Kiss of Fire (21 page)

Donovan took great satisfaction in stretching out the injured
Slayer
, letting his victim feel that he was bigger and stronger. Donovan had lost a lot of blood, as Quinn could see from the red marks on the ground below, and that worried Quinn. Lucien was bleeding freely from his decapitated claws, the black blood sizzling when it hit the earth.

There was no doubt of the evil in his heart.

When Lucien was splayed out, his belly toward Quinn, the
Slayer
writhed in fear despite the defiant glint in his eyes. Donovan flapped his wings steadily, keeping the pair airborne despite Lucien's efforts to free himself.

“Cook him,” Donovan said grimly to Quinn. “I like my traitors well done.”

“You can't do this!” Lucien struggled wildly.

This time, it was Donovan who smiled. “Sure we can. Just watch.”

“It's not fair!” Lucien protested. “Two against one. It's got to be against a rule….”

“You're the one who attacked us,” Quinn observed.

“I didn't think you guys played by the rules,” Donovan said. “You didn't worry about playing fair with Delaney, did you?”

“Delaney? Was he the green one?”

“My cousin. I loved him like a brother. This daily special is for him.” He flicked a glance at Quinn, his own filled with resolve. “Supper time, Quinn.”

Lucien screamed, but no one came to help him. Quinn drew on his deepest reserves and loosed the hottest and fiercest dragonfire that he could. He focused on the middle of the
Slayer
's body, so that Donovan would be shielded by Lucien's body.

Lucien screamed and writhed, but he soon fell silent. The smell of burning flesh filled the clearing, sickening Quinn even though he knew they had had no other choice. Quinn watched the light yellow topaz of Lucien dull in color, turn to dark gold, then become brown and lifeless.

Then Donovan flung the
Slayer
's corpse aside, hovering beside Quinn to watch. Lucien fell from the sky like a dead weight. He hit so hard against the earth that there would be a mark left in the soil.

“Thanks for helping with my tan,” Donovan said, surveying the lightly singed scales on his forearms.

“I tried to focus the fire,” Quinn said but before he could apologize further, Donovan brushed off his concern.

“It needed to be done, Quinn.” He slanted a glance at Quinn and smiled. “That's pretty impressive how you can take the dragonfire. Is that hereditary, or can you teach me the trick?”

“I think it's wired right in.”

“Doesn't that figure.” Donovan surveyed himself ruefully, seeming to take inventory of his wounds.

“How's your stomach?” Quinn asked. The cuts looked bad, but Donovan was acting as if they looked worse than they were.

“Sore, but I'll heal with Sloane's help. He's got some powerful ointments in his apothecary.”

“He can heal?”

“Surface cuts and bruises. He has herbal concoctions.” Donovan raised his eyebrows. “Secret recipes. Nobody else knows the handshake.” Donovan poked one cut and winced at the pain. “I hope these are superficial enough that he can help me. Those talons of Lucien's were something else.”

“They're tempered steel, made like knives,” Quinn said. He flew down to the ground and picked up one of the claws to examine them. The talons glistened evilly, looking even more like retractable knives. But if they were implants, how would they work in human form? Quinn didn't know.

“So, that's why you wanted a closer look,” Donovan said and Quinn realized that the other
Pyr
was close beside him.

“Maybe it's something that can be replicated.”

“For yourself or for the rest of us?” Donovan demanded. “I could use a set of those, Smith, if you need ideas for Christmas.”

Quinn didn't answer. The truth was that he was having his doubts about his ability to return to his old life. These
Slayer
s were merciless and evil, and he sensed that the
Pyr
needed every advantage they could get. Every pair of claws counted, especially if the competition didn't play fairly. Quinn had a feeling that he wasn't going to be able to forget their wickedness—much less sleep at night, knowing that they were out in the world, unchallenged.

He had a feeling that Sara wasn't going to go for that, either.

He looked at Lucien's broken body on the ground beneath them and wondered why the
Slayer
would have taken on two
Pyr
at once.

It made no sense.

“Remember what Sara said about the four elements,” Quinn murmured to Donovan in old-speak.

Donovan snorted. “I wasn't going to forget. You take his front legs. That way, if he's bluffing and blows dragonfire, you'll only get stronger instead of me getting roasted.”

“Had enough tanning for one day?” Quinn teased and the other
Pyr
grinned.

“Even though I didn't finish you off, I think we can call it a settled dispute.”

“Fair enough.” Quinn grasped Lucien's front legs while Donovan took his back ones. Quinn also carried Lucien's claws so he could dispose of them the same way. Any worry that Lucien was bluffing was unfounded: the
Slayer
remained limp. His body was lighter than Quinn had expected.

The smell of roasted flesh reminded Quinn a little too vehemently of the death of his family. He even glanced upward, halfway expecting to see Erik circling overhead.

Then Quinn pushed useless memory from his thoughts. He and Donovan carried Lucien to the Washtenaw River and let his corpse drop into the water. Lucien hit the water with a splash, followed by his claws, then sank fast.

Without reviving.

The river boiled briefly where his body had disappeared and Quinn imagined he could see the dark shadow of the sinking dragon.

“For you, Delaney,” Donovan whispered.

“That'll give the amateur divers something interesting to find,” Quinn said.

Donovan nodded. “We worked pretty well together, Quinn.”

But Quinn was scanning the sky, looking for other
Slayer
s. “But I can't help thinking it was too easy,” he said. “Why would he come out of the blue to take us on alone?”

“
Slayer
s are nasty. They're not always logical.”

“No,” Quinn argued, remembering Sara's observations. “No. They're very logical. It's as though they plan it all out in advance. They work together. Like a team.”

“How could they have known that I'd challenge you?” Donovan said, his tone skeptical.

Quinn sighed. “Sara thinks they're holding the Wyvern captive.”

Donovan stared at him. “I didn't think there was a Wyvern anymore.”

“Sara hears a woman in her dreams, screaming for help, telling her tormentor that it's forbidden to injure the Wyvern.”

“Shit. They'd know everything if that were true.” Donovan scowled. “We wouldn't have a chance.”

Quinn didn't say anything. It was tempting to think that Sara was right, that they had to retrieve the Wyvern somehow. There just wasn't a way to do that without putting her at risk. Life had been much simpler when he'd had only himself to look out for—but he already couldn't wrap his mind around the idea of never seeing Sara again, for any reason.

Too bad he didn't trust Erik. Once burned, twice shy and all that. Quinn scanned the sky again, convinced that he was missing something.

Donovan stared at the spot where Lucien had sunk. “Do you think he was a distraction?”

It was possible. Quinn turned instinctively toward downtown, wanting to check on Sara, just to be sure. Let her think he was overprotective. He could live with that.

A pang shot through him then, like a red hot poker, and he knew his mermaid was calling to him. Someone had breached his smoke, or Sara had left the shop alone.

“It's Sara!” he bellowed and took off toward The Scrying Glass.

Donovan swore eloquently and to Quinn's surprise, the other
Pyr
flew right behind him. “It's time we fought together, too,” Donovan said flatly. “Come on, Quinn. We can smoke the bastards if we play as a team.”

“You're on,” Quinn agreed and the pair streaked across the sky.

He just hoped that they got to Sara quickly enough.

B
oris Vassily was scheming.

He was always scheming on one level or another, although this piddling problem of how to execute the Smith's mate wasn't very compelling. It was always satisfactory to terminate a firestorm with the bloody execution of the human female, but over the centuries, that feat had lost its thrill.

Boris had killed humans in so many ways that the possibilities had all been explored. And really, they weren't that interesting in the end or that different. The human physiology was remarkably feeble—their survival could be attributed solely, in Boris's opinion, to their ability to breed with abandon.

Sara Keegan was proving to be more difficult to kill, which might be either the result of her being the Seer or a mark of Ambrose's ineptitude.

They headed out of Ann Arbor's core in the massive gold SUV that Boris favored, Ambrose driving. Sara slept in the backseat, dreamlessly and deeply. It hadn't been that hard to beguile her, which told Boris that she was skeptical of it or knew nothing about it.

He enjoyed that the Smith had left him such a nice loophole.

Boris lit another cigarette and with indifference watched the ember burn. Sara would die—it was only a matter of time—and as long as they took her out in the next nine months, there'd be no
Pyr
child, no matter what the Smith had already done.

It was all so predictable.

Boris yawned mightily. On the upside, it would be good to end a firestorm at the beginning of the much-foretold new age, just because the loss would particularly demoralize the
Pyr
. And he had to admit that there was a certain spice to the prospect of ensuring that the Smith didn't breed, that there was no inheritance of the Smith's talents and thus no chance of the old prediction coming true.

But still. It all seemed a bit flat to Boris. He wanted more. He wanted a big finish. He wanted to incinerate as many
Pyr
as possible. He wanted to
win
, and he wanted to win on the scale of a Hollywood blockbuster movie. He started to butt out his cigarette with impatience, half of it still intact, then had an idea.

It was so brilliant that he froze in midgesture.

But then, it was his idea. What could it have been
but
brilliant? Boris liked to think that he had a talent for seeing the big picture and this idea proved that to be true.

Thanks to Sara, the
Pyr
probably knew that the
Slayers
held the Wyvern captive. Boris knew enough about Erik—and the misguided noble impulses of the
Pyr
—to guess that they would want to save their prophetess. It would be a stupid and pointless exercise, since her prophecies were less than precise and far from useful, but Boris knew they would try.

All they needed was a hint as to her location.

He smiled and lit another cigarette, drawing on this one with real pleasure. It would be so easy to give the Smith's mate that clue and then
accidentally
allow her to escape. The
Pyr
would never suspect the trap that had been laid for them because they were almost as guileless as the humans they defended. They would attribute her escape to their own abilities, or to hers. They were ridiculous that way and Boris liked that he could use that trait to their disadvantage.

She would share the clue, and they would come to him.

Or more accurately, they would come to their own collective funeral.

Boris chuckled in satisfaction. This was exactly what he needed to bring back the old excitement of slaughter and destruction. As a bonus, he'd have no more opposition to obliterating the human population of the earth once this ploy was completed.

He could plan his big finish.

Boris had no doubt that the Smith's mate would try to escape, as that kind of survival instinct was part of her nature. He could facilitate her departure a bit without her knowledge.

It was almost too easy.

But not quite.

Boris chuckled happily to himself. “Take 23 south to 12 west,” he instructed Ambrose who started in surprise.

“I thought we were going to leave her body in the forest at the Smith's place.”

“I've changed my mind. We're going to Allen.”

Ambrose frowned. “But it's my assignment. I want to leave her for the Smith to find.”

“I don't care. Take the turn.”

“But…”

“You've had your chance to do it your way.” Boris punched in a number on his cell phone, smiling when he recognized Everett's voice. “We're taking her to the cabin. When you get there, start making smoke.” Not waiting for Everett's answer, he ended the connection and called Sigmund. “The cabin, now,” he said when Sigmund answered. “Get there, tell the others, and make smoke immediately. I expect a solid territory mark by the time I arrive.” He snapped the cell phone shut with satisfaction and took a long draw on his cigarette.

“You do know that the ley lines converge there, right under the cabin,” Ambrose said, his tone snide.

Boris chose to forgive his attitude. “Yes.”

“And if we all mingle our smoke, the territory mark will act like a beacon.” Ambrose continued, as if he spoke to a fool. “It'll be easy for them to find us.”

Boris smiled. “Exactly.” He leaned across the front seat and flicked ash into the other
Slayer
's lap. Ambrose jumped as Boris dropped his voice low. “Are you doubting me, Ambrose?”

“Of course not. I just don't understand.”

“Because you're stupid. You're so stupid that you could be human.”

“Hey!” Ambrose's eyes flashed but Boris watched him coldly.

He knew that his flat stare discomfited even the other
Slayer
s and Ambrose was no exception. He was old, so he would fight it longer, but he would succumb. “Go ahead,” Boris whispered in old-speak. “Give me another reason to dispose of you.”

Ambrose glared back. “You wouldn't dare.”

“Oh, but I would.” Boris exhaled, letting his dragonfire caress Ambrose's arm.

The other
Slayer
flinched. “You're crazy.”

“But in charge all the same. Your fate lies in my hands and don't you forget it.”

“You can be eliminated, too, Boris.”

“Who will volunteer to take my job? Who could earn it?” Boris saw Ambrose's ambition and despised him for it. “Not you,” he whispered. “You can't finish anything.”

Their gazes held for a potent moment, the tension snapping between them. Then the SUV swerved, someone honked, and Ambrose looked back at the road. He was seething, but he had been the first to look away.

“Kick it up a notch,” Boris snarled, savoring his cigarette. “An immortal shouldn't be afraid to break the speed limit. I want to get there today.”

Ambrose put his foot to the floor, his mood obviously sour. Boris watched the countryside and knew he was already having the best time that he'd had in centuries.

And it was only going to get better.

Gone.

It was as if Sara had vanished into thin air. Neither Donovan nor Quinn could see her. They shifted back to human form in the Diag and Donovan did the beguiling while Quinn raced toward Sara's store.

The Scrying Glass was closed and Sara wasn't in Quinn's booth, either. She wasn't in the coffee shop she favored. The mermaid door knocker was already black again, the
Pyr
threat having moved away from her vicinity.

Along with Sara.

Quinn caught her scent in the arcade and followed it to the parking lot off Maynard Street. He lost it there and was pacing the upper floor of the lot when Donovan caught up to him.

Sara had moved far and fast.

Worse, Quinn knew that she hadn't moved alone.

“Well?” Donovan asked, even though he must have known.

“Gone. Completely gone.” Quinn pushed a hand through his hair, unable to avoid the ugly truth that he'd failed someone yet again.

“You can't be everywhere,” Donovan began to say, but Quinn interrupted him.

“I should have been here!” His voice rose to a shout and he couldn't stop it. “Sara's safety is my responsibility. I should have been here. I should have been with her. I should at least have been close!” He spun and put some distance between himself and the other
Pyr
, before he said something he might regret.

He could have incinerated everything in sight, but he knew it wouldn't make him feel any better.

“Blaming me?” Donovan demanded.

Quinn glanced back to find the other
Pyr
looking cocky and unrepentant. “I blame myself, for taking your challenge and forgetting my obligations.”

“I wasn't going to let you decline my challenge.”

“Even so.” Quinn glared at the parking garage in frustration, wishing the concrete could talk to him the way that metal often did. He paced the perimeter again, anxiously seeking a hint of Sara's location, feeling the weight of Donovan's gaze.

“What if they knew?” Donovan asked quietly.

“What are you talking about?” Quinn was impatient.

“What if they knew what we were doing? You said that Sara was dreaming of the Wyvern being held captive—if they have the Wyvern, they could know anything. They could know that you and I went to fight. They could have sent Lucien to make sure we didn't finish too soon.”

Quinn stared at Donovan. “They might even have known that we'd take him all the way to the river.”

“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
Slayer
s 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.