Page 3 of Red Dragon’s Flame

“Of course. Is anybody using the community picnic grounds three weeks from Sunday? If so, kick them out because I want to throw a giant bash.” A grin crept across Zak’s face. “It’s a bun in the oven party. Maddie’s pregnant.”

“No kidding? That’s awesome! Congratulations!” Mikah got up and clapped Zak on the back, giving him a bro hug. “Is she excited?”

“Yeah. Don’t know why, she’s just gonna have two of us broody dragons on her hands.” But the happiness in his eyes belied his words.

Mikah felt another stab of envy. Of the three of them—red dragons who’d survived war and slavery together before becoming part of Emon’s clan—Mikah was the only one who hadn’t found his mate.

The only one still alone.

He thrust that thought aside. “Don’t worry, I’ll set it up.” He fought to keep the enthusiasm in his voice. He was glad for Zak. Really. And he liked Maddie a lot.

They talked about the arrangements for a few more minutes before Zak left. On his way out, he turned back and said, “Danger. Mayhem. You should think about it.”

“Sure,” Mikah said sourly. “The last time I went on an op I got blown up in a car. And the time before that, I got shot in the head.”

“Exactly,” Zak said. “Wasn’t it fun?”

He stepped over Mikah’s pile of sheep shit and left with a casual wave.

Chapter 2

Mikah got the bottle of emergency whiskey out of his bottom drawer and took a large slug. Then he did a cleanup spell on his sheep crap.

Maybe Zak was right. He was a grown dragon, a terrifying magical predator, feared throughout all the worlds—and here he was arguing with sheep farmers and relying on videogames for excitement.

And companionship, he admitted, thinking of Shadowfire the assassin, and the online rendezvous they’d planned for this evening.

While his best friends were snuggling with their mates and getting actual sex.

Pathetic.

As if his thoughts had somehow connected with her, an alert sounded on his computer. He sat down and flipped the screen to the Realms message boards, and his private chat with Shadowfire.

Just seeing her name on the screen made his day a little better.

Shadowfire: Hey there. How’s things in the Realms of Taxes and Spreadsheets?

Everyone in the game who knew Mikah—or Starthrower, as he was called in-game—thought he was an accountant. Which technically he kind of was, since he oversaw the kingdom’s budgets, as well as those of the corporation they owned on earth, which was where the bulk of their money came from.

He couldn’t exactly tell people he was a dragon who lived in a magical kingdom in a space-time bubble between the worlds.

Most of them only knew him by his handle, anyway. A barbarian warrior whose favorite weapons were a huge broadsword and razor-sharp throwing stars. The only people who he talked to regularly outside the game were Shadow—who didn’t know his real name—and Michelangela Connors, the fifteen-year-old daughter of the Second of the Silverlake wolf pack, in Idaho.

She was the one who’d gotten Mikah addicted to Realms, the little wretch.

He answered Shadowfire: More exciting than you might expect. An argument over asset allocation that almost came to blows. And one of the parties involved was so scared, they were shitting.

Shadow sent a laughter emoji. I never thought of asset allocation as a spectator sport, but I kinda wish I’d been there.

Starthrower: Me too. You would have pulled your knives and straightened them out in no time.

Shadowfire: I’m sure you did your best without me. That came with a smirking emoji, which she deserved. Shadow was feared and respected throughout the Realms—an assassin who had only ever failed to kill one mark. Starthrower.

They’d started as adversaries, and turned into reluctant partners when he’d escaped her knife—barely. From there they’d turned into friends. They’d pulled off some legendary online jobs—and ended up chatting offline almost every day.

Now she said, Are you free tomorrow night? I’ve been working on a way to get into Lord Vesuvius’s keep. Honestly, with a name like that, he deserves to have us rob him blind.

Starthrower: No argument there. Pretentious bastard.