Kiss of Fire
Authors: Deborah Cooke
Sophie closed her eyes as the talon carved into her flesh, hating that she had no choice. His nail bit deeply, more deeply than any natural nail could have done.
It wasn't the pain that persuaded her. It was the fact that there'd be no chance of escape if she couldn't fly. She had to escape. She had to survive.
Whatever the price.
She begged the Great Wyvern to forgive her weakness.
“Her name is Sara Keegan,” she said in a quiet rush, knowing she might be condemning the woman to death.
In the same moment that Sophie uttered the mortal woman's name, the name of the
Pyr
who would mate with Sara became clear. Sophie blinked as she felt a whisper of hope.
“And the
Pyr
who will feel the firestorm?” Boris demanded.
“You cannot ask me that. It is forbidden.”
“I have just asked you.”
“You said one name.”
“I lied,” Boris said easily. “It's a bad habit of mine. Tell me who he is.”
“I don't know.” The Wyvern gritted her teeth, not wanting to tell these villains more.
“Liar! Cut her again.”
The talon of her tormentor cut so deeply that Sophie cried out in pain. They would cripple her without a moment's regret, and abandon her in this endless desert. She'd die, and where would the
Pyr
be then? Without a prophet as they entered the greatest battle of all time. She owed her kind better than that.
“It is the Smith,” she confessed, hating the choice she had to make. She felt their shock and awe.
“His name. Confirm his name.”
The talon touched her flesh. “Quinn Tyrrell. You knew that already.”
OF
FIRE
A DRAGONFIRE NOVEL
A SIGNET ECLIPSE BOOK
SIGNET ECLIPSE
Published by New American Library, a division of
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First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,
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Copyright © Claire Delacroix, Inc., 2008
All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-1-1012-1165-6
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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For Kon, as always
Creating a new world means questions and decisions, and I'm grateful to all of these people for their help and enthusiasm. Thanks to the many patient librarians who helped me research dragon lore. Thanks to Kristen Schubach, who helped with the graphics on my Web site. Thanks to Diana Troldahl for checking details in Michigan for me. Thanks to Pam Trader for answering my many computer-related questions and for planning yarn missions with me. Thanks to Ingrid Caris for listening. Thanks to Jennifer Taylor for explaining astrological influences so well and loading me up with reference materials. Thanks to my editor, Kara Cesare, for her enthusiasm and for pushing me further into the
Pyr
world. Thanks to my agent, Dominick Abel, for doing what he does so very well. Finally, thanks to my husband, Kon, who knows quite a bit about making sparks fly.
March 3, 2007
T
he reckoning had begun.
All around the world, gazes turned skyward for the total lunar eclipse. Not everyone realized that it was the first eclipse of a new cycle, that it was the beginning of an age of reconciliation.
There were thirteen who knew.
No sooner had the shadow of the earth passed over the full moon than the first six met in the quiet reaches of southern Libya. The moon glowed red and unnatural, as unnatural as many might have found the sight of the dragons spiraling down from the darkened sky. The members of the high circle gathered silently, as was prearranged, honoring custom. They landed unobserved beneath the path of the eclipse.
There was no need for conversation: the process of ordination had taught them their responsibilities, though none had known whether they would be summoned until now. Dread and anticipation mingled in one of the eldest, Donovan, as he watched his fellows arrive. He didn't like foretold events, didn't like the sense they always gave him that there was more controlling his future than his own will. Heat rose from the sand underfoot and the sky appeared to be stained with blood.
Erik arrived last, his onyx and pewter figure casting an eerie shadow as he wheeled with confidence out of the sky. He moved as if the black velvet sack he carried weighed nothing. Donovan knew that sack's contents and the burden Erik carried.
The blessing was murmured in old-speak by all of them, even skeptical Donovan. The bag's cord was loosed to reveal the treasure of their kind, still nestled in the shadowed interior. The Dragon's Egg was as dark as night, as fathomless as obsidian, and the surface of the stone gleamed as if wet.
The sight of it gave Donovan the creeps.
“It's not working,” Niall said.
“Nonsense. It must taste the moon's light.” Erik was impatient with doubt and skepticism. “Give it room.” The others withdrew slightly and Donovan restrained the urge to destroy the sacred relic. It was older than any of them, mysterious and potent, and to his thinking, it brought more trouble than it solved.
Erik spun the Dragon's Egg three times, requested an augury of the Great Wyvern, and released it. The stone spun like a top across the scorching sand. When it came to a halt, the six clustered closer, as close as Erik would permit.
For a long moment, only the reflection of the moon's red glow was visible in the orb. The eclipse was already progressingâif Erik felt the press of time passing, he gave no outward sign. Their leader was as cool and composed as always, as confident as Donovan had always known him to be.
Donovan was inclined to prod the stone. If he kicked it hard enough, it might shatter. Before he could move, though, the orb sparkled, as if lit from the inside. Lines of gold appeared in the darkness, running across and around its surface.
“First it traces the planet,” Rafferty said, for those who had not witnessed the marvel before. The outline of continents appeared, as if drawn in gold by a frantic mapsmith.
“North America,” said Donovan, recognizing the shape of the continent displayed on the top. He sighed. “It figures. Why can't we ever be dispatched to Italy, where the women are gorgeous, or some South Seas island, where they're naked?”
“Silence!” Erik commanded. Rafferty chuckled darkly until the leader silenced him with a look.
Nothing happened after the continents were drawn. The shadow of the earth moved relentlessly across the full moon. Sloane stirred restlessly until Erik held up a hand.
Finer hairlines, straight lines of force, appeared on the Dragon's Egg. The ley lines could have been lines of longitude and latitude, because they triangulated a precise location. What they really marked were lines of energy, earth energy, energy that might as well have been Roman roads for the readiness with which Donovan and his kind could follow them.
The lines targeted the nexus where the next firestorm would begin. The ley lines glowed briefly as they made a conjunction; the six leaned closer, anxious to read the location before the gleaming lines faded to darkness.
“Ann Arbor,” Erik murmured, his old-speak echoing with authority in the thoughts of his fellows. “I will go.”
“I will be your second, if you wish it,” Donovan said, speaking out of some impulse he could not name.
“You will all second me,” Erik declared. “It is time.” A frisson of alarm passed through the group. Donovan exchanged a glance with Rafferty, knowing that the old prophecy must be correct for Erik to make such a demand.
The final battle had come.
And the world would never be the same.
Further south, in the Kalahari Desert, the other seven gathered in a dark parody of the high circle. They also appeared in the sky when the eclipse was complete, although not all of them flew under their own power. The last of their number was a terrified captive, harnessed and shackled, who fought and bit to no avail.
They were six powerful males, all in their dragon form, and they easily held the lone female down in the hot sand. She was afraid when she saw them all together, afraid of their intent.
She knew the role she had to play, but she was too old to easily trust in destiny. She had grown skeptical and timid.
The odds of victory were longâperhaps too long.
All the same, she tried to trust the truth she had been shown.
“What do you want from me?” she demanded.
“A prophecy, of course,” declared the dragon who had his claw upon her neck. He might have been made of turquoise and hammered silver, and he was larger and more brutal than any
Pyr
she had ever known. He dug his talons deeper into her neck and when she caught her breath in pain, he chuckled.
“A name,” clarified the leader, a magnificent ruby red dragon with trailing plumes. “All I want is a name.”
“Your name is Boris,” she said, and he laughed. It was an unpleasant sound.
He leaned closer, his breath hot and dry, his eyes glinting with malice. His scales were brilliant and looked to be edged in brass; she knew he was old to have taken that metallic sheen. “I want the name of the human who will feel this firestorm.”
“I can't tell you that.”
“Of course you can.” His smile was reptilian. “You are the Wyvern, keeper of prophecies. You know such things.”
“I am untrained. I cannot predictâ”
“Cut her wings.” His terse command cut short her protest. She watched, incredulous, as a topaz yellow dragon moved to do Boris's bidding. The one who held her neck indicated a tender spot, scratching it so that she flinched; then the yellow one took pleasure in showing her his sharpened talon. It was long and black and had an edge that looked wickedly sharp, especially against the pale delicacy of her own skin.
Sophie choked on her shock. “But it is forbidden to injure the Wyvern!”
“We do not play by the old rules,” Boris said in old-speak, his tone contemptuous. “Times demand that useless formalities be abandoned.”
Sophie knew she would never erase the echo of his hatred from her thoughts. “But⦔
The topaz dragon slid his sharp talon across the tendon at the root of her wings and giggled. Sophie felt the pain of the cut, could not mistake the warm trickle of her own blood across her flesh.
“Hers is red,” exclaimed the topaz dragon.
“You'll have to make her bleed more to be sure,” insisted her turquoise captor. “Go on. Cut deeper.”
Sophie closed her eyes as the talon carved into her flesh, hating that she had no choice. His nail bit deeply, more deeply than any natural nail could have done.
It wasn't the pain that persuaded her. It was the fact that there'd be no chance of escape if she couldn't fly. She had to escape. She had to survive.
Whatever the price.
She begged the Great Wyvern to forgive her weakness.
“Her name is Sara Keegan,” she said in a quiet rush, knowing she might be condemning the woman to death.
In the same moment that Sophie uttered the mortal woman's name, the name of the
Pyr
who would mate with Sara became clear. Sophie blinked as she felt a whisper of hope.
“And the
Pyr
who will feel the firestorm?” Boris demanded.
“You cannot ask me that. It is forbidden.”
“I have just asked you.”
“You said one name.”
“I lied,” Boris said easily. “It's a bad habit of mine. Tell me who he is.”
“I don't know.” The Wyvern gritted her teeth, not wanting to tell these villains more.
“Liar! Cut her again.”
The talon of her tormentor cut so deeply that Sophie cried out in pain. They would cripple her without a moment's regret and abandon her in this endless desert. She'd die, and where would the
Pyr
be then? Without a prophet as they entered the greatest battle of all time. She owed her kind better than that.
“It is the Smith,” she confessed, hating the choice she had to make. She felt their shock and awe.
“His name. Confirm his name.”
The talon touched her flesh. “Quinn Tyrrell. You knew that already.”
“I thought he was dead,” Boris mused, sparing a cold glance to a golden dragon who had thus far been silent.
“I never believed he was,” said that dragon, with a defensiveness to his tone. This one, too, was old, and his scales gleamed with the mysterious lights shared by tigers' eye stones.
“He lives because you failed,” Boris said coldly. “Here is your chance to finish what you began, Ambrose. Try not to make a mess of it this time.”
The golden dragon inclined his head as if submissive, but Sophie saw the flash of fire in his gaze. She would never turn her back on him if she had the choice.
Boris looked back to the Wyvern, and she dreaded what he might say. “You can keep her until the next eclipse in August, Everett,” he told her captor, and that dragon laughed. Sophie's blood ran cold. “Don't wound her. Not yet.” Boris tickled her chin with his talon, as if she were a favored pet, and she yearned to bite him. “She has shown some talent for usefulness.”
That wasn't all of it, though. Boris leaned closer, his breath as hot as a desert wind. Sophie closed her eyes but she couldn't evade his voice. “I would not recommend you giving Everett any trouble. He tends to be somewhat volatile and forgets his own strength.”
Everett chuckled and poked his talon into her wound. The Wyvern knew it was no accident.
She was glad her eyes were closed. Let Boris think her weak. What these
Slayers
did was wrong and they would be exterminated. Little did they realize that their wickedness gave her strength. Justice would prevail, evil would be vanquished, and the true
Pyr
would triumph.
She was the Wyvern.
She would ensure that they paid for their crimes.
Somehow.
The eclipse could not be fully viewed in Traverse City, but its pull could be felt all the same.
Quinn was ready.
He fired his forge in anticipation. It was unlikely he would have company with the snow piled outside, but he took precautions anyway. He locked the doors of his studio and covered the windows, ensuring that no one could witness his secret. It was no accident that he had kept it so well for so long. It took diligence to work iron, diligence to hold a secret, diligence to train to meet one's destiny.
Quinn didn't have to see the progression of the eclipse to feel when it was complete. He knew, right to his marrow, when it was time. He took a deep breath and shifted to his dragon form, memories crowding into his thoughts.
It was the first time in centuries that he had permitted his body to do what it did best; he realized only as he changed how much he had missed the transformation. The sense of power was magnificent, heady, and addictive. He felt joyous and strong and powerful.
And this time he was. The past had forged him into what he was. He was tempered and strong and ready to claim his mate. It was time for the Smith to ensure his own succession.
Quinn breathed fire into the forge, sending its flames higher and hotter than coal and coke could have made them. The heat would have driven him away in human form, even with his protective gear, but his dragon form welcomed the fire.
With his talons, he removed the mermaid door knocker from the fire where she waited. She was red-hot, gleaming and glowing, on the verge of turning into liquid. He finished the end of her tail with sure strokes. He had known when the iron took this feminine shape beneath his hand that his turn had come; he had known that he could finish the work only in dragon form.
His firestorm was coming.
The others, good and bad, would follow the beacon of its heat.
This time, he would triumph.
This time, he would protect what was his to defend.
He exhaled mightily, sending sparks dancing throughout his workshop, infusing the hot iron with his desire. The mermaid glittered as if she were made of fire, caught in a magical wind of Quinn's making. She looked to be filled with sparks, but in truth, she was filled with the power of his will.