Jaime Rush: Dragon Awakened

The man’s hands glowed blue, creating a force field around himself. He sputtered as waves splashed into his face. “We’re innocent,” he said on a gasp.

“It’s not my place to judge.” In Dragon form, Cyn’s voice was deep and gravelly.

“Please, don’t kill my daughter. I beg you—”

Cyn dove through the painful field and cut off the man’s words—and his life. He surveyed the area as the man’s body sank. No one thrashed in the water. If anyone else had been on board, they were dead, too.

The dinghy kept churning into the night. He grabbed onto the side once he’d caught up and nearly tipped it over as he tried to crawl inside. He Catalyzed to man and pulled himself in. The sight of a blanket wrapped around a sleeping child smacked him in the chest. Ah, the man’s daughter. Her feet were bare, nightgown wrapped around her legs like seaweed. Blood marred her temple. Cyn knelt down next to her and found a pulse.

Take out everyone on the yacht. Everyone.

The man who’d given him the order knew the child was on board, knew Cyn was ruthless enough to kill her. He rubbed the back of his neck as he contemplated her. They must have a good reason for wanting her dead. And he was cold-blooded enough to carry out any task they required.

Wasn’t he?

Present day…

Ah, the smell of fresh paint in the morning.

Ruby stepped out of the office and squinted at the sun reflecting off the windshield of a ’57 Chevy. For a few seconds, a bright mark marred everything she saw, including the Gottlieb Grand Slam 1953 pinball machine that was further along in the restoration process. Beyond that, five acres filled with memories of climbing cars, dismantling bicycles, and the sound of her mom calling, “Ruby, get off there. You’re going to fall and crack your head open!” To an adventurous seven-year-old: annoying. Now, a sound she’d kill to hear again.

What she didn’t see was her business partner. Typical. She stalked across the gravel, searching the sections of vintage toys, old signage, and then Coca-Cola machines for him.

“Seen Nevin?” she asked Jack, her expert on motorcycle restoration.

He nodded toward the back. “Chewing the fat with a friend.”

“Augh.”

Jack hefted his wrench. “Want me to bust his chops, Miz Ruby? I’ll kick his ass all over the place…if you’ll pardon my French.”

“That’s not French,” she said, trying to ignore the “Miz Ruby” that he wouldn’t stop calling her, along with his flirtatious smile. “Thanks, but he’s my problem.”

She continued on to Nevin’s disorganized side of the yard and found him leaning against one of his junk sculptures, laughing it up with some guy.

“Nevin.” She kept her gaze on him, plastering on a pleasant-but-fake smile for his friend’s benefit. “Our client is picking up the Wayne gas pump at the end of the week, the one that doesn’t look anywhere near ready.”

Nevin rubbed his belly where his shirt rode up and exposed pale, flabby flesh. “You’re good at finding deals and making old stuff look new again.” He gestured to the roof of a 1976 Cadillac Fleetwood he’d fashioned into a table. “How ’bout you do the resto stuff and let me focus on my art?”

“Resto is paying the bills. You haven’t sold one piece yet.”

“Aw, Ruby, you said business is good. Can’t we take it easy for a bit?”

No, she needed to push herself, to fill some need for…something. Her pseudo-uncle Moncrief inherited the Yard, along with her, when her parents were killed in a boating accident fifteen years ago. Because he traveled often performing his magic shows, he couldn’t deal with running the Yard. Ruby had sobbed at the prospect of losing the last tangible tie to her mom, so he made a deal with Nevin’s parents: a half share for managing it.

After graduating high school, she wrested control from Nevin’s father, who proved that being a lovable lackey was in his gene pool. When he passed, Nevin’s mom insisted he step in, hoping to give him direction. He’d been one of the early strays Ruby attracted. While she had the kind of affection one might have for a dumb-but-sweet cousin, she wasn’t going to let him run the business into the ground like his father nearly did.

The man with Nevin said, “Ruby Salazaar, don’t you recognize me?” The wiry guy in a white cotton T and faded jeans gave her an expectant smile. Smoke trailed from the cigarette clamped between his fingers.

“Leo Canton?”

He looked nothing like the Afro-haired kid whose parents were part of Mon’s touring troupe. His hair was trimmed short now, round glasses gone. “Been a long time.” He approached her with outstretched arms.

She warded him off. “You are not going to hug me like we’re long-lost friends. Unless you count cutting off my braid and terrorizing me as friendship, which I do not.”

He chuckled, dropping the cigarette and grinding it into the gravel with his heel. “You still got a braid.” His gaze followed it all the way down to her rear. “The color of honey. You nailed me good after I cut it off. I had that black eye for weeks.”

“You deserved every hour of it.” She’d pounded him, the rage so overwhelming it scared her. She pointed to the cigarette. “Didn’t you see the sign? Anyone who drops his butts has to pick them up and put a dollar into the ‘Jar of Bad Behavior.’ Which I use for the cat neuter fund.” She nodded toward two kittens who were racing over to rub against Leo’s ankles.

Leo pulled out his wallet and handed her a fiver. “Still feisty as ever, and a hell of a lot stronger.” He had the gall to clamp his hand over her biceps but pulled away at the murderous glare she gave him.

Nevin made a tsking sound. “She hates to be touched, dude. Some guy grabbed her buttocks once, and she dropped him right to the ground. Dude clutched his cojones all the way outta here, yowling like a girl.” His pride warmed her heart.

“That doesn’t surprise me.” Leo slumped back against the car and crossed his arms over his chest. “You did get the best training on attack and evade, thanks to me.”

“You mean the Hunter/Prey game you and Jimmy used to force me into playing?” The two would start hunting her, prowling the tour buses or the stage equipment. She was always the reluctant prey. Except something inside her actually liked it while the rest of her hated it.

He shrugged. “We only did it ’cause your uncle paid us to.”

“ What ?”

Leo plucked a kitten from midway up his pant leg and set it down. “Five bucks a week. Skills building, he called it.”

“You’re serious?”

“Your uncle did things to protect you. He was super paranoid for some reason.” He peered into her eyes. “You still don’t…” He clamped his mouth shut and waved as he sauntered off. “Nevin, gimme a shout if you find the part for my truck.”

“I still don’t what?” she called after him.

“Have a sense of humor,” Leo said, though she knew that wasn’t what he was going to say.

She pinned Nevin with a glare. “Is this true, about Mon paying kids to torment me?”

He assumed the blank look of the guilty.

Her cell phone rang. “Speak of the devil.” She skipped right past hello . “Were your ears burning? I’ve got—”

“Ruby, there’s trouble.”

“Did you piss off your new neighbors already? I told you not to hang those weird artifacts all over your front porch. Creeps people out.”

“No, big trouble, ducky. Get over here, quick. There are things I have to tell you, things I should have told you long ago.”

Her throat tightened at the agony in his voice. “Be there in about forty minutes.”