Pia Does Hollywood (Elder Races, #8.6)(36)

He told her, I’m coming in hot. Tell the others to get out.

Hells yes! As far as I’m concerned, you can torch them all. Most of them are half eaten—they couldn’t survive any kind of antidote or reversion anyway.

That’s what I saw in the group that attacked me. He flew west, as hard as he could. Shoreline’s in sight now.

Quentin and Shane’s forces are retreating. They’re in an SUV, headed south.

Got it.

The sun hung lower in the sky since he had been chained, reigning over the western horizon and sparkling on the vast water. As he neared the waterfront area, he felt blasts of magic from the battle.

A winged figure shot into the air and swooped. It was Aryal. She held an automatic weapon and sprayed the area below her with gunfire. He caught a glimpse of flying black hair, piercing gray eyes, and her angular, hawkish face.

A deadly spell burst upward like a firework at her, but dipping one wing, she rolled to the side and let herself fall through the air, and the spell shot past her harmlessly.

The dragon smiled to himself. As usual, she was utterly fearless.

Compared to his size, though, she was like a two-seater aircraft. He told her, Stay out of my way.

Flipping, she righted herself and flew south after the SUV.

In the next moment, he was on the scene.

The infected herd was large, and its members as fast as the ones who had attacked him earlier. But they weren’t fast enough to outrun him.

As the dragon dove, he opened his jaws and let all of his anger boil out. Fire spewed onto the scene. In just a pass or two of his wings, he had shot past. Wheeling, he turned and dove again, laying fire over four industrial blocks.

Only when he felt sure that he had covered the area thoroughly did he pull up to land in the middle of the hot blaze. The dangerous, pathetic figures of the infected collapsed almost immediately.

From the ground, it looked as though the world was on fire. It suited the dragon’s apocalyptic mood. He strolled down the street. The flames were so hot, the asphalt underneath his talons grew soft and sticky, then caught fire. At times like this, when he was enraged and civilization had fallen completely away, he thought he could burn down the world and never miss it.

When that happened, he could hear a quiet voice at the back of his mind.

You could do it, brother, Death whispered. We could do it together.

These days, however, when he heard that quiet, far-off voice, he shook away the lure that Death held for him. There was too much buoyant life that surrounded him, and love. His mate. His son. His new, unknown child, as mysterious as an unexplored land.

Maybe we could, the dragon said to the quiet voice. But we won’t today.

Up ahead, the figure of a man walked toward him, through the flames.

Dragos stilled, and his eyes narrowed. Dragon fire burned hotter than almost any other blaze, save the sun’s, but the figure did not appear to be affected.

As the man neared, his features and form became distinguishable. He wore tailored black clothes, leather gloves and a leather suit jacket that could, Dragos noted, hide any number of weapons. He was tall and wide-shouldered, and moved with the kind of liquid athleticism that Dragos associated with his Wyr soldiers, but this was no Wyr.

He looked like a human man in his midthirties, deeply tanned, with chestnut hair and clear hazel eyes, and a strong, contemplative, even sad, face. And he carried so much Power, he felt like a walking, talking nuclear bomb.

The dragon’s hackles rose.

“Lord Cuelebre,” the man greeted him in a calm voice that Dragos could hear perfectly well over the roar of the flames around them. He spoke with a Welsh accent. “Unfortunately, you managed to kill all my compatriots before I could reach them in time. You are not supposed to be here.”

Dragos didn’t recognize the male. Perhaps he would have, once upon a time, before his head injury. Falling so unexpectedly into that hole in his memory made him rage even more.

So he took an educated guess.

“Morgan,” the dragon growled. The man did not deny the name. “You are not supposed to be here either. You started the contagion.” The dragon stalked closer. “And when the Light Fae came close to eradicating it, you worked to spread it.”

“My Queen commands, and I am compelled to obey,” Morgan said, inclining his head and offering a slight, courteous bow.

“Did your Queen compel you to destroy all the Elder Races?” Dragos barked.

As the dragon drew nearer, the other male turned slightly to walk at an angle, until they were circling each other like adversaries, while everything around them burned. At Dragos’s accusation, Morgan tilted his head. “Her quarrel is with this Light Fae demesne. It does not involve you, or the rest of the Elder Races.”

“Quite the contrary,” the dragon hissed. Lunging forward, he snapped at the other male, who leaped back, faster and more fluid than Dragos had believed possible. Morgan gestured, and a wall of Power slammed between them, shimmering from the fire. “It involves me. My mate. And it involves any race that carries a hint of Power. Both human and different Elder Races can be infected by the contagion. Your creatures attacked me. One of them broke my skin. I started to turn.”

The other male frowned, his clear hazel gaze sharp. “You were susceptible?”

“For a brief time, I was.” Dragos pushed at the wall of Power, seeking a way to get through. “And I am not susceptible to any illness. Magically inclined humans have caught it and turned. This contagion is utter madness. It will destroy all of us if it is allowed to spread.”