Breaking Ties (22 page)

And if I'm lucky, I can get out of this without any more blood on my hands.

Somehow.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Spencer

December 20, 7:41 pm

“So what happens now?”

We've been on the parkway, driving around the City, almost into our second lap. Mostly we haven't been talking. I should be concerned that we're in a stolen car because, whether the owner's dead or not, it's still stolen. TV, at least the grittier TV, would have us taking the car to a chop shop and finding something less conspicuous or buying something used, no questions asked. But we've just been driving, the satellite radio tuned to a comedy station. I wish I could say we're bonding over the risqué material, but it's mostly filling dead air for us.

“I don't know, son.” He shrugs. “Maybe I'll drive back to New Mexico, lay low, see the few members of my family I haven't pissed off yet. Maybe Dad will make me spin out somewhere in Texas for getting us involved with the Fae.” He glances at me, then points at the backseat. “Lifted that off some Dwarf. It's yours, isn't it?”

I look into the back, see a familiar bag, strain to reach for it and pick it up. The shotgun's still inside, the diamonds still loaded. I figure that Dad must've not checked it. “Yeah.”

“Thought you didn't kill people.”

“I don't, Dad.”

“So you're carrying a double-barreled sawed-off because…”

I grin in spite of myself, looking down at the inscribed metal. “It shoots lightning bolts. Or, well, it would if it had any juice left.”

He deadpans, “You're telling me you have a shotgun that shoots lightning bolts.”

“Yep. Even getting shirts made.” I put it back in the bag. “I think James made it for me. I should probably give it a name or…” Dad's now glaring at me. “What?”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because he's my friend. And he wasn't expecting to give it to me for a while, but he's in trouble and I need to help him, okay?”

He sighs, shaking his head at the road. “But why? Unless you're really going the extra mile to pull an Emerald, I can't understand why you're still chasing after that guy. He's a sorcerer, son. Us and them don't mix. Just look at your grandfather, if you don't take my word for it. There's always a price for running around with them. Always. And he's already got a Dwarf willing to lay down his life out of romantically induced insanity. I doubt he needs one more.”

“Dad, I love him.” Any other time I'd be proud of myself that it's getting easier to say that out loud.

“No. You don't. Coyotes don't love, okay? We can try our damnedest, even trick ourselves into believing it for a while, but we don't love. We charm, we tease, we trick, we get them better than anyone. But that's not because we love them, it's because we're the tricksters and they're the marks.” He sighs, closing his eyes a second. “No matter how much we don't want them to be.”

“So, what, you don't love me?”

That breaks him out of it. “You're my son. Take that how you will. I've got three children, and you're the only one I can stand, how's that? Hank's an idiot and Thornton…” He shakes his head, turns down the radio. “He's too much like me.”

“And I'm not?”

“You think like…like they do. Foxes, Dogs, Spiders, you watch what they do, how they work, and you make your own tricks from it. You stole a Fox's tail, a Dog's ear, and danced on a Spider's web without getting caught.”

“Danced on a what?”

“A Spider's web. You're actually
friends
with one of them. I didn't even know they did that.”

“What, Bank? He's a cool guy and he thinks it's easier to have friends than enemies, that's all.”

“Well, whatever. The point is, maybe I don't love you, I don't know, but I know I'm proud of you.”

It takes me a while to come up with an answer for that. A lot's happened in the past few hours. It's not like all those memories of him just get canceled out, life's never that easy. Mostly it's just feeling the words in your head and trying to push them out your mouth, knowing that whether you say anything or keep quiet will matter.

“Thanks, Dad.” And I mean it, not through some tiny voice in the back of my mind, a vestige of me as a kid that only wants his approval, but me, all of me. “So uh…what's the difference between a chorus line of blondes and a magician?”

He blinks, and we drive on for nearly a minute. “Don't think I've heard that one.” He gets onto an off-ramp leading down into the Benedict. “You hungry? I know a place outside town.” Dad exhales, working through the joke, starting a few times with likely answers and then stopping with a quick, “No. Maybe…”

“You want the answer?”

Dad glowers mildly. “No. I can get it. There's nothing on the line for this, right?”

“Nope, maybe if you can't get it then you buy the meal since I'm pretty broke.”

He
tsk
s at that. “Free food is an easy scam, son.”

“Dine-and-dash isn't a scam, Dad, and I've worked with waitresses. It comes out of their pay, so just cough up the ten bucks for a change? And you'd better tip.” He grumps, but I catch a nod. “You give up yet?”

“I can get it.”
That's practically growled. Ten awkward minutes go by before we pass the city limits. Ever sat for ten minutes in silence? Try it, see just how long it
really
is.

“There's really nothing on the line, Dad. Think of it as picking up a new joke, okay?”

“I'm the one who taught you all of those.”

“I think we've been over how inappropriate that parental decision was.”

He slaps the steering wheel in frustration and grips it tightly. “Fine. How is a chorus line of blondes different from a magician?”

“A magician has a cunning array of stunts.”

“A cunning array…”

I nod. “Of stunts. Just…think about it.”

I won't say the actual punchline. Fate is three women who would gladly smite my ass for saying
that
out loud.

The seat belt digs into my chest and waist as the brakes are slammed, rubber screeching on the asphalt as the car swerves, starts to fishtail, but he regains control soon enough for the car to stop, the bumper, well, bumping a giant leg. A giant scaly leg. A giant golden scaly leg.

The dragon isn't looking at us, thankfully, but instead at a roadside diner full of people that likely just saw a high-end luxury car ever-so-gently tap a jackknifed semi.

But I've managed to get a dragon's attention for the second time in as many days, and not in the way I'd like.

“Okay, Fate, I'm deeply sorry about the stereotype-based joke with the unspoken gender-offensive punch line.” I look to Dad. “We've got to get that thing away from the diner, people are in there.”

“Coyotes aren't the hero type, son.”

“Well, dragons are gullible.” I unbuckle the seat belt, open the door to get out, taking the shotgun out of the bag to carry it with me. “Let's trick him into thinking we are.”

“Granny probably would love to bag a dragon.” I hear him exhale forcefully. “Fuck it.” He undoes his seat belt. “But you're scamming lunch afterward.”

Jesus, that thing's big, and let's face it, we're just a couple Coyotes, combat's not really our style. This is the kind of job I'd want Shiko on speed-dial for, considering Kitsune have the sort of skill in swordplay you normally only see in Japanese animation.

“Dad? Please tell me you've got a deck of cards on you.”

He rolls his eyes and tosses one across the hood. “I doubt he'll go for Follow the Lady, son.”

I crack it open while the dragon sniffs loudly at the diner's windows. Everyone inside appears to have backed away from the windows, a few people on cell phones. Chances are we'll have an official audience in however long it takes the cops to get out here. It's a new deck, so the card I need is right on top.

I raise my boomstick, level it on the giant broadside-of-a-barn-sized ass of the beast, and lay the card on the barrels. Just giving the trick a bit of direction, is all.

“Yo! Thunder-thighs!”

The dragon doesn't hear me or doesn't care. I pull the trigger as I murmur, “
Kaze.
”

Twin bolts leap from the barrels, the Ace of Spades burns to a crisp as the lightning forks straight into the scaly posterior of the dragon.

Suffice it to say, I have his full and undivided attention. I tic my head at the field behind us. “Let's go.”

And I am
especially
proud that I don't pee myself right then. Seriously, you have no idea.

Dad comes around to my side as we both back away from the dragon that's turning to face us. “Went with the Bruce Campbell, I see.”

I hurry up my retreat. “Well, you know, you gotta respect the classics.”

Dad matches my pace, goes a little faster, as the dragon's turned around and starting to advance. “Trying to set up a ‘Good, bad, I'm the guy with the gun' thing?”

I grumble as I speed up even more and notice the dragon's moving quicker than we are. “Well I can't
now
since you've said it.”

“What do you expect? I'm not a Bard. I just took you to see those movies.” We're pretty much jogging backwards now.

“Yeah, thanks for contributing to my fear of zombies.”

“Deadites, not zombies. And don't mention it, wasn't like I could show you a real one. Did you know I originally wanted to base my Justin Crain cloak on Bruce Campbell?” He grits his teeth, as the dragon's only thirty feet away now. “I'm thinking you shoot him in the face with that thing, and then we run like hell. Your thoughts?”

I cock back the hammers, the King of Spades already in my hand.

“Groovy.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

James

December 20, 7:42 pm

“James, I know you've got to concentrate on flying, but…”

He's only half-right, or maybe closer to forty percent. My attention's pretty split right now. Obviously keeping aloft is an issue, considering I fly “like a dropped egg” and a race isn't really practice. It's hard enough trying to track someone by scent when you've never had to do it before.

The rest of my attention is focused on squelching the instincts of Slartibartfast. I know he could do this a hell of a lot better than me, but I might end up forgetting who I am in the first place. Largely I've been keeping my mind occupied with things that a dragon would likely have no interest in, like song lyrics that aren't from AC/DC and which edition of Dungeons & Dragons has the best spell mechanics for the sorcerer class.

The D&D topic was done in five seconds, as I'm a bit biased, and apparently both dragons and humans don't like giving thought to counterarguments.

So I've been singing.

I might've covered before in my observations of Dave that dragons can only aspire to one day be merely tone-deaf.

“I can't believe I'm saying this, James, but you've actually ruined Fleetwood Mac for me.”

Ozzie's been conversant, I asked him to be because a part of me isn't all that wild about having a Dwarf sitting on my neck. I'm sure Spencer would have a witty remark about that. I can always count on him to say something risqué, and for advice too; he's pretty trustworthy when you think about—

“Ozzie, I'm starting to slip again.” What I'm slipping from I'm not really aware. We're chasing after the Dragon King because…reasons, I guess?

“You're James Black, the Lightning Rod, not a dragon, and all Coyotes are liars and thieves. Dirty, dirty thieves.”

Oh, right.

“Thanks.” The booming takes some getting used to. Dragons don't really do indoor voices. If I'm slipping this easily, I don't want to think about what state Tyras's mind is in. No matter which way it's leaning, it won't go well for the new Ra'keth.

Damn, would it be nice if I could just turn back to human and let some other schmuck take the job for a while. If I ever bring the world to an end again, I'm definitely putting in a decree about sabbaticals from sorcery, but currently I'm a bit screwed out of that idea by my own decree. Have to appreciate irony.

“Are you okay up there?”

“Freezin' my ass off! You're mighty cold.” Being a Snow Dragon, or at least in the form of one, will probably do that. “I'm certain the name of magic is still Sigil, so at least the new king isn't aware of his or her crown yet. Any idea where the Golden went?”

I shake my head. I don't have a clue. Slartibartfast could probably sniff him out faster than I can. A dragon once found me in a city of millions, just from the scent of a scale in my backpack, but it's a huge gamble. There's no way to change back if I let him take the reins. I might forget who I am forever and end up a headcase like Tyras. Hell, I might end up joining him in thinking that eating the new sorcerer is a good idea.

What's to say he wouldn't just take me as a pet and let me think I'm a Snow Dragon for the rest of my life? I mean, that's the sort of uppity bullshit you can expect from a Golden or a
Red
. Fucking snooty scales, thinking they're so much better than us. Well, try breathing underwater or burying Vermont in four feet of snow! Maybe there's more to helping humans than a fat bank account, you ever think of that? Bunch of money-humping…

Am I supposed to say something to the dreamblood on my neck?

And, damn, why am I flying so unsteadily if I'm chasing the Dragon King?

Okay, I'm chasing the Dragon King. I know I'm angry at him, and for some reason, I'm letting a Dwarf ride around on me. There's also a pretty sweet-looking vambrace on my foreleg. Did the dreamblood make that for me? Awfully nice of him, considering Snows and dreambloods aren't the palling-around type.

Is he talking? Who's James? Oh right, that's my human form. But why would I bother with that when we've got ground to cover? I must have him pretty well fooled if he thinks I'm a
sorcerer
. The clan can work magic, sure, because…uh…someone told us we could. It wasn't the Dragon King, I know that.

Wait!

I'm so stupid.

That
must be why I'm angry at the Dragon King, he doesn't want the Snow Clan working magic! I remember him not being happy about that development, but I'm not about to let him take away the one advantage we've got. I can't remember who said we can work magic. I think it was a nice sorcerer, but I remember doing it when I was going after a mean sorcerer who was taking over my body.

Anyway, it's not my fault I decided to get acclimatized to human society while King Tyras was off in the home realm, handing down edicts or sitting on his scaly ass doing nothing of note while we're out here actually doing the work we were created for. He's probably so blind to human culture he'd think “Go Your Own Way” was just human noise. At least I'm
trying
to understand our scaleless and squishy protectorate, even if I can't get their music right. At least when I start singing the Dwarf seems to calm down.

A quick sniff of the air is overwhelming, considering I just smelled everything within a five-mile radius. Thankfully my mind is spec'd for that, I think that's the term.
Spec'd
is a weird word. I wonder where I picked it up?

“He's that way.” I pick up speed, magic flowing through me subtly, but it's there, like a slight itch under my scales or a song I can't get out of my head. What's that band Davinicus likes?

No, no, focus, Slartibartfast. (Seriously,
what
were my parents thinking?) The Dragon King is waiting, and he's going to kill a sorcerer, and you just don't do that! We're here to serve and protect them, unless they're mean, and whoever the new one is hasn't even done anything worthy of execution yet. If anyone should be punished, it's His Majesty.

How awesome would that be, to take down the Dragon King, maybe take the throne, be in charge and get our kind back on track. Maybe Parivian could be my consort and…

Yeah, right, like the other clans would ever let a Snow sit on the throne. They'd snort and squabble and go through all manner of meetings and stalling tactics while they came up with a reason to justify their bigotry that sounds vaguely like protocol. Seriously, who says a Snow Clan can't be the king and save our race from ourselves? We're probably just what dragonkind needs, that's for sure, and that'll be clear once I take down Tyras, take the throne for the clan and then maybe…

No, this is not the time to think about the victory dance. That's what that Coyote would tell me, and he always gives good pointers. Too bad I don't have any money to invest with him. He'd probably do pretty well with it. He'd tell me to concentrate on the task at hand, which is finding the new Ra'keth and keeping him or her safe. Just wish it didn't take me so long to remember that.

Weird how I'm so absentminded today.