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  "That is a variable, to be sure," Rafferty said, "but sometimes I also have an awareness of sentience, another consciousness at work"--he shrugged--"and anger."

  "Did Phelan have an affinity with air?" Rox asked.

  "If he did, he never did anything about it." Niall was amazed he had never thought of such a thing before this day.

  "It takes many years of diligent practice to cement such an affinity," Rafferty said. "I do not believe it was Phelan's inclination to spend such time on his studies."

  "I can understand that," Rox said, "and believe it, too." She smiled at Niall. "Maybe you two weren't so identical, after all."

  "Maybe not," Niall agreed, returning her smile. The air heated an increment in the kitchen, until Rafferty cleared his throat.

  "You look exhausted, Niall," the older Pyr said softly. "And sleep will help you recover from your ordeal."

  "Shift and let me have a look at that tail," Sloane advised.

  "But . . . ," Niall began to argue. He saw welcome in Rox's eyes and was ready to capitalize on advantage. She retreated, though, hiding her thoughts once more.

  "We'll defend Rox," Thorolf said.

  Rafferty tilted his head. "Erik is en route. He will have more ideas of what should be done, if not a glimpse of the future to guide us."

  "I think sleep is a great idea," Rox said, and yawned so luxuriously that Niall knew she was pretending to be so tired. "Maybe it'll all make sense in the morning. Breathe smoke, dudes, so we can all sleep soundly." With a perky wave, she retreated once more to her bedroom.

  Without Niall.

  Chapter 12

  Phelan was surrounded by fog.

  It was the darkness of impenetrable shadows, the fog that had initially been pierced only by Magnus's commands. He had been able to accept Magnus's diccommands. He had been able to accept Magnus's dictates and act upon them, but no more than that. Initiative had been sacrificed long ago, along with the fire of life.

  Until recently.

  Phelan heard the old man murmuring to himself. He spoke a language Phelan didn't know and didn't understand--he assumed it was an Asian language, given the old man's appearance. It was rhythmic, though, like a chant, and its familiarity sliced through the fog that enveloped Phelan.

  Eliminating it.

  Dispersing it.

  Creating anticipation. The brush of those cool fingertips against his throat, then the imprint of the strange coin upon the mark that Chen had placed upon him, had Phelan following the old man.

  Blindly and wherever he led.

  They halted somewhere--Phelan didn't care where-- and Phelan felt the old man force his mouth open. He tasted that strange metallic flavor on his tongue.

  And his mind sparked.

  Like an engine being restarted, his thoughts began to dart like quicksilver. He recalled more than this spell, more than Magnus, more than the fog that enveloped him as a shadow dragon. Phelan remembered everything, in fact, that he had ever known. He remembered everything he had lost, everything his twin had stolen from him, every injustice and imbalance.

  And with the memories came the lust for vengeance, the power of intiative, the conviction that he could achieve whatever he desired.

  Phelan wanted what Niall possessed. It had always been thus between them, and even choosing the darkness to gain more than his twin had only intensified Phelan's jealousy.

  Now Niall had a firestorm and Phelan did not.

  Now Phelan had been given the magical powder and remembered.

  Chen alone held the power to give Phelan what he most desired.

  The old man murmured as he had before, his cool fingertips touching Phelan's eyelids each in turn. Phelan's eyes flew open at what must have been a command.

  He found himself standing in that basement room, the one that was effectively the office of Chen the Slayer, and caught the merest glimpse of the old man's departure. His heart leapt. No sooner had the door closed behind the old man than it swung open again and Chen strode into the space in the form of a young man.

  Phelan fought his urge to cringe--without success.

  This Slayer was unpredictable, ancient, inclined to violence. Chen was as unlike Magnus as Phelan could have imagined--but he made better offers.

  He saw with one glance that Chen was displeased with him.

  And Phelan feared the Slayer would withdraw his offer.

  "A waste," Chen whispered, and began to pace the width of the room. That he smoothly shifted shape during each turn, becoming by turns a young woman and a young man, did little to reassure Phelan. Phelan clenched his hands, burned with desire, and waited.

  It had to be a good sign that he had been revived again.

  Or maybe Chen simply wanted Phelan to be aware of his own destruction. Phelan swallowed in his uncertainty. It was worse in a way to have lost his sense of self and to have it restored--he knew what he had lost and knew what he would lose when he really died. It made him more determined to achieve his desire.

  A calendar on the wall declared that 2010 was the year of the tiger. It seemed oddly ornate for the spartan basement room. An old wooden table that looked as if it had seen better days--and a few floods--stood in the middle of the room. There was one shelf on the wall, a wooden plank mounted on a pair of L-brackets.

  There was a large sealer jar on the table and Phelan was sure there was something in it. Something alive--something gold and green that moved very little. The glass was fogged, though, presumably from the creature's breath, and he didn't dare tempt Chen's anger by taking a close look.

  Chen pivoted to glare at him and Phelan tried not to quaver. Even his ability to feel sensation was returned with this strange powder, though it was a mixed blessing when Chen turned abusive.

  "Against all expectation, you may still prove useful." Chen's eyes narrowed. "I ordered a larger increment of pulverized dragon bone for you this time. This time, you will be more cunning, more like your old self."

  Phelan nodded in understanding. It was true. He felt sharper than he had the last time.

  He wondered where Chen had obtained dragon bones, but he didn't think it wise to ask. Would he be a future source, if he failed in this task?

  Chen gave a curt nod. "You are more alive than dead, for the moment."

  "For the moment?"

  "This increment of time is finite. The effect of the dragon bone does not last; it cannot last. You have only hours to bring me the mate. As I instructed you before, your brother will follow if you succeed in seizing her."

  "And Niall will die?" Phelan loved the notion of cheating his twin of the satisfaction of his firestorm. He wanted to seize the woman immediately, to ensure that his brother did not have the pleasure he himself desired.

  "He will wish for death first." Chen ticked off the elements on his fingers. "Gaia surrendered my enemy to my grasp in an earthquake, at my dictate, proof that I command the element of earth. A deluge continues to fall, at my instruction, as proof of my command of water. When the Pyr who commands the wind is a shadow dragon in my thrall, I shall control the element of air."

  "And fire?"

  "The firestorm, of course. I command its heat, as well. Didn't you know?" Chen smiled. "Look." He pulled some dark powder from his pocket and exhaled upon it.

  As Phelan watched with astonishment, flames erupted from Chen's mouth and lit the powder. It glowed brilliant orange and shot sparks. Chen murmured a charm beneath his breath, then blew the burning powder across the room. The particles flared as they danced through the air, several exploding, others shooting sparks.

  "We can guess what they will be doing when you arrive," Chen said, then smiled again.

  "And then?"

  "And the fifth element, that of spirit, will be within reach and its conquest will be mine." Chen folded his hands together. "Finally!"

  "And then I will have my firestorm?"

  Chen's smile broadened. "I will try." He arched a brow. "But the quicker you are in succeeding, the more effort I w
ill expend upon your wish. I will surrender no more of my precious ground dragon bone upon you."

  Now or never. Phelan rattled his fetter, anxious to be off.

  Chen bent, let his index finger change to a dragon talon, and loosed his captive. As Phelan lunged into the night, he thought he heard the old Slayer laugh far beneath him.

  But he didn't care. He knew what he wanted, he knew he would succeed, and he believed Chen would grant his fitting reward.

  Late at night, in a car seat strapped into the back of a black Maserati sedan that raced eastward, a toddler stirred. She saw the moonlight glimmer in the loose red hair of the woman driving. She saw the laptop's light gleam on the sharp features of the man in the passenger seat. There were a few approaching headlights on the interstate and the instruments on the dashboard gleamed. Jazz music played softly and the car engine hummed.

  The toddler felt the tug of the moon, the shadow of the recent eclipse, the glow of a distant firestorm. She felt the spark of the Great Wyvern burning brightly and remembered what she had been born to do.

  She routinely forgot the impetus to her existence in the hurly-burly of the day, in the hustle and bustle of learning to command her body and communicate with those around her, in the frustration of growing up.

  But in the middle of the night, she remembered everything.

  She was young, but her soul was ancient. Her body was weak, but her purpose was potent. She had a small vocabulary to express herself, but she was filled with the knowledge of what had been and what might be. She knew her legacy and her responsibility; she knew how imperative it was--she knew all of this in the depths of her heart.

  She was the new Wyvern and the future was hers to shape.

  She was Zoe Sorensson, the latest in a long line of female Wyverns sent to aid the Pyr. The last Wyvern, Sophie, had abandoned tradition: rather than remaining remote, she had mingled with the Pyr and dipped her fingers into the conflict of life. She had not been indifferent--she had dared to fall in love and be intimate with another Pyr, breaking an old injunction. Sophie had paid the price with her choice, sacrificing all for love, but even so, Zoe was determined to continue on the path Sophie had forged.

  The world was caught in a period of adjustment called the Dragon's Tail, the astrological phase governed by the moon's descending node. Karmic balances would be corrected in this phase, past debts would come due, and lessons learned would manifest in change. A modification of roles was a critical element in the Pyr's successful navigation of this nine-year phase, but it wasn't the only part of the puzzle to be resolved.

  The first three total eclipses had occurred within the Dragon's Tail and the critical firestorms marked by those eclipses had been successfully resolved. But that was just the beginning of three tests--three by three, the eclipses and the critical firestorms came in trios, each one marking another milestone to be conquered.

  The second set of three total eclipses would begin in December, a mere six months away, and Zoe knew the firestorms they lit would be similarly critical to the Pyr's triumph. They would bring new challenges, and new opportunities. She also knew there were forces arrayed against the Pyr, forces that had to be removed for that success.

  In this moment, Zoe could help.

  She looked out the window at the glow of the moon, which was just a hair past full. She raised her clenched hand so that the moonlight touched her skin, closed her eyes, and--unbeknownst to her busy parents--cast a fistful of dreams into the starry night.

  Rox stared at the ceiling and itched with desire. She wanted Niall even more badly than before, her mind replaying the sight of him as he climaxed.

  He'd been all power and masculinity, and she'd been shocked by how much she'd wanted him inside her.

  Even then.

  Another day and the heat was even worse. Was it possible that the firestorm did burn brighter and hotter until it was sated?

  She knew he was just beyond her door.

  She knew he was agreeable.

  She knew it would be amazing.

  She did not know, however, that she could trust Niall to stay, not with someone inciting the earth to gobble him up whole.

  Rox tossed in her bed, thinking more about sex than shadow dragons, listening to the Pyr breathe smoke. It was hours before she slept, but then she dreamed in glorious color.

  She could have been in a Jane Austen movie. She walked through a glittering ballroom, resplendent with crystal chandeliers and bright with candlelight. Richly dressed people on all sides laughed at one another's bons mots and drank sparkling wine. She heard music and followed its summons. The women's dresses swung as they danced, taffeta and silk gleaming in the light. Gems flashed and hot glances were exchanged, chaperones scowled, and starlight shone through an entire wall of large glass doors.

  A man leaned against the opposite wall, drinking as he watched. He could have been Niall, blond and muscular, but his expression was too stern. He was older, too, a bit thicker through the middle although still trim. As she came closer to him, she saw a few lines of silver at his temples, the silver almost disappearing in the gold gleam of his hair.

  His eyes were the same resolute blue as Niall's, his gaze as direct. Rox had a sense that he was uncompromising, though. She couldn't imagine that he would kiss like Niall did, all soulful heat.

  He watched the dancers as he drank, fixed on them with an intensity that made Rox curious. She followed his gaze and realized that his attention was snared by a woman. She could have been made of porcelain, she was so beautiful, and the man watched her with heat in his gaze.

  "You should dance with her, Nigel," came a man's low voice. A dark- haired man with dark eyes and amusement in his tone had joined the blond man.

  Rox started. It was Rafferty.

  He was dressed in clothing similar to Nigel's, with tall boots and a white shirt, a tailored jacket, and his dark hair queued in back. Rox noticed that he didn't have the black and white ring.

  He clearly wasn't threatened by Nigel or worried about annoying him, despite his manner. Rox assumed they were friends.

  Niall had said he was two hundred years old. Was Nigel his father? Was the woman Niall's mother?

  Nigel's mate?

  "I do not dance," came the quick retort, as cutting as a knife.

  "You should," Rafferty replied easily.

  "Have you no matters of interest of your own?" Nigel demanded.

  "Dance," Rafferty urged, his voice as soft as a whisper.

  Nigel straightened. "It should hardly be a concern of yours whether I dance or not."

  "You will paw a hole in the floor if she dances with another man," Rafferty said with a smile. "I think only of the finish of our hostess's floors."

  Nigel's eyes narrowed as he turned on Rafferty, and Rox almost saw a puff of smoke rise from his nostrils. "You are impertinent and--"

  "And you are squandering the rare gift of a firestorm," Rafferty replied. His voice was still soft, but there was an undercurrent of steel to his tone. "Your lady wife knows your secret, and the chasm between you is of your own making. Repair it."

  Nigel glanced around with agitation before glaring at Rafferty again. His next words came low and hot. "Our son has turned to the darkness. How can I go to her, knowing that?"

  Rafferty didn't move. "How can you stay away from her, knowing that?"

  Nigel hissed through his teeth and threw back the rest of his drink. Rox guessed that it wasn't tea. "You don't understand a whit of it."

  "Nor, sadly, do you. There is nothing to be gained in silence. Did you not learn that the last time?"

  But Nigel had turned away. He dropped his glass on a servant's tray before he strode out of the hall and left his lady behind.

  Without a word.

  She wasn't as oblivious to his presence as she had appeared. Rox saw her stumble in the dance, her smile fading as she watched her husband leave the ballroom. He moved so decisively that there could be no mistaking his identity.

  Or he
r adoration of him. The lady's mask of pleasure slipped for a moment, leaving her heart revealed. Rox knew that Rafferty was right about the couple's needing to work together to find a solution. Each was obviously the only person in the room unaware of the truth of his or her spouse's feelings.

  Nigel, though, was gone.

  The lady summoned a smile for her partner and continued to dance. If Rox hadn't seen her dismay, she might have guessed the lady was having a wonderful time.

  Where was Niall?

  Rox scanned the room again, marveling at how ornate it was. The music changed and Rox couldn't see any sign of Rafferty. She surveyed the dance floor, but couldn't find the beautiful woman anymore. She felt a moment's fear and moved closer.

  Then she spied the lady who must be Niall's mother approaching the large glass doors on the far side of the ballroom. She was chatting to the man who accompanied her, her hand on his elbow. She seemed utterly at ease, even though this man hadn't been in her presence earlier. How had he appeared so quickly? He was a younger man with golden hair, who charted a direct course for the French doors. He was slimmer than Nigel and moved like a young man.

  Twenty or thirty years old. Rox's heart skipped a beat.

  Was it Niall? He moved the same way and was the same height, maybe a little slimmer. He held the woman's arm with a gallantry Rox associated with Niall, listening to her and nodding. The woman laughed up at him, rapping her fan on his arm.

  Rox followed, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man's face.

  On the threshold of the garden, the man glanced over his shoulder. Rox saw the familiar darkness of his eyes. It wasn't as complete as it was now, but there was menace there.

  Phelan.

  His smile was unkind. He had a dark plan, Rox was sure of it, and his mother was going to pay the price.

  Where was Niall?

  The lady was oblivious, still chatting to her son, apparently unaware that anything was amiss.