Unknown - Scorched

Ashe raised her automatic again, spreading her feet in a belligerent stance. “Get outta here!” she screamed. “Shoo!”

Shoo?

The automatic spattered bullets right at the dragon’s feet, spraying up chips of stone. It inched back, the ruff around its head flattening with distaste. It reared up again, the short front legs pawing the air, and turned its long body away from the annoying stings. Between fits of coughing, Ashe fired again, striking sparks off the stone right where the creature was trying to put its feet.

It hopped and scampered away from them for a dozen yards, its tail slithering in a long, snaking arc behind it. It stopped, back hunched. Only the tip of the tail moved, swishing back and forth in short, irritated jerks.

It’s working! Alessandro stared in amazement. Subtlety was accomplishing what brute force could not. He picked himself up again, feeling like a marionette missing his strings.

Even more miraculous was the source of the solution. He wouldn’t have expected subtlety from Ashe. She fired again, right at the dragon’s heels. With a mighty, frustrated roar, it ran, the waddling, side-to-side gait taking it quickly out of sight.

The torches sputtered and came alive again, almost as if a stagehand had flipped a switch. The dragon had gone far enough away that the magical field surrounding it had dissipated.

“Ugh.” Ashe sagged, the automatic hanging loose from its neck strap. Then she coughed again, a wet, wracking sound that told Alessandro she’d inhaled too much of the dragon’s fumes. She clutched her ribs like the cough hurt.

Alessandro looked at her, finally noticing her condition. Her long hair was singed away, her jacket blackened from the dragon’s flame. It looked like the skin on her hands and one cheek was starting to blister. Her eyes and nose were red and dripping. She was a mess.

“You’re injured,” he said.

“Could be worse.” She shrugged. “You took the brunt of it.”

He reached out a hand to touch her shoulder, cautious in case she would revert to killing vampires now that the dragon was gone. He didn’t feel like a rematch right then. Or ever.

She didn’t flinch at his touch, but she didn’t reciprocate, either. “I’m glad we didn’t have to kill it. In a weird way, it was kind of pretty.”

He couldn’t stop a chuckle that was mostly relief. “Ashe Carver, dragon tamer.”

She suddenly gave a laugh that was, for once, real. “Wait till I tell that to my daughter. You okay to walk? We still have work to do.”

Reynard should have been dead. Not that Constance wanted it that way. It was just a fact based on the probable odds—except Mac carried the captain with them, dusting from point to point. Reynard would be saved, no matter what kind of strength Mac had to pull from the marrow of his bones.

Demons were apparently very stubborn. Constance ran behind the dark, twining cloud that skimmed through the shadows of the Castle. Mac was moving quickly, conserving energy by staying low to the ground.

She quickened her pace, closing the distance between them as the cloud seeped to the ground, splitting into two, and coalescing into the forms of two men. Mac was stopping again, the distances between resting points growing shorter. He was tiring.

Reynard fell back with a groan. Constance winced in sympathy. She remembered when Mac had transported her from the restaurant the other night. Pain had disappeared in dust form, only to come back twice as hard when she became flesh again.

Impatient at the delay, she dropped to one knee beside Reynard, checking the temperature of his skin. He was clammy and cold.

“He’s fainted. He needs help,” she said. “All the guardsmen heal faster than mortals, but that’s not enough to save him.”

Mac was sitting with his back to the wall, his knees drawn up. He’d not allowed himself to stop for more than a minute at a time. Eyes closed, he’d propped his head against the stones. He didn’t complain. No man of Mac’s character would.

She crossed to him, slid down the wall until they were hip to hip. She could feel his heat through their clothes. It was more than just exertion. He was always warm to the touch now, not just when angry or aroused. “It was only a handful of days ago that we sat like this at the Castle door. I told you that you were impossible. I had no idea then that meant you were impossibly brave and good.”

“You just wanted me for my blood.”

“You just wanted to get under my skirt.”

He opened one eye. “Yeah, so what’s your point?”

“I’m glad you did.” She leaned over, kissed his cheek.

He laughed, kissed her back, then sobered. “How far have we got to go?”

“If we turn south, the passageway will take us to the route we want. If we turn west there, we’ll reach the courtyard with the dark pool.” Constance looked from Mac to the unconscious guardsman, and then spoke her mind. “How far do we take him? You can’t carry him much longer. Not if you want to keep any strength for yourself.”

Please forgive me, she said silently to Reynard. I have to speak up. Mac won’t spare himself.

Mac shook his head. “Reynard’s closer to help than he was before. I can take him a little farther. I won’t give in yet. Something will turn up.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but her emotions tore at her. Pity and fear.

“What’s that stink?” Mac said suddenly.

Constance heard a footfall, so faint it might have been no more than the shadow of a sound. She jumped to her feet, listening, her fingers curved into claws. “Who’s there?”

“That stink would be eau de dragon.” Ashe Carver swaggered—or perhaps staggered—out of the shadows, her weapon propped casually on her shoulder. She looked terrible—dirty and blistered, like she’d been through a fire. “You wouldn’t believe the adventure Caravelli and I had a little while ago.”

She stopped, looking down at Reynard. “Who’s this?”

“A friend,” said Mac.

“I’d hate to see your enemies.”

“What happened to you?” Mac asked.

“Not as much as what happened to this dude.”

“Captain Reynard needs a surgeon,” Constance said.

“Now, there’s an understatement.” Ashe bent, taking a look at the wounds. “Holy chain saw.”

She set her gun down and dropped to one knee, examining the bandage Mac had ripped from Reynard’s shirt. “He’s bleeding through. How clean was the wound?”

“Not very,” said Mac. “His guardsmen locked him in one of their cells.”

“Ah, so this is the mutiny guy. I thought the guards’ quarters were far to the east of here.”

“They are.”

“And you’ve brought him all this way?” Ashe stood and looked at Mac, her brow furrowed with surprise. “Aren’t you supposed to be, like, saving the world or something?”

“That’s after coffee,” Mac returned.

“Whatever.” Ashe pulled out a water flask. “Caravelli’s gone to fetch his puppy dogs, but they’ll be back this way in minutes. I’m just here to chase the dragon away if it comes back.”

“Dragon?”

“Long story. Leave your captain with me. Caravelli and I’ll take him along when we move the hounds out.”

“Are you sure?” Mac said dryly. “There’s not much action in watching a man bleed to death.”

“Maybe if I’m lucky the dragon will come back. Relax. My husband was a bullfighter. I’m used to pulling medic duty.” She knelt, wetting the captain’s lips with the water. His eyelids fluttered.

Constance felt a sudden flood of relief, indescribably thankful. The woman had arrived like a knight from a fairy tale. A very strange knight, but Constance wasn’t about to argue. She’d take what good luck they could get.