Get down, creep.
My jaw clenches so hard I practically taste copper. “No,” I growl, the human part of me winning by a razor's edge. “You're still a godsdamn librarian, Brynn. The kind who alphabetizes her cereal boxes. You won’t last five minutes out there.”
She raises an eyebrow, a gesture of cool disdain that somehow makes her look even more desirable. “And you’re a traitor who just offered me his kill switch. It seems we’re both operating outside our job descriptions tonight.” She grabs a worn leather satchel from another chair and starts shoving a book into it. “I’m not staying here to read about how we all die. I’m going to do something. With or without you.”
The demon in me purrs with approval. It loves her fire. It wants to consume it. I fight it down, the effort a physical strain. “It’s too dangerous.”
“The dragons will be here by morning,” she retorts, not even looking at me as she slings the satchel over her shoulder. “Nowhere is safe. I’d rather face danger than wait for it. Are you coming, or are you going to stand there arguing until we’re both incinerated?”
She doesn’t wait for an answer. She just walks past me, and the brief scent of old paper and her skin that washes over me is enough to make my pulse kick. I follow. Of course I follow.
An hour later, we’re moving through the night on the backs of creatures who own the darkness. Ignatius and Horace. Vampires on loan from a clan indebted to Darkbirch, their forms blurring at the edges as they soar, fast, silent.
Brynn rides ahead of me on Ignatius, a stoic, broad-shouldered bloodsucker who hasn’t said a word. I’m with Horace, who is taller and only slightly leaner.
The arrangement is a special kind of hell. Every instinct, every fiber of my demonic half, screams at the distance between us. It wishes to all the hellgods that she was on this vampire, her back pressed against my chest, her hips cradled by mine. I could wrap my arms around her, bury my face in the curve of her neck, inhale her scent and feel the frantic, bird-like flutter of her pulse under my…
Hell, Brynn. Why d’you have to go and touch me like that? Now you’ve got a demon orphan with abandonment issues wanting to hold on—and be held—for the first damn time.
“Loosen up a little,” Horace mutters without turning his head. “It’s distracting.”
I grit my teeth, forcing the images away.“Focus on the road.”
He just chuckles, a dry sound.
We reach the rendezvous point, a rocky outcrop overlooking a shallow valley a few miles south of Darkbirch. The vampires deposit us and melt back into the shadows without a word.
The silence they leave behind feels heavy. Below us, nestled in a clearing, is a temporary clearblood encampment. A dozen military-grade tents, a few armored vehicles, and the faint, sickly-sweet shimmer of magical wards.
I have to focus. This is a mission. Last night, from the south-eastern side of Darkbirch’s forest, I heard it. A sound no one else apparently parsed—Dayn was likely too preoccupied with Esme’s trial, and all our other supernaturals have been stretched thin with nonstop defense prep. I heard what sounded like the cry of a dragon, but not one of victory or rage. One of… pain. Down here. In this direction.
I scan the camp. Guards patrol the perimeter, their movements sloppy, tired. The whole setup feels rushed, temporary. I don’t see any dragons, yet. I don’t see anything out of the ordinary.
“See anything?” Brynn whispers beside me. She’s so close I could turn my head and my lips would brush her temple. I don’t.
“Not yet,” I mutter. “Just a standard forward camp. But they look exhausted for some?—”
A scream rips through the night, sharp and terrified. A tent at the center of the camp erupts in a geyser of orange flame. The fire looks unnatural, burning with a furious, magical intensity. But just as quickly, two clearbloods rush forward, hands outstretched, and smother the flames with waves of shimmering blue energy, leaving behind a smoldering, blackened ruin.
“What was that?” Brynn gasps, already moving, crouching low as she skirts the edge of the outcrop.
I’m right behind her. We sneak through the undergrowth, circling around the camp until we have a clearer view through a gap in the trees. Soldiers are dragging something—someone—from the burnt tent. It’s a female, her clothes scorched, her hair a mess of pale blond. She’s fighting, but she’s weak, injured. As they haul her into the light of a portable floodlight, I see the chains they’re wrapping around her wrists and ankles. They glow with a faint, silvery light. Charmed chains.
They throw her against the side of a black, windowless van. She stumbles, and for a moment, her eyes flash in the harsh light. They glow, filled with ancient, burning fury. A dragon.
One of the soldiers kicks her in the back of the knees, forcing her to kneel. An officer steps forward, holding a strange, pronged device. He presses it to the dragon’s neck. The dragon convulses, a silent scream tearing her face into a mask of agony, and then she goes limp. They toss her into the back of the van like a sack of grain, slamming the doors shut. The engine roars to life.
I look at Brynn. Her face is pale in the gloom, her eyes wide behind her glasses, but her expression is set with a grim determination. She doesn’t have to say a word. I just nod. The van pulls out of the camp, its headlights cutting a swath through the darkness. Whatever’s going on here, we need to follow it.
35
BRYNN
The van’s red taillights bleed into the darkness of a particularly thick stretch of forest. My heart hammers against my ribs.
“The trees,” I say, my voice a harsh whisper. “The canopy is too thick to fly.”
Chad’s gaze is already sweeping the perimeter of the camp, analytical. He’s not looking at the guards, he’s looking past them, at the things they’re ignoring. One drab, olive-green utility vehicle is parked near a supply tent, key left in the door by an overconfident soldier.
