Kiss of Fire Page 19

  “It bought them time. I’m thinking that’s not a coincidence.”

  “No. It was a plan. Sara said they worked as a team. They were just waiting for something to distract me, then worked to prolong the distraction.”

  “You were set up, Quinn,” Donovan concluded. “Don’t blame yourself.”

  Quinn gave the other Pyr a serious look. “Sara is missing. She’s probably been kidnapped by the Slayers and she might already be dead. If she’s so much as scratched, I’ll blame myself for the rest of my life.”

  “Shit, that’s a long time,” Donovan said and grimaced. If he was making a joke, it fell flat. “We’ve got to talk to Erik.”

  “The last thing I need is his help….”

  Donovan interrupted Quinn before he could say more. “That’s where you’re wrong, Smith. This is too big. You need all of us and you need all of us right now.”

  Quinn would have loved to have had an alternative solution, but he didn’t.

  Out of the darkness creeps a dream. It sidles up beside Sara, infiltrates her senses, becomes her dream.

  She knows it’s not her dream. This is the seeing that is her gift. She is in the skin of another. She is in the skin of Quinn Tyrrell, long before he was named Quinn Tyrrell.

  He was just Quinn. The young man who is Quinn leans on his shovel to rest. Before him are two mounds of freshly turned earth.

  Two graves.

  It is hot and he has shed his shirt. The sun beats down on the graves, the young man, the humble hut to one side.

  Sara understands that Quinn has found—and now lost—a new family. He must be almost twenty now, and she guesses that the occupants of the two graves raised him from that frightened boy.

  He wipes a tear from his face with impatience and looks back over his shoulder. His throat is tight with his loss and Sara feels his affection for the two that he has buried.

  She can even see them in Quinn’s mind’s eye. Maria and Gaultier. Maria as plump as Gaultier is lean, both of them as wrinkled and baked and barren as the land they call home. He must have seemed God-given to them, an older and childless couple so wanting a son.

  And he had needed them.

  The land tumbles away from the hut, as jumbled as Quinn’s recollection of sweet moments with this caring pair. The hillside falls roughly toward a town, a good distance below the hut.

  Even from this distance, the town looks abandoned. No smoke curls from the homes within its walls and the walls themselves are so broken that they have begun to resemble the rough tumble of the stony hills around them. No horses or carts arrive or depart from the town. Black stains its center, and Quinn shudders in recollection of how long the church burned.

  The smell is one he will never forget.

  Although it has been many years since the town was assaulted, still it sits empty. The boy who had hidden behind the miller’s stone is tall and strong, thanks to the elderly couple he has just buried. He returns the shovel to their hut, ensures that everything is as tidy as they would like, closes the door, and hoists a bag onto his shoulder. He pauses for a final farewell, then strides away.

  Into the mountains.

  Away from the past and into his future.

  Whatever it is. His thoughts are filled with questions. His body has changed in many ways he does not understand. He stares at his thumbnail as he walks and tries to find the elusive feeling that marks its change.

  The nail transforms to a gleaming talon before his very eyes. He panics and it returns to normal.

  Without pain.

  Without any lasting sign of what it had done.

  What is he? Is he a demon as a neighbor once suggested? Or as blessed as Gaultier claimed? He doesn’t know, but he means to find out. The answer is out in the world, somewhere.

  Quinn will find it.

  The days blend to weeks and months and years. His optimism and determination fade into something more primal. He walks far beyond the land he knows. He helps at farms when he can trade his labor for food and shelter. As time passes, though, fewer souls are inclined to invite him into their homes. He is tall and strong, his garments are tattered, and he is not as clean as he would prefer. There is a glint in his eyes, born of hunger and fed by desperation.

  People bar their doors against him.

  It is cold in the mountains and there is snow when he sees the village far below him. The church bells ring as he draws nearer, awakening an ache in his heart. Quinn is no better than an animal and he knows it, but he isn’t sure how to turn the tide.

  He does not know his age. He does not know how long he has wandered. He does not know how long it has been since Maria and Gaultier died.

  All he knows is that his gut gnaws with hunger.

  And where there are people, there is food. Dusting every surface with white, the snow falls out of the sky in fat flakes as he emerges from the woods. The gates are open and he guesses that it is market day.

  He salivates in anticipation. With no clear plan, he ducks behind an oxcart, putting one hand to the cart and bowing his head as if he is part of their group as they pass through the town gates. As soon as they enter the village, he slips into the crowd.

  So many people. So much sound. He is almost overwhelmed by his first contact in eons.

  Then he smells the fresh bread. The warm scent winds into his nostrils and teases his hunger to a fever pitch. He finds the baker’s window with ease, his nose leading him true. There are many gathered around the window, chattering as they buy their bread. His belly growls in demand.

  He must eat, even though he has nothing to offer in exchange. He notes that the villagers are all shorter than he and more neatly dressed. On some level, he knows that he will not get away with it, but he is past such reasoning.

  His body demands food. He is tall and strong. He is fast.

  He will take his chances.

  He lunges through the crowd and seizes two loaves from the sill of the baker’s window.

  The baker shouts and Quinn runs.

  A hue and cry arises. He flees through the square and into the alleys, shoving the warm bread into his mouth and swallowing as quickly as he can. He has a dim memory of a hound stealing a joint of meat from his father’s kitchen and doing much the same, eating as much as possible before being caught.

  Because being caught is inevitable.

  He knows it even before they fall on him, even before they beat him and truss him and drag him to the square in the market. He is outnumbered and still weak from hunger.

  And in a way, he only wants something in his life to change. He knows they are right. He knows he has done wrong and should be punished. Even death is preferable to how he has come to live. He has a vague sense that he could loose that beast within him but he is afraid of it.

  He cannot control that demon once it is released. He doesn’t understand it, much less trust it, and he will not turn it on these villagers.

  His hands are bound to the post in the square and his feet are spread. He has no doubt of what is coming, even though their language is unfamiliar to him. The townspeople gather to watch, whispering as they do so. He feels dirty and uncouth in their presence, and sees condemnation and fear mingled in their gazes.

  He is ashamed of what he has become. Can Maria see him now? Can his mother? The magistrate makes a declaration and the crowd cheers.

  Quinn bows his head and accepts his due.

  He grits his teeth as the first lash falls across his back and tears what is left of his shirt. The second hurts less and the third splits his skin open. The blood runs warmly across his back, the cold snowflakes tingling in contrast. He knots his fingers together and closes his eyes, bracing himself for the next stroke.

  It never comes.

  A man calls something, something that halts the punishment. The crowd turns, whispering. Quinn looks up without comprehension.

  Sara’s heart stops as the man steps through the crowd. He is dressed lavishly, and moves with the confidence of a man a
ccustomed to having his every desire. A massive jewel hangs on his breast and the stone in its midst is a large cabochon tiger-eye stone. His gaze is the same honey brown hue and his smile is wide.

  Sara recognizes him all too well.

  He tosses a coin toward Quinn. The gold coin glints as it spins through the air and the villagers gasp at the display of wealth. The coin bounces off Quinn’s bound wrists and the magistrate is quick to claim it from the ground.

  Quinn does not understand the exchange of words, but the rope is unknotted and the end handed to the wealthy benefactor.

  Sara senses Quinn’s astonishment as the other man unties his hands, lays a hand on his shoulder, and leads him to the stall where hot meat pastries are sold. Quinn is filled with gratitude as he eats and Sara feels his loyalty to the other man being forged.

  But Sara knows that Quinn is wrong. This man, this supposed savior, is Ambrose. He is the golden dragon who has tried to kill Sara.

  Twice.

  He has bought Quinn’s loyalty to gain his trust, only—Sara is certain—to betray it.

  Quinn was impatient with the process of gathering the other Pyr and chafed at the delay as Niall tested the wind. In truth, they had come together remarkably quickly, and gathered on the roof of the parking garage. Donovan had summoned Erik in old-speak and Erik had somehow called the others. Quinn thought it was probably a refinement of old-speak that Erik used, but he didn’t much care.

  Every minute took Sara further away.

  And deeper into peril.

  Niall paced the lip of the parking garage roof, his eyes narrowed as he sniffed and murmured. Sloane instructed Donovan quietly on the application of some salve, and Donovan peeled up his T-shirt to smear it across the gashes on his torso. They looked like wicked wounds even after he had shifted shape, but Quinn could already see the unguent closing the cuts. Sloane seemed to be chanting as Donovan rubbed the salve into his own skin.

  Under other circumstances, Quinn would have been fascinated by Sloane’s ability to heal. In this moment, though, he had other things on his mind.

  Erik came to stand beside Quinn. “She’s not dead,” he said softly.

  “How do you know?”

  “I know.”

  Quinn wasn’t reassured. “That could change at any moment.”

  Erik nodded agreement as he watched Niall. “But every moment that she lives increases the probability that they have no intention of killing her.”

  “Or that they have a particular death in mind for her, one that takes time to set up,” Donovan said.

  “Thanks for that,” Quinn muttered. The Slayers might want to ensure that he had to watch Sara die.

  They’d have a hard time holding him captive for that.

  Or maybe they were waiting for Erik’s arrival. Quinn still didn’t trust the older Pyr. This was all a bit too familiar for that.

  Donovan’s smile flashed. “No worries. You can just wait for her to incarnate again.”

  “A firestorm is worthy of more respect than that,” Rafferty interjected with disapproval.

  “I have nothing but respect for the fair sex,” Donovan retorted. “But why wait for dessert when the buffet, so to speak, is overloaded with goodies?”

  “Some things are worth waiting for,” Rafferty said, his voice low and slow. Quinn exchanged a glance of understanding with him and the other Pyr nodded. “You’re lucky.”

  “I’ve waited centuries,” Quinn felt obliged to note.

  “So have I.” Rafferty looked rueful.

  “Then you understand why I can’t let these Slayers steal Sara away.”

  “I do.”

  The two Pyr eyed each other with an increment of new respect; then Quinn nodded. He gestured to Niall and spoke to Erik. “What is he doing?”

  “Whispering to the wind,” Erik said quietly. “We each have our affinities to different elements.”

  “The Smith can take dragonfire,” Donovan said with admiration.

  The others looked at Quinn in surprise but he said nothing.

  Erik continued. “Niall can ask questions of the air, and he has a sharper sense of smell than any of us. He is a good tracker as a result.”

  Niall turned then and approached the others. His brow was furrowed in confusion. “They went southwest, following the old ley line. I had my doubts, but it’s inescapable.”

  “How nice that they made it easy for us to follow them,” Erik mused, his gaze flicking over the horizon.

  “It’s probably not an accident,” Quinn said, but no one seemed to be listening to him.

  “They may have made for the old convergence.” Erik turned to issue instructions. “We fly in two groups to better evade detection. Niall will lead the first and I’ll lead the second.”

  “I’m with Niall,” Quinn said and Erik smiled.

  “I wouldn’t have dared to suggest otherwise,” he said, seeming to take Quinn’s distrust in stride. “You and Rafferty will fly with Niall. Take your cue from Niall and guard his flanks. The cost of intent focus is an inattentiveness to detail.”

  Quinn nodded. He knew that when he focused on the fire, he was oblivious to anything else. He’d never considered before that that made him vulnerable.

  “I will lead the second group, with Donovan and Sloane. We’ll hang back and defend your rear guard.”

  “I’ll go with the first group,” Donovan said. He was obviously eager to be in the thick of things, even with the wounds he had already sustained.

  Erik shook his head curtly. “I need your power in case we’re surprised. Their decision to follow the ley line might be a feint, or they might change direction suddenly.”

  “They might circle back on us,” Donovan said. “And attack from behind. It would be the kind of sneaky thing they’d do.”

  “Exactly,” Erik agreed. “Now, go! I’ll take care of the beguiling.” At his command, the six Pyr ran across the roof of the parking garage and leapt off the lip on the southwest side. They changed shape in seconds. Quinn was again impressed by how smoothly they shifted and how adroitly they folded their garments away. He felt clumsy in comparison, as if he’d missed a trick.

  Good thing it wasn’t a very important one.

  Niall, gleaming amethyst and platinum, cut a speedy course toward the southwest, Rafferty—opal and gold—and Quinn fast behind him. Quinn glanced back to see Erik circling over the parking garage and heard the faint rumble of the Pyr leader’s old-speak.

  The wings of the lead three dragons pounded an insistent rhythm and they settled intuitively into a triangle formation in flight. Niall murmured constantly, holding his quiet conversation with the wind. The other two remained silent and vigilant, watching for treachery from either side or below, allowing Niall to focus.

  Rafferty, Quinn noticed, was as large as he, if not quite as well muscled. Niall was smaller but virile. He was content that they’d make good fighting companions.

  It wasn’t long before the trio of Pyr swooped down toward an isolated cabin. Three Slayers on the roof launched a volley of dragonfire toward them, without troubling to take flight. Quinn took the blast, protecting Rafferty and Niall from potential damage. They wheeled as one and ascended to a greater height.

  Quinn could still feel his blood simmering from proximity to Sara. “She’s in there,” he said in old-speak.

  “I can even feel your firestorm,” Rafferty said with reverence.

  “I have to go in,” Quinn said, pivoting to dive back down to the cabin.

  “The smoke is piled thick and high,” Niall argued. “You’ll never come out alive, Smith.”

  “You might not even get in alive,” Rafferty said.

  Quinn knew it was true, but he couldn’t just wait. “I can’t leave her there!”

  “You’ll accomplish nothing if you both die,” Niall retorted. “She can be reborn, but you won’t be. We can’t afford to lose another Pyr.”

  “I can’t surrender my mate to the Slayers.”

  Rafferty
interrupted, his tone thoughtful. “You don’t have to. And you don’t have to die.”

  “You can’t be encouraging him,” Niall said. “Attacking is certain death. There are three Slayers on the roof. Who knows how many others are close by, and there’s a serious territory mark. Even if the Smith can survive that much dragonfire, he’ll never breach that smoke twice and live to tell about it.”

  “You don’t know that,” Quinn argued.

  “Neither do you,” Niall snapped. “Are you prepared to die to find out?”

  Before Quinn could answer, Rafferty continued. “He doesn’t have to, because there’s another way.” He fired a bright glance at Quinn and smiled. “I’ll do this for your firestorm.”

  “Do what?”

  “Trust me,” Rafferty said and flew away from the cabin. Quinn exchanged a glance with Niall, then followed the other Pyr with reluctance.

  Trusting other Pyr was a new concept for Quinn, after all.

  In fact, if he’d been able to think of another solution, any other solution, he would have done it instead.

  “Help me, please!”

  The woman’s moans awakened Sara once again.

  This time, at least, the woman wasn’t screaming.

  It was hot and muggy, as if Sara had left the windows shut for the night. She was covered with a shimmer of perspiration and the air was thick and hard to breathe. Her back ached as if she’d slept on something hard.

  Her dreams were getting worse. Sara opened her eyes, pretty much expecting to find herself home in bed.

  Instead, she was in a rough log cabin. The windows had been boarded over and the door was solid wood. The only light came through the chinks between the logs. The sunlight seemed pale and thin, the way it did in the early morning. The floor was hard-packed dirt and that’s what she’d been sleeping on. She was still wearing her clothes. Sara scrambled to stand up and realized that she wasn’t alone.

  A blond woman lay on her side on the other side of the cabin, her pale arms pillowing her head. There was dried blood on her arm and her ankles were shackled together. Her eyes were bright and of the most remarkable turquoise shade. They glinted as she watched Sara, and Sara guessed instantly who she was.