In the Shadow of Dragons (Aftermagic Book 1) Read online

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.” She coughed, bent slightly and closed her eyes. Deep breaths. The throbbing in her back was manageable, the dizziness already abating.

  Nowhere near as bad as being shot three times.

  Finally, she nodded and took a few steps. That was all right. She could keep it up for a little while. They couldn’t be that far from camp, after what seemed like thirty or forty minutes of hard desert riding.

  Diesel’s status hadn’t changed. She could see the blood now, glistening wet on his black clothes. But he didn’t seem concerned about the breakdown, so they had to be close.

  “I guess we’re walking?” she said when he didn’t try to enlighten her about anything.

  He nodded. “Looks that way.”

  “Well, it’s not far. Right?”

  “Nah.” He scanned the horizon slowly, shrugged. “We can probably make it in three hours or so.”

  “Three hours?” The panic that shook her when she realized he was bleeding pounced back and sunk teeth into her. “Jesus, you’re never going to make it that far!” she cried. “You’ve. Been. Shot! More than once! You—”

  He gripped her arms firmly and stared into her eyes. This time he didn’t seem angry. Only resigned, and determined. “I’ll be fine,” he said, stressing each word. “Been shot worse before. I just have to get back to camp, that’s all.”

  “Worse,” she said. “Than three times.”

  “Yes.”

  Her skin shivered into gooseflesh. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  He nodded. “You have to trust me. I’ll be fine … as long as we get back to camp.”

  “All right.” She took a breath, made herself relax. “All right, I trust you.”

  “Good. Come on.”

  He let go, and she fell into step behind him. Maybe she did trust him, but that wasn’t going to stop her from panicking. If he died out here, it would absolutely be her fault.

  This was going to be a damned long three hours.

  CHAPTER 47

  Talbot Home

  August 12, 9:55 p.m.

  No amount of tea and hot showers was going to get her to sleep tonight.

  Naomi lay in bed, staring at nothing. She hadn’t bothered trying to lock up the clinic. After the Darkspawn man left her with the cryptic message that someone had sent the so-called terrorists to protect her, she’d gone out the back and hidden in her car, hunched in the back seat for hours. Until she was sure the patrols had cleared out and the barricades were down.

  Even then, she’d half expected to find her house crawling with BiCo officers waiting for her to show up there. But all had been silent, just as she’d left it.

  She could only think of Scott. That somehow he’d gotten a message to the Darkspawn about her involvement, that he’d asked them to watch over her for the inevitable possibility of the raid. The idea conjured a horrifying image of him gasping a desperate plea into his phone, lying on the floor with three broken legs and a sword through his gut.

  But the man at the clinic said he was afraid of this Rook person being angry at him. And if there was one thing Scott wasn’t, it was threatening. Even as a centaur.

  Just what kind of a ‘title’ was Rook, anyway?

  When she came home, she’d tried to go through something that resembled her usual routine. Made dinner, but didn’t eat it. Drank tea, but didn’t taste it. Showered until the water ran cold, but didn’t feel it. In the end she’d made one change, and she turned her head to look at it now.

  The gun on the nightstand.

  It had been Roger’s. Just another of his endless brief fascinations, bought on a whim and taken to a gun range twice before joining one of the many collections of forgotten things. She’d long since accepted that his genius distracted him, and so she hadn’t given it a thought for years.

  Until tonight, when she’d found herself in real need of protection. She’d unearthed the thing from the depths of the hall closet, figured out how to load it. Located the safety and turned it off.

  She wasn’t sure if she’d be able to actually shoot at someone … but she suspected she could. She only had to think of Scott. His mangled body, his dying words an attempt to save her.

  Once again she tried to sleep, but her mind refused to stop churning. She thought of today, the raid at the clinic, the sheer insanity of what she’d done. The many times she could’ve died, but didn’t. How close she’d been to getting Scott’s information into the right hands, and the looming possibility that one day soon, she would succeed. What that success might mean to her, to this city, to the world. For good or ill. Whether she’d still be able to operate her clinic.

  She’d just closed her eyes when a sound from somewhere in the house snapped them back open. She listened, and then heard it again. The slow creak of a floorboard.

  Someone was in her house.

  She grabbed the gun and slid from the bed, crossing the carpeted bedroom on bare, silent feet to listen at the door, certain the sound had come from downstairs. She heard nothing. Heart pounding a rapid rhythm at the base of her throat, she turned the knob slowly and cracked the door open.

  Still nothing. But she knew she hadn’t imagined the sound.

  She slipped into the hallway, headed for the stairs and paused, crept down with the gun in both hands in front of her. The outside light shone through the living room window enough to reveal no one there. From the living room, the kitchen was a black rectangle to the right, the hallway leading to the den and downstairs bathroom in mute shadows past the stairs.

  She’d check the hallway and the den first. Walking past that black, foreboding shape leading to the kitchen seemed better than going through it at the moment, and she could circle around through the dining room. She held her breath as she moved through the living room, let it out in relief once the kitchen doorway was behind her.

  That was when a large hand clamped over her mouth and pulled her roughly against something warm and solid, and the gun was jerked from her hands.

  “Hold still until I finish this,” a voice growled near her ear. “Don’t make me have to snap your neck.”

  Sawyer.

  In that moment she understood the level of fear that made people wet themselves. She came very close. Trembling so violently that she suspected her heart would vibrate out of her chest, she fought the urge to squirm and run while he did something with the gun, and then extended his free arm past her.

  The strange x-ray light he’d used in the barn flooded down the hallway. It was coming from a small handheld metal contraption, concentric hoops that somehow spun individually in different directions. He turned in a slow circle, dragging her with him, projecting the light all over the house.

  When he finished, he let go of her abruptly, stepped back and reached through the kitchen doorway to flip the light on. She winced slightly at the brightness but stayed where she was, unable to turn and face him.

  There was a heavy thunk behind her. Like he’d put the gun down, probably on the accent table beside the kitchen. “You need to stop what you’re doing, Naomi,” he said, the growl gone from his voice. “The Warrens, the Darkspawn, all of it. And stay the hell away from Changers.”

  Startled tears fell from her eyes with the last words. Without thinking, she whirled and slapped him hard across the face.

  He reacted like face-slapping was a regular occurrence for him. Just looked at her, a red mark forming where she’d struck him, his features giving away nothing. “You done?”

  “You killed my friend, you son of a bitch.” The words seemed like they were coming from someone else, someone who hadn’t just nearly suffered a broken neck.

  “Yeah, you keep thinking that. It’s better for you.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then met her gaze and gestured at the gun on the side table. “Shoot me if you feel like it,” he said. “But do what I said, and stay out of this. I will not warn you again.”

  With that, he turned and headed for the front door.

  “
Sawyer.”

  He stopped in the middle of the living room, his back to her. “What?”

  The growl was back. Oh, God, why didn’t she just let him walk out? She knew why, but she didn’t want to acknowledge it yet. “Are you saying you didn’t kill Scott?”

  His shoulders fell, and he turned back slowly. “No.”

  “No you didn’t, or no you’re not saying that?”

  “Christ, woman. Will you just drop it?”

  “No.”

  He groaned deeply. “I almost forgot. You don’t drop things,” he said. “Ever. That’s how you got yourself into this mess.”

  She folded her arms. “Maybe it is, but I’m in it now. So tell me. Did you kill Scott?”

  For a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer. Finally, he said, “Would it make you feel better if I did?”

  “Actually, it wouldn’t.”

  “Then I didn’t.”

  “That’s not an answer, Sawyer.”

  “It’s all the answer I should give you! Damn it, I can’t let you—” He let out a shuddering breath. “I can’t do this,” he said. “Things are already screwed up enough. Why don’t you just go back to hating me, and make both of our lives easier?” He turned away, this time stalking for the door.

  “Wait … Rook!”

  He went frighteningly still, all at once. “What did you say?”

  The deadly tone made her shiver, but she pushed through and moved toward him. “You heard me,” she said. “It was you, wasn’t it? You sent the Darkspawn to protect me.”

  If he hadn’t killed Scott, it was the only thing that made sense. Awful, heart-wrenching sense. He was a Knight. He would’ve known about the raid — in fact, he was the only one who could have passed the information along.

  And anyone who’d spent more than five minutes in his company would have been terrified to cross him.

  When he finally turned to face her, his features were horrified. “Naomi,” he whispered. “I’ve killed people for calling me that.”

  The cold fear when he’d first grabbed her returned, stronger than ever. It wasn’t so much his absolute sincerity. It was the regret.

  As if he’d already made up his mind to kill her.

  “No one else knows,” she blurted, only afterward considering that might be worse. If one person died with a secret, it went nowhere else. “I only figured it out because…”

  He shuddered. “I’m sorry,” he rasped. “I have to.”

  “HeMo is poisoning people, and it’s tied to the Eclipse. I can prove it.”

  She wasn’t exactly sure why she’d said that, but it stopped him cold. He stared at her for so long she wanted to scream. At last, he slumped and hung his head. “You really are something,” he said. “I don’t know what, but you’re … something.”

  “Thank you. I think.” She almost dared to breathe again. “Does this mean you’re not going to kill me?”

  “I couldn’t. I would’ve tried, but …” He made a helpless gesture and looked at her. “You understand this is me putting my life in your hands.”

  She nodded. “Not a word.”

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he muttered. “All right, look. I need a reason for being here. So we’re going on a date.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Tomorrow night. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  She blinked rapidly. “I don’t think that’s a good—”

  “Not a word. Remember?” He pulled his mouth into something like a smile. “See you tomorrow night.”

  “Sawyer…”

  “Goodbye, Naomi.”

  He opened the door and walked out.

  It was a long time before she could move. When she did, her limbs would only cooperate sporadically. She managed to stumble as far as the couch and collapsed, deciding she would sleep there tonight. If she could sleep. But first she’d gather enough strength to retrieve the gun.

  She’d never sleep without it again.

  CHAPTER 48

  The Badlands

  August 12, 10:45 p.m.

  Diesel had barely spoken to Teague since they’d started walking away from the crash, hours ago. Only monosyllabic mutters in response to her questions about the white will-o’-wisp he’d somehow created to light their way that hovered steadily a few feet in front of him, and the occasional grudging update that he was still fine, and how much longer it would take to get back.

  Not long now, was the last thing he’d said, maybe fifteen minutes ago. She’d have to take his word for it. Nothing looked familiar.

  Her back still hurt, and her feet were blocks of dull, throbbing pain at the end of her legs from walking so long, but she wasn’t going to complain. Not when Diesel had come all this way with fresh gunshot wounds. As she walked next to him, she glanced aside and thought she should at least apologize for … everything. So much that she didn’t know where to start. She took a breath, and said, “I’m sorry for killing that guy.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “What guy?”

  “Er, the patrol officer. Back there at the clinic.”

  “Oh. Him.”

  He didn’t say anything more, so she pressed on. “I know we’re not supposed to kill people,” she said. “Even though I don’t get why. I mean, they’re the enemy. But Noah saw me, and he’s pissed, so … I’m sorry. I guess.”

  Diesel laughed. It wasn’t the reaction she expected.

  “This is funny?” she said.

  “What’s funny is you’re only sorry you got caught.” He glanced at her and smirked. “I was killing them too, before Noah found me,” he said. “A lot of them.”

  “But you stopped.”

  He shrugged. “Only because Noah wants me to.”

  The casual admission was chilling, especially after she’d seen what he could do. The way he ripped a door off an armored truck like it was paper. If there was a real threat among the Darkspawn, it was Diesel.

  But she wasn’t afraid of him. Even though she probably should be.

  They walked another few minutes in silence, and then Diesel slowed his pace. “We’re not close enough,” he murmured. “I don’t think…”

  He stopped and looked around. They were walking through a kind of shallow valley of hard-packed earth, five to six feet wide and bordered by slowly rising layers of rock spires. Ten feet ahead, the valley curved to the right. There was a large, freestanding vertical stone slab at the bend of the path.

  Diesel looked at his wrist. At his watch.

  The observation surprised her. She’d never noticed he wore a watch. Couldn’t think of a single reason for a desert nomad to wear what was basically an outdated accessory since the rise of cell phones. But maybe that was the reason, since there was no signal out here.

  He stared at her, and there was something close to panic in his eyes. “You need to stay here,” he said in a strange, breathless voice. “No matter what you see or hear. Don’t move.”

  “Diesel, what—”

  “Stay here.”

  He touched the will-o’-wisp. When he ran past it, headed for the stone slab, the glowing ball stayed in place. She thought he ducked behind the slab, but she couldn’t be sure. It was just beyond the reach of the light. Pitch black behind the barely visible surface.

  No, not pitch black. Shadow black.

  She forced herself to relax, to remember she had nothing to fear from the dark. As she did, the will-o’-wisp changed from the bright white of Diesel’s magic to the deep velvet purple of her own. And she could see.

  She saw something fly out from behind the slab. A shirt. Then boots, socks, pants, briefs. A watch. Diesel was … stripping?

  Seconds after the watch, an immense flare of flickering gold-traced white light burst behind the stone, instantly negating the need to look into the shadows. It was like concentrated daylight.

  The scream that came with the light reached down her throat and tore her guts out.

  Fuck staying here.

  She sprinted for the slab,
withering inside as Diesel’s hoarse cry continued without pause. There was another sound too, familiar, one that still haunted her dreams. The hungry roar of flames. She reached the stone and pivoted around the back, nearly falling in her rush. And stopped short.

  Diesel was on fire. On his knees, naked, completely engulfed in white flames. Endlessly screaming.

  For long seconds she could do nothing but stare, her heart in her throat. Jesus, she had to put it out. But how the hell was she going to do that? No water, no blankets, the only magic she had lethal shadows. He was going to burn to death, and she couldn’t stop it.

  He burned to death.

  She shoved the nonsensical thought aside, which for some reason came to her in Julian’s voice. Diesel was still burning, still screaming. Desperate to help, to do anything, she stepped to him and beat at the flames along his heaving shoulders with her bare hands.

  Her skin hissed and reddened. A few blisters formed instantly. She gasped and jumped back, started to strip off the leather jacket she still wore from the clinic raid. She’d try to smother the fire with it.

  The flames flared briefly, impossibly bright. Diesel cried out, an anguished sound that shattered her completely. Then the fire vanished as quickly as it started.

  She stared until her eyes adjusted to the absence of light. Diesel was still on his knees, gasping and shuddering, head hanging, one hand braced on the ground. She could see his Magesign, the pattern of gleaming white scales on his back and shoulders, down both arms. He was completely unburnt.

  Completely uninjured. There was no trace of blood, no sign of gunshot wounds.

  Whatever that was had healed him.

  “Diesel?” she said cautiously, taking a tremulous step forward.

  He made a guttural sound. “I told you to stay put.”

  “Well, you were dying! At least I thought you were.”

  The broken noise that tumbled from him was the most heartbreaking laugh she’d ever heard. “I’m not dying,” he ground out. “Please … just leave me. Give me a minute.”