Burn(55)

“Yes.”

“But that can’t be true, because a giant flaming dragon just flew over our heads!”

“She was human in the other world,” Malcolm said, “but we didn’t change into dragons.”

Kazimir looked even more unhappy. “I do not have an explanation,” he said, but in a way that sounded like he didn’t have an explanation he was willing to share just yet. “Regardless, she will know all that we know before long. That she is the only flying dragon in this world. That we still have the Spur. If she thinks we can still use it, she will come for us. If she discovers what is far more likely to be the truth—”

“That here,” Malcolm said, “her blood is the only thing that can power it?”

“Then we are in even more danger.” Kazimir held the palms of his hands together, not quite in prayer but in some sort of consideration. “The prophecy—”

“Ugh!” Sarah shouted. “I don’t want to hear one more word about your prophecy.”

“The prophecy is that you would stop her from destroying the world.”

“Well, that didn’t work, did it?”

“The prophecy did not say which world.”

Sarah put her hands to her forehead. “This is too much. I want you to stop this. I want you to make this all go away.”

For the first time since she knew him, as either dragon or as the young man standing in front of her, Kazimir looked almost compassionate. “The only thing that may take us back is the Spur, which we have but we cannot operate.”

“So we make your dragon use it. Or get her blood or something.”

“Indeed. We will also stop her from likely destroying this planet.”

“Well, if we’re saving planets,” Sarah said, sarcastically, “why not ours, too? We force her to take us back and make her confess what she’s done.”

“She won’t,” Malcolm said. “She’d kill you before you could finish your breath trying.”

“Don’t you want to help the boy who was with you?” Sarah said, rounding on him. “He’s still there, isn’t he?”

Malcolm looked at her, guilt on his face. “I do. Very much. I believe I loved him.”

Sarah was confused. “Like . . . a brother?”

“No,” Kazimir said, “not like a brother.”

“He’s there alone,” Malcolm said. “I did that to him.”

“It is of no use to stand here and nurse our wounds,” Kazimir said. “You have both lost people. That is regrettable, but there is not one thing we can do to change that, except find that dragon.”

“She flew to the top of Mount Rainier for all we know,” Sarah said. “Are we going there?”

“If we must,” Kazimir said. “But I think she will find us.”

“And kill us,” Malcolm said.

“I am a dragon, too,” Kazimir said. “I know our ways. I may know how to fight her.”

“Fighting her is one thing,” Malcolm said. “Winning is another.”

“And have you any plans, assassin?” Kazimir nearly shouted at him. “You knew her as your beloved Mitera Thea!”

Malcolm shook his head, sadly. “She was always just human to me.”

“Your species always tell stories of men who you describe as dragons underneath their own skin.” Kazimir gestured to his own body as evidence.

“Maybe she wanted it so much,” Malcolm stared. “Maybe she Believed so strongly that—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sarah said, bitterly. “She’s a dragon now. And I’m not fighting a dragon.”

“You are,” Kazimir said. “It was foretold.”

“Was it foretold that I would go talk to my mother first?”

And she left.

Kazimir watched her go, his arms crossed, wondering at all that had yet to happen. The assassin came up to his shoulder, also watching her leave.

“You’re considering something,” Malcolm said. “A possibility you don’t like and didn’t want to share with us.”

“It is preposterous,” Kazimir returned. “It simply cannot be.”

Malcolm held out the claw for Kazimir to see. “Torn from the Goddess herself,” Malcolm said. “Supposedly.”

“Not supposedly,” Kazimir said, then asked, “When the red dragon came through, when she was still a woman, I saw her bloodied hand?”

“Yes,” Malcolm said. “In the fight, the last one before we all came over here. . . .” He hesitated.

“Yes?” Kazimir said.

“I’m sorry,” Malcolm said. “Your nakedness is distracting.”

Kazimir rolled his eye. “Humans are ridiculous—”

“In the fight we just had,” Malcolm tried again, louder this time. “I used my blades on her. I cut off her forefinger.”

Kazimir led Malcolm’s eyes to the claw again.

The claw from the forefinger of the Goddess herself.

“Oh,” Malcolm said. “Shit.”





Sixteen


SHE ACHED. THE snow in the crater of the mountain was soothing, but it didn’t stop the pain in her forearm, the one Malcolm had broken, or where he had sliced off her finger, or all the other places that hurt from the fight and from . . .