a healer,” he tells me, climbing up on the stool next to mine and making himself comfortable. “I had the mind for it but not the talent,” he continues, wiggling his fingers in the universal sign of magic.
I open my mouth to say something, but he just keeps going as though my participation in the conversation isn’t needed.
Fine by me.
“I like to think I save people in other ways. Not many file clerks will say that out loud, but how can you expect people to cheer for you if you don’t cheer for yourself, ya know?”
He flags the surly bartender, and I take another sip of my water while studying my new companion, or rather his com and credit bracelets. He’s on the taller side for a gnome. His plaid shirt and khaki pants are far from the latest fashion, but many Arcs don’t do well with change. Some of them cling to the past so tightly it’s like they’re hoping it will snap forward and they’ll be smack dab in the middle of it again. It doesn’t make a lot of sense to me, but most of my life has been “adapt or die.” Being resistant to change has never been an option.
The Fae Wars and The Bearing were long before my time, just under 450 years ago, but from what I’ve heard, life wasn’t so great for our kind back then. Not that I can say life is so peachy for me right now. Actually, when I think of it, it bears a strange resemblance to life before humans knew we existed: sneaking around, hiding in the shadows, hunting in the dark recesses of society.
“It’s like strands of fire,” the gnome exclaims, pulling me back to his one-sided conversation when he points to my hair. “The different tones of orange are really captivating. Is it natural, or do you spell it?”
Aaand the gnome’s a presumptuous asshole.
“Going to ask me if the carpet matches the drapes next?” I sardonically query, lifting my water for another sip.
A green blush colors his cheeks, and he stammers, pushing his glasses further up his nose. The thick lenses make his eyes look even beadier than they already are. While he collects himself, I debate the best way to lift his com off his wrist. I’d love to snag his credit band too, but some of them have anti-theft tech now, and I don’t want to risk an alarm or an offensive spell I’m not in a position to deflect.
I vacillate between cozying up to him for the grab or doing the ever effective bump and run, when the gnome unknowingly decides to do all the heavy lifting for me.
His hands come up in an apologetic gesture and somehow he smacks my drink right out of my hold. If I didn’t know better, I’d think this ridiculous act of clumsiness was his attempt to pick my pocket, but I don’t have anything worth stealing.
I gasp and jump up, eager anticipation sparking in my veins as I skillfully slip a finger under the clasp of his com bracelet and flick it open. At the same time, I accidentally bump into his stool with my hip, making it teeter while I knock his glasses askew.
The gnome yelps and grabs for his specs before they can go flying off. He then seizes the bar to save his balance on the stool and unknowingly jerks his hand out of the unclipped band of his com.
I close my fist around my prize, hiding it as I dramatically gasp and start wiping at the water that spilled down my front and all over the bar and the gnome. A cleaning drone swoops over and immediately starts suctioning up the liquid on the bar top. Flustered, the gnome tries to dry his glasses using his wet shirt, all while waving off a second cleaning drone that’s trying to dry the stool he’s still sitting on.
“I’m so sorry,” he stammers, squinting in my direction, but his eyes are focused a little too far to the left of where I’m actually standing. “Pretty girls make me nervous.”
The endearing comment nurses a flicker of remorse in me, but I quickly bat it away and make a show of looking down at the wet spots on my scrubs.
“It’s okay,” I offer, fighting back a laugh as one of the cleaning drones vacuums too close to the end of the gnome’s neckbeard and starts to suck it up. “I’ll go get dried off and be right back.”
I leave the poor guy fighting to reclaim his facial hair, and head for the bathroom. Exhilaration quickly dams up all the stress, worry, and heartache I’ve been wading through. Just like escaping the hospital, that was easier than I thought it would be.
I have to keep myself from running for the bathroom as I slip the pilfered com bracelet onto my wrist. The door to the ladies room squeals noisily when I pull it open, and by some small miracle, there’s no one else inside. Hastily, I open the closest stall, my heart hammering as I lock the flimsy door behind me and tap open a line on the com screen.
A transparent keyboard floats above the magi-tech on my wrist, and I hurry to scribe in the number I’ve repeated to myself like a mantra for the past four months, hoping one day I’d be calling it again.
The keypad disappears and a holoscreen flashes into place. Three dots appear in the center as the call tries to connect, and I start to pace in the stall.
Two steps, turn. Two steps, turn.
Pressing a shaky hand to my mouth, I breathe through the rush of desperate anticipation that floods my system. The com screen disappears and the keyboard pops back up in its place, indicating that the call wasn’t answered. I rush to dial the number again, my heart feeling like it might explode in my chest when the three dots on the screen appear once more.
“Come on, Enslee. I know you don’t know the number, but answer it anyway.”
For a second time, the com screen drops away and the keypad appears. I swallow down a frustrated growl and just barely stop myself from punching the metal wall of the stall. Reining in my temper, I scribe in the number one last time, my mind whirring with what to do if she doesn’t answer.
The next phase of my plan relies heavily on someone picking up the burner com and helping me navigate a way to get back. Something, I’m realizing now, that might have been a bit delusional. I know better than anyone how careful we have to be.
It would be one thing if there was a Flight out in the field; a call from an unknown number might be expected then. But I guarantee that Enslee’s locked everything down after my Flight was ambushed. If she’s given up hope on me and Ren, they’d have no reason to be monitoring this line.
My chest aches as I watch the three dots on the screen. They do their rhythmic little dance as the call waits to connect, but it all feels like some cruel taunt. My stomach drops, knowing the screen is going to disappear at any moment, the call once again unanswered. My eyes start to sting as I wait for the keyboard to pop back up when suddenly the com screen chimes and a face appears.
“Who the fuck is this?” a gruff, no-nonsense voice barks, and as much as I try to stop it, emotion overwhelms me.
There were so many times I wondered if I’d ever hear any of their voices again, see their faces. He looks the same. Dark skin, black hair that’s twisted back from his face, scar bisecting one side of his hickory brown gaze.
“Craith,” I croak, my throat suddenly dry.
“Who the fuck is this?” he asks again, more menace in his tone as he leans closer to the com screen.
I realize that my video is aimed at my chest, and I quickly twist my wrist so the camera on the bracelet can capture my face.
“Craith, it’s Ever, I need Enslee,” I rush to tell him, fighting back all the sentiment trying to rush me even though there’s no time for it.
Craith’s eyes widen and he reels back from the screen like it’s threatening bodily harm. “Can’t be,” he whispers hollowly. “You’re dead.”
“Do dead people tell you to go fuck yourself?” I ask wryly, but there’s a flutter in my tone exposing the effect his statement has on me. I assumed they would think the worst. I guess I wasn’t as prepared to have my conjecture confirmed as I thought I was.
My response seems to slap Craith across the face with authenticity, and he rallies. “Get the queen,” he shouts at someone off-screen.
He must decide that’s not good enough, because he starts running, the com screen bouncing around as he sprints to wherever Enslee must be.
“Where are you? Are you okay? Is Ren with you? Are you compromised? What happened?”
I blow out a grateful breath, relieved that Craith is taking this seriously, that help isn’t as far off as I feared. I open my mouth to answer the barrage of questions, and then it hits me, I need to be very circumspect in how I answer them.
I had a lot of time to think while I was stuck in a cell. Hours upon hours spent ruminating over how we were attacked. Endless minutes devoted to scouring through every detail of the night my Flight was taken by surprise and Ren and I paid the price. The only conclusion I’ve ever been able to come up with is that we were betrayed.
I’ve spit the vile taste of such a notion from my mouth more times than I can count, but the more I question it—the more I try to reject it and see some other possibility—the more reality sinks its razor-sharp talons into me.
We were set up.
What’s worse is that it would have been by someone very close and very trusted. Someone part of the inner circle. Someone whose loyalty is without question. And the problem is, I can’t figure out who, let alone why.
“Blood brokers,” I finally answer, addressing his last question first. The one he already knows the answer to but wants confirmed. “We were taken by a group of sorcai. I’m in some town called Lairwood, and…I’ve been better.”
I purposely don’t tell him about Ren or the Tainted, unsure if it’s safe or not, if he’s safe or not. I shake my head and swallow down my fury, knowing it’s not the time or place, but the way all of this is going to make me distrust and doubt people who are like family just might be worse than anything that’s been done to me until now.
“What is it, Craith? What’s wrong?” My sister’s worried voice fills the call, and hearing it is both a soothing balm and a tightening fist around my heart.
Craith’s garbled response is met with a shocked gasp, and then the com screen whirls and tilts until familiar flame-colored hair and jade green eyes are staring back at me like they’ve seen a ghost. Enslee’s pale skin looks even paler, and exhaustion and grief sit heavy in her features.
“Is this real?” she whispers, pulling the screen closer. “Tell me this is real,” she demands with a pained wail.
“Hey, Ens,” I greet, my voice cracking with emotion as tears well in my eyes.
“Ever!” she cries in answer, her own tears spilling freely down her face. “Where are you? Are you hurt? We’ll come get you right now. Is Ren there?”
Enslee starts barking orders like the born leader she is, and I can hear scurrying and running in the background as people rush to follow her commands. Swiping at my eyes, I clear my throat, trying to get a hold of my runaway emotions before they veer off even more than they already have. As much as I’d love for Enslee to come roaring to the rescue, it’s not that easy.
“Ens…Ens!” I snap, needing her to focus back on me.
Jade green eyes once again meet mine, and something in my face thankfully stops Enslee in her tracks.
“I don’t know how much time I have, and I need you to listen, Ens. Renatta’s gone. They killed her. I got away, but I was hurt. I ended up in a hospital in Lairwood, and they called in The Horde. I’m going to try to shake them, but if I can’t…”
“Oh, Ever,” Enslee murmurs, distraught, her face falling as the shock of everything I just threw at her settles. “Ren…” The name is a broken lament I feel in the depths of my soul. “Fuck!” Enslee roars, and I can tell it takes all of her effort not to throw the com in her hands as rage takes over. “Someone tell me where the fuck Lairwood is!”
“It’s on the other side of the divide, Ens,” I tell her flatly, refusing to let any of the despair I feel bleed into my voice.
“The Horde?” Enslee asks, like she’s hoping somehow that she misheard.
I nod solemnly. “They were on their way when I snuck out of the hospital. If they’re not there already, they will be soon.”
Paper rustles in the background and I can just make out someone spreading an old map. I can picture the others all frantically scouring it, and Enslee’s focus drifts from me as several people start to talk and strategize. I listen carefully, hoping to hear something—anything—that might help me.
“Can you get to Feyer?” a deep voice asks, and my throat gets tight when I recognize whose it is.
“It’s good to hear you, Vero,” I tell him, a small smile sneaking across my face.
“Not as good as it is to hear you,” he replies, his tone growing thick. “If you can get to Feyer, I can send your Flight to get you from there. Mizzen Pass is your best bet, but you’ll need supplies and you’ll need—”
The door to the bathroom opens with a squawk. I search for the mute button on the com bracelet, but I don’t immediately see it and instead press a finger to my lips. Vero instantly goes quiet, and I hold my breath as my pulse starts to race.
“Korinne is so full of shit. She just has to be the center of attention,” a woman sneers, the sound of multiple pairs of heels clip-clopping across the floor filling the bathroom.
“Dragons? Is she serious? I’d believe she hitched a ride over here on a fucking unicorn faster than I’d believe she saw a bunch of dragons in Lairwood.”
Like crashing waves against a sand castle, the stranger’s words pulverize all the time I thought I had. The moths that have been flitting around in my stomach suddenly turn to wasps.
Snide laughter bounces around the bathroom, and someone enters the stall next to mine, closing the metal door behind them with a thunk.
“‘I swear, guys! There were over two dozen of them. They stepped through a jump portal that appeared out of nowhere, got into lirocars and sped off,’” another girl mocks, and everyone starts tittering again.
“Like she’s ever seen a lirocar in her life! Those airboats cost more than this whole territory. But of course, Gio and Hurley are eating out of her hand, just lapping her shit up. Stupid simps.”
I feel the blood drain from my face as I tune out the rest of the gossiping and lock eyes with Enslee. Tears shine in her stare and she shakes her head like the movement itself will erase everything we both just heard.
The Horde is here.
I keep silent as the women piss, bitch, and wash up. Enslee mutes the line from her end, and I watch as she snaps and snarls at her advisors. My stomach aches with simmering fear and frustration, and it starts to boil over into my chest. When the bathroom door screams again in protest and the herd of haters exits, Enslee’s now alone in what looks like her private quarters, and there’s a hard look of resignation in her light green gaze.
“If The Horde doesn’t have a Thrasher…” I start, and Enslee closes her eyes, a tear slipping down her face.
“They’ll have a Thrasher, Ev. If they’re anything, it’s prepared. They’re probably already tracking you.”
It’s my turn to shake my head as I resume my pacing in the tight space of the stall.
“They’re going to catch you—”
“No,” I cut her off, slashing a hand through the air. “I’m ahead of them. I can stay ahead of them. I can cover my tracks and make it to Feyer. The Horde can’t sense me. I don’t smell like them, which will make sniffing me out harder. If I can stay off their radar long enough, they’ll probably think this is all some hoax and punish the town for making up some bullshit sighting.”
Enslee’s features soften as she studies my face. “Do they have your blood, Ev?” she asks simply, and I can see by the hopelessness floating in her eyes that she knows they do. The hospital took mine while I was unconscious; it’s how they knew what I was. There’s no other way to identify us.
A tear slides down my cheek, followed by another, and I let them drop unchecked as Enslee wipes at her own.
“They’re going to catch you, Ever. They’re going to take you back to Paragon City, to Four Tiers, and they’re going to find out what you are,” she tells me gently, like she knows it won’t take much to shatter me, so she has to be careful.
“They’re going to kill me,” I declare flatly.
Enslee’s tear-streaked face hardens back to familiar steel as a dogged determination alights in her green eyes.
“Not if you can give them a reason not to,” she counters, her tone tenacious. “They’ll know what you are, but they won’t know how or what it means. The Horde is greedy. You can use that, Ever. Use it to gain access to what we’ve been searching for all this time. They have to have records somewhere tracking the Blood Crafters, and if you could find them, access them…this could be fate clearing our path,” she hedges cautiously, like she already knows this line might not be as secure or private as we think it is.
I snort an incredulous laugh. “Fuck fate,” I whisper, and Enslee gives me a brief smile before it falls away.
“Fuck fate,” she agrees, her gaze searching mine. “You can do this, Ever. If anyone can, it’s you. You survived the massacre that killed our kith and our kindred. You survived The Scorch and that run-in with the chimeras. You survived the blood brokers for fuck’s sake. You can survive The Dragon Horde.”
I shake my head but don’t say anything. We just sit there in silence for a moment even though we both know the clock is winding down all too quickly.
“They’re going to kill me, Ens,” I repeat, needing Enslee to really hear me, to truly understand the most likely outcome here and what it means for all of us.
The burn of this truth isn’t as harsh going down the second time. Then again, I was ready to die to protect my family from the Tainted, and now I’ll do the same to protect them from the dragons.
“Even if I can convince The Horde not to slit my throat the minute they find out who I am, whoever helped the wyverns and the sorcai kill our family is going to come after me. They wanted all of us dead for a reason. If it’s King Noctis, like we suspect…”
“If The Horde thinks they can use you, they won’t let anyone hurt you,” Enslee argues.
“Ens, the entire Horde could be responsible for slaughtering the Syphons. For all we know, every dragon clan—the Burners, Thrashers, Channelers, and the other Renders—was involved. We have no idea who to trust.”
“No, we don’t, but you know what to look for. You know how to play the game. So play it, Ever, because I refuse to let this be goodbye. I will see you again. We will ride into the fray together until glory is ours. I command it.”
I huff out a weak laugh at her dramatics and shake my head. “Yes, Your Majesty,” I mock, but there’s no real bite to it.
“You know I always get what I want,” she teases softly, but the tears and the glint of agony in her stare betray her.
I pull in a shaky breath and nod once, doing my best to compose myself. She may not want it to be, but if this is the last time I ever see her, there are things she needs to know, things she needs to do to protect herself.
“You have a snake in your nest,” I offer as cryptically as I can in case anyone else is listening.
Enslee’s green eyes harden. “I know. I’m working on rooting it out, but it’s proving difficult. Any light you can shed on our shadows?”
“Unfortunately, no. But don’t let anyone leave the wards, it’s too dangerous. No missions. No supply runs. Not until the slithering coward is missing their head for selling us out.”
Enslee gives me a solemn nod and pulls in a deep breath. “I don’t want you to go, but you should get a move on. Give those Horde fuckers a run for their money.”
Choking down the sorrow that tries to escape, I harden my resolve and blink back tears as I take in Enslee for what might be the last time. I’ll do everything she asks. I always have, but it doesn’t mean I’ll end up anywhere other than skewered through with a pike before I’m ripped limb from limb and burned to ash for good measure.
“I’ll see you soon, Ens,” I lie, and she smiles and pretends she believes it.
“Soon,” she repeats, her voice cracking under the deluge of anguish I see rising in her gaze. “Spark the flames, Ever.”
“Ignite the infernos,” I answer automatically.
“Ash the embers,” we both say at the same time, a small chuckle escaping us as we finish the chant we’ve exchanged back and forth since we were kids.
I tap a button on the stolen com bracelet, and Enslee’s face disappears as the call ends.
“Goodbye, Ens,” I whisper again, and then I pluck the com from my wrist, crack it in half, and drop the tech in the toilet before flushing it away.
I step out of the stall into the quiet bathroom and catch my reflection in the mirror. I look almost as bad as my twin. My pale skin is blotchy from crying. Exhaustion sits heavy in my features, and my jade green eyes are so bright with emotion they look like they’re glowing. I fluff my flame-colored hair and fill my lungs with a fortifying breath before moving for the door.
The Horde is going to kill me. I have no doubt, regardless of the false hope Enslee tried to rally, but she is right about one thing—I sure as shit can give them a run for their money.
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 4 (Reading here)
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