In the Shadow of Dragons (Aftermagic Book 1) Page 20

  “I’m officially telling you to stay out of the Warrens, Dr. Talbot.” Sawyer’s features hardened as he spoke. “You only get one warning.”

  “Fine. Thank you for the warning, Mr. Volk,” she returned as coldly as she could, in a voice that wanted to shake. “Please leave my clinic.”

  He did, without saying another word.

  Once he was out, she hurried to the door and locked it, then leaned against it, trembling all over. She might not have seen him killing any Changers during the Eclipse, but she had no doubt he was capable of cold-blooded murder. It was a flat promise in his eyes.

  She decided not to research any more about the Darkspawn today.

  After standing there for what felt like hours, but the wall clock proclaimed was ten minutes, Naomi made her way back to the desk and sat down. Two days ago, even yesterday, she’d have given up then and there. Being threatened by a Knight would have pushed her right back to the path of least resistance, and she’d have walked it gladly.

  But there was too much at stake now. Widespread poisoning, nine hours of Eclipse instead of two, the looming possibility that in a few years, there would be no sun. Which meant no people. No planet. An actual apocalypse.

  She wouldn’t just stand back and let that happen. Not while there was still the smallest chance she could help to stop it.

  Her mind made up, she grabbed her cell phone and dialed Scott. She might not be one hundred per-cent sure Goddard knew how to find the Darkspawn — but Scott did. He must. And he had to tell her.

  This time he answered the phone. “You can’t call me anymore,” he said. “It’s not safe.”

  “You have to tell me how.” She was careful to avoid his name, or anything descriptive. “I’ll deliver it, but I have to know how.”

  Scott groaned softly. “It’s not safe,” he repeated in a harsh whisper. “Don’t call me.”

  “All right. I won’t.”

  He was already gone.

  She took don’t call me to mean he’d tell her, but only in person. His ranch was safe. He had all those alarms in place. So she’d go out there again, tonight, and find out how to contact the Darkspawn. Maybe she could get copies of his research somehow to show them.

  And she wouldn’t talk to Sawyer Volk about anything. Ever again.

  CHAPTER 38

  The Badlands

  August 11, 10:59 a.m.

  Teague was trying. She really was.

  That morning after breakfast, Diesel had brought her about a mile outside camp, to a rock bowl with a flat bottom that almost looked like a natural amphitheater without seating. She carried the strange shotgun-style bow she thought of as hers, and he’d lugged a wheeled cart with targets, wooden practice swords, and bottles of water.

  He’d also worn a long-sleeved shirt in ninety-degree weather. She assumed he had Magesign, but if that was the reason for the sleeves, he was the only one here trying to hide it. She wouldn’t ask, though.

  Her personal drill sergeant had put her through pushups, sit-ups and laps, about a hundred rounds of target practice despite her hitting the bulls-eye nearly every time, and two sparring sessions with the swords. Which she’d lost. He definitely wasn’t going easy on her — they’d had to stop the second time because he’d hit her hard enough to break the sword. Her hip still throbbed.

  She didn’t complain. Probably she deserved it for last night.

  Now she sat in the shade of a narrow rock outcropping along a curve of the bowl, exhausted and sweating after the morning workout, followed by her repeated failures to control her magic.

  Diesel was returning from the cart with two water bottles. He handed her one, then sat beside her with a puffed exhale. “Hot today,” he said.

  “Yeah.” She didn’t point out that the long sleeves couldn’t be helping. “So, I suck.”

  Diesel arched an eyebrow. “Considering you just found out yesterday that you can control magic, you’re doing pretty good.”

  “Except I can’t control it.” She snorted and drank, three long swallows. “This is—”

  She nearly choked as she cut herself off. What she was thinking, what she’d almost said, was this is pointless, I won’t be here long enough to learn anyway.

  “You okay?” Diesel said.

  “Fine.” She closed her eyes to compose herself. Maybe she should’ve stayed out in the Badlands last night, not flagged them down. She might have wandered around until she died, but it was just as dangerous being here. She had no doubt they’d kill her if they found out who she was.

  She’d have to pay a lot more attention to what she said.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll get it.” Diesel tossed back a slug of water, and then tilted his head up slightly. “There’s quite a bit of shadow here,” he said. “Maybe it’ll help if you have more of your element to work with. Why don’t you try again?”

  She gritted her teeth. “Try what?” she said. “I don’t know how to work with it. Am I supposed to just pick up a shadow? Because that’s impossible.”

  He smirked. “So is magic.”

  “Not funny.” Okay, maybe it was a little. But she was too frustrated to laugh. “Listen, I know how a crossbow works,” she said. “Draw the string, load the arrow, aim and fire. But magic … there’s no string, no arrow, no trigger. There’s nothing. And I’m supposed to control nothing.”

  “There’s feeling.”

  “Oh, is that how it works. You just feel like controlling it.” Suddenly angrier than she should’ve been, she slammed the water bottle down, leaned forward and held her marked arm toward an unspoiled paper target still sitting on the floor of the bowl, maybe fifty feet away. She decided to pretend it was Julian for getting her into this. “Feel this,” she snarled.

  Her Magesign glowed brighter than she’d ever seen it, an electric purple, like lightning. Pain surged down her arm, and she gasped as the shimmering black blast left her hand — and broke into a dozen solid black shards, like blades made of shadow. They tore through the target exactly like real knives would, and then vanished.

  She blinked, groaned and cradled her arm. It still hurt. “What happened?” she said, more than a little dazed.

  “You felt something. Obviously,” Diesel said.

  “I was angry.” At Julian. At least this time she wasn’t tempted to incriminate herself. That anger was personal. “But it hurts. It’s never hurt before.”

  “Let me see.” Diesel took her wrist and gently straightened her arm.

  She gasped at the sight of the bruises outlining her Magesign. That never happened before, either. “I think I’ll stop trying to control magic,” she said. “Does it always do this?”

  “No. You’re just overextended. You’ll be okay.” He smiled and tucked her arm back the way she’d held it. “But training is done for today.”

  “What do you mean, overextended?”

  He stared at her. “You really don’t know.”

  “Yeah, I do. I just asked to annoy you,” she said. “Of course I don’t know.”

  “Well. Uh. You should probably get Noah to explain. He’s better at it than I am.”

  He actually looked embarrassed, and she couldn’t help laughing. “Come on. What is this, the birds and the bees?”

  His brow furrowed. “What birds and bees?”

  “Didn’t your—” Again she cut herself off abruptly. It probably wasn’t a good idea to ask the man with amnesia if his mom and dad had The Talk with him. Since Noah was the first thing he remembered, he probably didn’t know who his parents were. “I’m not asking Noah,” she said. “I’m asking you. Will you tell me, please?”

  He sucked in a breath and let it out slow. “Magic … uh, Magesign ... I mean, wait.” His eyes closed for a moment. “Your body has to get used to magic,” he said. “That’s what Magesign is, and Changing. It’s the body accepting magic. The Magesign represents how much magic you can handle using. That’s why it spreads when you use more. But it’s also … healing, like a scar. So if you hit y
our limit and keep using, and the Magesign can’t form fast enough to keep up, you bruise. Or you bleed.” He paused, looked at her. “And that’s why people who’ve fully transformed have such strong magic. Their bodies are finished accepting it. Make sense?”

  “Actually, it does,” she said with a slow blink. “Thank you.”

  “No problem.”

  She was surprised enough not to say anything more. The ragtag bunch of savage terrorists had a far better understanding of magic than anyone in the so-called civilized world. They knew about the elements, knew how to control it. They knew how it worked inside people, why they got Magesign, why they transformed. For all Julian’s fancy categorizations of Blades and Norms and Wylds, all of BiCo’s safety and security precautions and Eclipse guidelines — they barely had a clue what they were doing.

  Still, these people were trying to wipe out all controls. Let the magic loose, let everyone Change, however that might turn out. Not everyone would be responsible with magic, and she didn’t see how letting a bunch of powerful magic creatures run around doing whatever to people who weren’t as strong, who had no chance of fighting it, was a good idea.

  “Teague … can I ask you something?”

  Diesel’s voice shook her thoughts loose. “Sure.”

  “You’ve really never used too much magic?” he said.

  She probably had. Once. But if it bruised her then, she was in too many different kinds of pain to notice at the time. “No,” she said. “I never use it unless I have to.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t.”

  He apparently got the message that the subject was closed. “Well, maybe you’ll tell me about it someday.”

  “Doubt it.”

  “Up to you.” He shrugged and finished off his water. “We should probably get back to camp,” he said. “Peyton can heal you, so you don’t have to keep hurting all day.”

  She was about to protest that she didn’t like people using magic on her. But he’d leaned forward in preparation to stand, and the back of his shirt rode up. And she saw … something. Had to be Magesign. But it was like nothing she’d ever seen before. Not ink-like, not blood or bruises, but iridescent white scales.

  Dragon scales.

  He stood the rest of the way, rolled his shoulders and turned toward her. “Need a hand … what’s wrong?”

  She couldn’t say a word. Nothing would come out. Shaking her head, she pushed to her feet and stared at him as if she’d never seen him before.

  “Teague. What is it?”

  “Your Magesign,” she finally blurted.

  The concern on his face switched abruptly to rage. “Never mind that,” he growled.

  “It’s…” She blinked and swallowed. “What are you?”

  He flinched like he’d been punched. After a long, painful moment of silence, he ground out, “I don’t know. All right? I don’t know anything. I just … am.”

  “Oh, God. I’m sorry.” She felt absolutely sick. Why the hell did she say that? It was a cruel thing to say to a man who’d lost his memories, lost himself. Who only knew this life in the wastelands — fighting and hiding, raiding and running.

  His blue eyes sparked. “Let’s go,” he said, turning to stalk toward the equipment.

  At least he was still bringing her back. She wouldn’t have blamed him if he’d left her out here.

  CHAPTER 39

  Madden Ranch

  August 11, 8:27 p.m.

  Naomi knew something was dreadfully wrong the moment Scott’s place came into view.

  An instinct she didn’t understand but felt compelled to follow drove her to park at the curb on the opposite side of the street, one house down. She killed the engine and the lights, pocketed her keys and got out, despite the fire in her nerves screaming to stay away.

  The barn door was open.

  For a moment she stood across the street, watching. There was no movement, no sound other than the breeze and the crickets. She couldn’t see anything out of place besides the barn door — but that was enough.

  She started toward the house, shaking and stiff, her stride improving as she went. She was running by the time she hit the driveway. The front yard was the same, the house intact. Behind the house…

  Tire tracks in the yard. Running diagonally twice across the stone path, feebly glowing crushed mushrooms in their wake. Flattened grass.

  Still no sound from the barn.

  She ran faster. There was light inside, but it wasn’t the steady white from before. It pulsed through red, blue, green, back to red. His alarms.

  When she got through the door, she stopped short.

  The alarms were symbols on the walls, blinking on and off at irregular intervals. Like Christmas lights. Her mind dwelled on that for a moment, barely able to take in the rest of it. Splintered columns, cracked and leaning stalls. Gutted kitchen, broken dishes and appliances spilling from beneath the loft. Books and papers and hay strewn everywhere, splashed with … ink. Please let that be ink. Ahead and to the right, a man in a brown camo uniform sprawled face-down on the floor. A BiCo patrol officer. Not moving. Dead. No human body could bend like that and live.

  An arm on the floor, jutting from the last intact stall, the hand covered in … ink.

  Blood.

  “Scott!” She stumbled toward the stall, barely conscious of the sobs that stole her breath. It seemed like an hour before she reached it and fell on her knees beside the arm. Scott’s arm.

  He was on his side, hind legs cruelly twisted and rammed through the wood panel at the back of the stall. One foreleg normal, the other broken and snapped into a straight line along his body. His midsection, where man met horse, was a glistening mass of blood with the hilt of a sword protruding from it.

  Eyes closed. Not breathing.

  “Scott…” she moaned, reaching out to touch his face. “Oh, no.”

  When her fingers brushed him, his eyes flew open. He drew in a horrible, tearing gasp of air. Blood poured from his mouth on the exhale.

  “Hold on. It’s me.” Her heart stopped, and she gripped his bloody outstretched hand, her gaze flying around the barn. Looking for bandages, sheets, anything to stop the bleeding. Part of her knew he was already gone — he was far too mangled to live. But damn it, she had to try. “I’ll help you,” she whispered. “Just hold on.”

  “Omes.” His voice was a nail scraping on concrete. He tried to breathe again, cried out sharply. Tears leaked from both eyes. “Th-they…”

  “Hush,” she managed through tears of her own. “Don’t try to talk. I’ve got you.”

  His entire body went limp. The hand in hers twitched, and then he shuddered all over and forced his eyes open. “They’re coming back,” he droned in his nail-scraping voice. “Omes. Run.”

  That was when she heard the engines outside. Already in the yard. Tires spinning on grass, doors opening. Voices.

  She wasn’t getting out the front of the barn.

  “Oh God, Scott, I’m so sorry,” she whispered rapidly. “Is there a back door?”

  Nothing. His hand was stiff in hers. Bloody foam oozing from his lips. One eye rolled back, the other staring into the distance of eternity.

  Naomi clapped a hand over her mouth and swallowed the scream in her throat. She heard more vehicle doors, more voices joining in a low, muttered conversation.

  If they found her in here, they wouldn’t arrest her or give her a trial. They’d kill her.

  She breathed in, glanced at the door and darted across the barn, toward the space under the loft. Hiding was her only chance. She had no idea where the loft ladder was, but it wasn’t at the front of the ledge. Maybe it was against the wall.

  The darkness in the space where they’d torn his kitchen apart rippled with colors from the still-flashing alarms like false fire. She didn’t see anything resembling a ladder.

  Outside, the voices were closing in fast. She dove behind the bulky shape of a toppled refrigerator and tried to cover herself with
as much of the hay they’d strewn around as possible, seconds before the first footsteps entered the barn.

  She wasn’t nearly as covered as she wanted to be. But she froze and waited.

  “Oh, Christ. What a mess,” a male voice said. “Isn’t that Jack? I thought he was posted to the Red Butte station.”

  “They transferred him out here last week, poor bastard,” a female voice replied. “Can you believe it? This thing was actually living out here, and no one noticed.”

  “What the hell are those things on the walls?”

  “Some magic mumbo-jumbo.”

  “Huh.”

  Naomi’s heart pounded so hard, she was sure they could hear it. She kept a hand on her mouth and tried to breathe shallowly through the sobs that still constricted her throat.

  More footsteps, and a new male voice said, “Collect our man first. That monster can wait.”

  “Yes, Captain,” the female said. “Moe’s bringing the stretcher in.”

  So one of them was a patrol captain. Naomi had seen a few of them carrying swords, and wondered if that bastard was the one who killed Scott.

  The sound of another engine, this one roaring like a glass-packed muffler, swelled outside and cut off. When it did, the captain said, “What the hell…” There was a pause, a rustling sound. “Shit,” the captain said. “I think there’s someone else in here.”

  “Why’s that?” the first guy said.

  “Footprint.” The rustling again. “This blood is fresh.”

  Naomi stopped breathing. She’d walked through Scott’s blood in her sprint across the barn. She must’ve stepped on one of the scattered papers.

  “Should we search the place?”

  “Don’t bother,” said a new, growling voice that struck her with terror.

  That was Sawyer.

  There was a moment of silence, and Sawyer said, “Captain Ayers. Brookhurst is a little outside your jurisdiction.”

  “Really,” the captain shot back. “I could say the same about you.”

  “My jurisdiction is wherever the hell I say it is.” Sawyer’s tone was absolutely frigid. “Collect your man, and get the fuck out. The Changer is mine.”