Now’s… not the time to be staring at that.
Two other clearbloods from the van stagger out, guns still clasped in their hands. Ignatius descends, silent as death. His fangs flash; the first guard doesn’t even have time to turn before Ignatius is on him, tearing into his throat. Blood spatters the leaves in a bright, sick arc.
The second clearblood fires wildly—a blue bolt sizzling past Ignatius's ear—before Chad lunges forward. His claws punch through flesh, ribs giving way with a dull crack. The guard’s scream dies in an awful choke as Chad crushes his windpipe.
By the time his body hits the ground, Ignatius is already topping off the kill, fangs buried into his neck with almost clinical precision. Where the vampire is controlled, exact, Chad is nothing but unleashed violence. Different styles, same result: two bodies cooling on the forest floor.
Horace descends with me on the slaughterhouse scene. Blood soaks the forest floor, dark and glistening in the sparse light.
Then, from the wreckage of the first vehicle, a figure stumbles out, clutching a bleeding arm. It’s the woman with the scarred lip, still alive. She takes one look at Chad—at the vampires feeding on her comrades—and her face twists into a mask of rage.
“Chancellor Rothmere is going to love this!” she snarls. Then I realize she’s wearing some kind of blue-glowing ring, and her fingers twist in a complex pattern I’ve never seen before, not in person or in any book. Blue energy crackles between her fingers before the air splits open behind her—a jagged tear in reality that reveals nothing but swirling darkness—and she steps backward into it. Her portal snaps shut soundlessly, leaving us staring at the spot she disappeared.
My brain stalls on the portal. On the ring pulsing with blue energy. That’s not how clearblood magic works. Not even close. Their spells are rigid, built on geometric precision and often verbal components. A stable portal for them requires an anchor, like a ley line convergence, or at the bare minimum, a five-minute chanted ritual. That woman tore a hole in space with a gesture, as if ripping fabric. It was raw, instinctual… draconic. The thought is chilling: clearbloods aren't just using dragon magic in their weapons, they're integrating it into their very spellcraft. Fusing it.
Not good.
A low groan from the back of the van snaps me out of my horrified analysis. The dragon.
Chad turns, his red eyes finding me in the gloom. For a moment, the demonic rage is still there, raw and terrifying. Then it recedes, like a tide pulling back, leaving the familiar green, though it’s clouded with exhaustion and something that looks like self-loathing. He runs a hand through his mussed hair, his breathing harsh and ragged.
“The van,” I murmur.
He and the vampires move toward the crumpled vehicle, and I follow, my feet crunching on broken glass and damp leaves. The metallic tang of blood is so thick in the air it practically coats my tongue as I step around one of the clearblood bodies.
The van’s back doors are dented inward, the lock mechanism smashed from Chad’s fracas with it. Chad doesn’t bother trying the handle. He and Horace each take a side, dig their fingers into the buckled metal, and pull. The sound of tearing steel is a high-pitched scream in the sudden quiet of the forest. The doors groan open, revealing the dark interior.
The dragon is huddled in the far corner, clearly injured from the crash. She can’t be much older than me, her face pale and heart-shaped, framed by a cascade of blonde hair matted withdirt and blood. Her clothes—what’s left of them—were made from some course beige fabric, designed for combat, but are shredded and scorched from clearblood torture.
A mark on her shoulder catches my attention. Seared into her pale skin is a brand, an intricate, swirling crest of ceremonial scar tissue. It’s a sigil of nobility. A Dragon House crest. I’m not familiar enough with them to know which.
Silver chains, etched with glowing blue runes, are wrapped tight around her wrists, ankles, and neck, the clearblood containment charms pulsing with a sickening light that seems to sap the very air around her. She looks up at us, her eyes startling, luminous, slitted with fear but still holding a core of defiant fire. A low, pained growl rumbles in her chest.
“We can’t leave her here,” I murmur. Humanity and morals aside—and we basically always leave those aside—she’s too dangerous a tool to leave in the clearbloods’ possession.
“Well, we don’t have a lot of time,” Horace grates out. “Reinforcements will be here any minute.”
He’s right.
“So we’re taking her,” I say. “Back to Darkbirch.”
The dragon flinches as I speak, pressing herself further into the corner. Her eyes dart between us, weighing one set of captors against another. I can’t blame her.
Chad steps forward, moving with a surprising gentleness. He crouches down, keeping his hands open and visible. “We’re getting you out of here,” he says, his voice low and steady. “But you have to let us.”
She watches him, her breathing shallow and ragged. For a long moment, she doesn’t move. Then, with a slow, pained deliberation, she gives a single, almost imperceptible nod. It’s enough.
Ignatius moves into the van. The dragon hisses in pain as hebends to pick her up, the movement jarring her injuries, but she doesn’t fight them.
I watch as the vampire lifts her, her form surprisingly slight in his arms. She is a creature of immense power, a being of fire and fury, reduced to this—a wounded, shackled girl. As he carries her out into the moonlight, I see the full extent of the damage. A deep gash runs along her thigh, and her arms are marred with blood-colored bruises. But even in this state, there is an undeniable aura of command about her, a regal bearing that the chains and the blood cannot completely extinguish.
This is possibly a bad idea—bringing another lit fuse into our powder keg. A noble dragoness, captive, in the heart of a darkblood coven, on the very night her people are coming to burn us to the ground. The political fallout alone could be incendiary. I’m not sure what Dayn would think, but he isn’t here to consult right now, so…
“Let’s go,” I say, turning my back on the carnage before we can rethink this. “Before hell officially arrives.”
Ignatius takes flight with the dragon—which leaves Horace, Chad, and me.
Horace crouches, lowering himself just enough for me to climb on. I hook my arms around his shoulders, clinging to the cold, unnervingly solid frame of the vampire.
