The Witch Thief (Harlequin Nocturne) (23 page)

Joarr lifted his wing, shielding Amma.

The bullets dug into the wall and ledge where Fafnir had stood. Joarr glanced down, expecting to see the dwarf lying dead and broken on the floor. Instead what he saw chilled him to the marrow of his bones.

One second Fafnir stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, his arms held overhead. The next, there was a flash and where the dwarf had stood was a dragon…but not any dragon—a wyrm.

The wingless beast used his short arms to maneuver his black body across the floor. His tongue flicked out like a snake’s. He glanced at his father and grinned. “You’re right. I did steal from you. And I don’t regret it. Look at me! Dragon fire can’t stop me. Bullets can’t stop me. Nothing can stop me.” It was strange hearing a voice coming from a dragon’s body, and disturbing, but no more disturbing than seeing the dwarf lapping blood from a corpse.

Everything about Fafnir was disturbing.

The Collector pulled yet another gadget from his frock coat—a miniature crossbow. He slid an arrow onto it and fired. Fafnir opened his jaws and swallowed it whole. Then he waddled toward his father, opened his lips and dropped his mouth down over the colorfully dressed Collector. He lifted his head. The Collector’s peacock feather stuck out from between his lips. Then with a gulp, it was gone.

The Collector was gone.

Fafnir opened his mouth and laughed. Bits of fiery rock spewed from his throat and skittered across the ground. The dwarves who were left dropped off their boards, stumbling and tripping over each other as they raced from the room. Fafnir watched them go. Slapped a forgotten machine gun out of his path.

“Don’t mess with my treasure,” he screamed. “I know what is there, down to the last fleck of dust. If so much as a coin is missing, I’ll find you. And I’ll eat you.” His short arms resting on his belly, he laughed again.

“Joarr.” Amma teetered next to the edge. In her hands was the chalice Fafnir had left behind. “Here,” she said. Then she fell. Blood, her blood, flew from the chalice and sprayed over both her and Joarr. With a curse, he lunged toward her. His teeth clamped onto her shirt. Her body jerked and her arms sprang up as if pulled by strings. The sound of tearing cloth ripped through him. He adjusted his grip, nibbling more of the material into his mouth, and prayed her shirt would hold. Her arms dropped, limp and lifeless, but her fingers white with the strength of her grip, she didn’t drop the chalice.

He moved his wings in a rapid but shallow way, keeping his body hovering less than a story off the ground. He twisted or tried to. With Fafnir in the space, too, there was little room to maneuver.

Still, he searched for a place to sit her down. He couldn’t leave the building like this—not without exploding out of the roof. And this building was older, much sturdier and had been remodeled by dwarves. There was no telling the strength of the beams. He could probably blast his way out, but not with Amma hanging from his mouth, blocking his fire and ice.

Fafnir stood watching, leering.

There was little of the dwarf left now…nothing if he had had any good in him. The wyrm before Joarr was nothing but a pit of malevolent greed. He had devoured his own father without a blink of remorse, seemed amused by it actually.

And with Amma in Joarr’s jaws, he couldn’t fight the beast. He glanced to the side, considering whether to put her back on the outcropping.

His movement seemed to attract Fafnir. His eyes glittered and his gaze locked onto the chalice. With no other warning, he lurched forward. “Mine!”

His tongue flickered out of his mouth, sparks instead of spittle falling from it and dropping to the floor. Joarr twisted his neck, jerking Amma out of the wyrm’s reach. His tongue hit Joarr instead, burned a trail down the side of his neck. Joarr froze, hissed through his closed teeth.

Dragons seldom fought each other. It took special fire, special energy to build a fire so hot or ice so solid that it could damage another dragon. But Fafnir was doing it. His tongue had blazed its way down Joarr’s neck; he could still feel the burn.

Fire flared to life inside Joarr. He wanted to blast the wyrm, incinerate him like Joarr had incinerated the dead dragon’s corpse. But that kind of fire was even harder to attain, impossible with only one dragon—it took cooperation. Amma had acted as that cooperating dragon before, but she was in no condition to help Joarr now.

And she still hung from his jaws, still blocked any fire or ice he could produce from reaching its target.

Fafnir attacked again; his tongue reached for Amma and the cup she held. Joarr swung her to the side and with no other choice set her back on the ledge. She lay as he had laid her, her arm stretched out under her head, her fingers still wrapped around the chalice’s stem.

“Amma,” he urged in her mind. “Amma. Don’t let yourself fade. Don’t let the dwarf win. Think of our son.” He blew heat over her, willed her to pull it in, to share his fire. She didn’t move.

But Fafnir did. “The cup is mine!” he yelled. And he fumbled his body forward. His snakelike lower body made a thumping noise as he used his massive arms to move himself forward.

His tongue reached out, fire flickering from it.

His jaws free, Joarr dug into his reserves, thought of Amma, thought of his child. They were dying. He knew that, and he had to save them. Rike had tried to save his son and failed.

But Joarr wouldn’t fail—he couldn’t.

Ice filled Joarr’s stomach. He prayed the dagger-sharp shards would pierce the wyrm’s heart.

A sword to the heart. That was how a hero killed a dragon, and while Joarr had never claimed to be a hero, he was the closest thing here—the only thing here.

He pulled air in through his nostrils and started shooting.

Fafnir fought back, using his tongue to slap the missiles to the side, catching a few and letting them sizzle to steam. He laughed as he moved, seemed to see Joarr’s attempts to destroy him as a game—a game he couldn’t lose.

But he could. Somehow Joarr had to beat him.

Joarr panted for breath, the constant creating of ice hard enough to pierce a dragon’s scales wearing on him, tiring him until he was fighting to stay upright.

Fafnir laughed and patted his stomach—a jolly evil dwarf in a dragon’s body. Joarr shook himself and dug deeper, prepared to launch another volley of missiles, but as he stood there rebuilding his stores, Fafnir’s tongue lashed out past him and wrapped around Amma’s body. Like a frog catching a bug he jerked her back toward his open mouth.

Chapter 24

S
omething hot and sticky wrapped around Amma. She was tired, so tired. She couldn’t remember ever feeling like this before. Joarr’s voice had been in her head a few moments earlier. Her first thought was that he was responsible for whatever had wrapped around her. Then her body jerked; she was pulled off the ledge with such force she knew it wasn’t Joarr. Even knowing her secret and that she was working to steal his son from him, his voice hadn’t sounded angry. It had sounded as if he cared.

Cared… Her mind got lost considering that. She forgot about figuring out what was happening to her.

“Amma!” It was a scream this time—a demand.

Amma didn’t do well with demands; she never had.

“Damn it. Fight!”

Now Joarr was angry. Amma frowned. He should be angry. Anger would make all of this so much easier. She frowned and thought of how the dragons would steal her baby, or try to, when they learned of him. Thought of how they separated other children from their mothers, didn’t even return them when their fathers died, like Joarr’s had. Just left the child to grow up feeling deserted and alone.

It wouldn’t happen to her son. She wouldn’t let it…

Suddenly she was more awake; she realized a dragon held her. It was a dragon’s heat wrapped around her, but not the warm, comforting heat she’d shared with Joarr. This heat was malevolent; it was the only word she could think of for it. Sticky and cloying. It made her skin crawl and her stomach turn…but it was heat. Which meant it was power.

She gritted her teeth and began sucking it into her body.

* * *

Amma hung limply from the wyrm’s tongue, and Joarr watched helplessly as Fafnir reeled her in. His body was exhausted, his reserves were depleted. He needed time to rebuild them…not long…minutes would do…but he didn’t have minutes, didn’t have seconds.

He screamed at Amma, angry now. Where was the witch who had captivated him? She wouldn’t hang like a broken doll from the wyrm’s tongue—she would fight.

He closed his eyes and concentrated on rebuilding the ice. He could feel it hardening, but knew he had to wait. To shoot the shards too early, as he had done before, would cost him and Amma everything. He had to wait, had to make sure they were hard enough this time to do the job in one well-aimed hit.

There was a noise, a whoosh. Joarr opened his eyes. Amma had moved. She didn’t just hang loose like a boneless cat. She was twisting, moving so her hands were pointed at Fafnir. Magic poured out of her palms, struck the wyrm between the eyes. He blinked and let out a guttural shriek but he continued to reel her in.

Seeing her mistake, Amma twisted again, this time aiming her power at the tongue itself.

An idea blossomed in Joarr’s mind. He might need his ice to kill Fafnir, but there were other ways to save Amma. He moved forward, did what the wyrm had done to his father. He opened his mouth and snapped his jaws down over Amma’s body, snapped his teeth through the wyrm’s tongue.

Fafnir screamed. Blood spurted from his tongue. Joarr’s mouth was filled with it. He fought not to gag, not to spit out Amma along with the blood and chunk of tongue.

Fafnir flailed from side to side, the end of his severed tongue hanging out of his mouth. He groped at it, feeling the end, then touching it again, as if he expected it to grow back…which it might, but not quickly, not within the time it would take Joarr to kill him.

“Amma?” Joarr spoke to the witch, opened his jaws wide enough for her to get air and light. Fafnir’s blood leaked from his mouth, ran down his chin and neck. Again Joarr had to fight the urge to spit.

“Put me on him,” Amma said. “I can use his power. I can transfer it to you.”

Joarr shook his head, slowly, carefully. The idea was insane. He’d just saved her from the wyrm; he couldn’t put her back in danger. She was weak. Despite the magic he’d seen flowing from her palms, he could feel she held none now. He said as much in her mind.

“I can’t hold magic like I should, but I can pull it and shoot it back out. I can share it with you.”

Like she had when they made love.

He nodded, just enough to let her know he agreed.

Fafnir had his back to them now, was still mumbling and stumbling, but Joarr could see his rage was increasing and with it his fire. Steam poured from his nostrils and up, over his head.

Joarr leaned closer, within inches of the dwarf. Amma rolled to her side and crawled out of his mouth onto the wyrm’s back.

With Amma safely out of his mouth, Joarr spat, freeing his mouth of the taste and smell of wyrm.

From Fafnir’s back Amma held up the chalice to Joarr. “Take it,” she said. “It’s yours now.”

It was obvious she was feeble, that it was hard for her to even hold up the cup. Joarr dropped his gaze. He didn’t want the cup; didn’t want to go back to the Ormar…not without Amma and his son.

“Joarr.” Her voice was weak, but it grew sharp as she called his name.

He looked up at her. “Save yourself, save my son, and I’ll give you anything you ask.”

It was all that mattered to him now. He would become a wyrm himself if it meant Amma and his son could live.

* * *

Amma was dying. She knew it; knew that meant her baby wouldn’t survive, either. It was unfair, beyond unfair. He’d waited so long to be born. One hundred human years.

And now because she’d thought she was being smart, had tried to trick the dwarf by giving him her blood instead of Joarr’s, she and her baby were going to die. Somehow the dwarf was doing what the elves had failed to do; he was killing her.

Joarr still thought he could save her, and she wouldn’t argue with him. There was no time for that. Time wasted meant less time for her to be alive and to help Joarr kill the horrid dwarf.

Helping to kill him might be her last act, but it would be a good one.

She placed one palm flat on Fafnir’s back, her stomach and face against his black scales, and pointed her other palm at Joarr. Then she began to siphon.

* * *

Amma’s power—or Fafnir’s through Amma—hit Joarr hard. She was pulling his magic quickly, letting it flow through her body unheeded. At first he resisted. She needed the power, their son needed the power, but then Fafnir turned his head and shrieked. He realized what was happening. He shot balls of molten rock onto his own back, peppered the area around Amma.

In her current state, one strike would surely kill her.

Joarr had no choice but to take what she offered and end this fight once and for all.

He dropped his guards and accepted her magic.

It flowed into him like an electrical charge. He gasped and locked his jaws to keep from crying out. His eyes closed, too. It took every bit of control he had to manage the power, channel it to where his ice stores were building.

Cold, arctic. The temperature inside him was dropping. He could feel the shards sharpening. In his mind he whittled their tips, tested them for cold and strength.

Amma’s magic was amazing, intoxicating. It surged through Joarr until he knew he was more powerful than he had ever been, than any dragon who had ever lived.

This is what the Ormar feared. A dragon with this much power could destroy anything, everything, the world even. And if Amma died, if Joarr never got to meet his son, that is exactly what he would be tempted to do.

But not yet. All wasn’t lost yet.

He reached into his core, sorted through the diamond-hard ice crystals and selected the sharpest.

Then he waited for the wyrm to turn.

It didn’t take long. Fully aware the witch was on his back, Fafnir shuffled his heavy body around. Amma continued to cling. Fafnir switched his tactic, curling his tail and taking swipes at her. Without his tail to balance on, his weight shifted forward onto his arms. It also blocked any clear path to his heart.

“Slide off,” Joarr yelled into Amma’s head. “Slide and roll.”

Amma looked at him. There was regret and sorrow in her eyes. She thought she was going to die.

She was wrong. Joarr wouldn’t let her, but he had to move fast. Once she was off the wyrm’s back his flailing could easily crush her.

She broke her connection to Fafnir’s power. Without it, she lost her grip and immediately slid down under his belly. There she reconnected and hung by one hand from the dwarf’s side. Her other hand still gripped the chalice. Joarr wondered briefly if she even could let go of it.

But her move had been perfect. It caused Fafnir to rise back up onto his tail, leaving his chest fully exposed. Joarr focused on the ribbed stripe of scales that covered his heart—only a few feet from where Amma hung.

Then he fired.

The ice shard burst from Joarr’s throat and into the wyrm’s chest, crunched as it pierced his scales. Fafnir’s body flew backward, slamming into the club’s wall behind him. A dwarf-made stalactite crashed to the ground. Barware exploded, and the partial floor above Fafnir’s head collapsed, raining rubble and debris over him.

Amma lifted her head to stare at Joarr. Her lips twisted into a weak smile, then she released her hold, or the wyrm’s power gave out, Joarr couldn’t tell which, and she fell to the floor. As she hit, her hand opened and the chalice rolled across the dirty concrete toward him.

With a curse and without bothering to check to see if the wyrm still lived, Joarr shifted and strode to her side, kicking the chalice out of his path as he did. He scooped the witch up and cradled her against his chest.

She was cold and her head tipped back, her hair cascading over his arm.

Desperate, he poured heat into her, willed her to accept it, to grow stronger…to live.

Her skin warmed to his touch, but she didn’t move, didn’t gain any power. He was warming her, but as his heat would warm any inanimate object. She wasn’t absorbing it; she was reflecting it.

He closed his eyes and pressed his chin to his chest.

“If you want the witch to live, I can tell you how to save her, but for a price, of course.”

Joarr’s head shot up. Standing on his son’s dead body was the Collector, dripping wet, his peacock feather drooping down to his chest. In his hand was his crossbow and it was pointed at Joarr.

“Nice of you to skewer him like that. I wasn’t sure how I was going to get out.” The dwarf gestured at his son’s chest. The ice shard was melting, but Joarr could see that something had increased the size of the original wound, making it into a tear that practically gutted the wyrm. “It’s true, you know—dwarf metal can cut anything.” The Collector pointed at a dagger hanging from his belt. “But you providing the starting point was quite useful.”

“Tell me how to save her.” Joarr took a step forward. Amma’s hair swung as he moved, but she made no sound. If she was breathing it was too shallow for Joarr to see or hear.