Firestorm Forever: A Dragonfire Novel (87 page)

They collided hard and tumbled through the air, the force of impact enough to make their wings momentarily useless. Sloane was glad he’d passed the syringe to his back claw, although Jorge was trying to seize it with his own. They wrestled with their tails, each trying to claim the syringe.

“What’s in it?”
Jorge demanded.
“Hoping to convert me to the
Pyr
team with a vaccine?”
He laughed at the very idea.

“There’s no chance of that.”
Sloane smiled even as he gave Jorge a thump with his tail. The
Slayer
flinched for a heartbeat, and Sloane snapped at him but missed.
“Maybe it’s Elixir.”

“If it was, you’d be taking it yourself. Shouldn’t the Apothecary be interested in immortality?”

“I’m not interested in addiction.”

“Exactly.”
Jorge eyed the syringe with suspicion and took a deep breath, his eyes glinting.
“The scent makes something curdle within me,”
he murmured, his eyes glinting.
“Don’t tell me that the Apothecary has nefarious plans.”

They raged at each other then, tussling and biting, and Sloane managed to tear one of Jorge’s wings a bit. He had no opportunity to inject the syringe’s contents into the wound, though, before Jorge twisted from his grip and tore his own tail.

“I should just let you do your worst,”
Jorge taunted.
“Since your kind will be gone soon.”

“I don’t know how you figure that.”

Jorge laughed and spoke aloud. “Survival of the fittest. Humans
do
get some things right.
Slayers
are superior, so we will triumph.”

“Unless you all die. You are outnumbered.”

Jorge smiled. “Maybe, maybe not. Six new
Slayers
flew out to do their worst tonight.” He gestured down toward the ground, and Sloane saw that Brandt and Arach had both fallen. He couldn’t see from this distance whether they were injured or dead. Brandt was rotating between forms, which wasn’t good, Arach was in his human form, which wasn’t a good sign either.

One of the clones was still battling against the
Pyr
but Sloane couldn’t deny that it looked as if his fellows were weakening. There was a lot of blood below them and big fissures in the earth. As he watched, the ground rumbled again and new dust rose from the ancient city. Would it be Gaia who eliminated them from her surface?

“Look at the bright side,” Jorge said. “You won’t have to tend to them, not since your kind will be wiped from the face of the earth.”

He had to help them.

He had to finish Jorge first. He spared a glance at the moon, knowing the moments of opportunity were slipping away.

Why couldn’t the
Pyr
have been the ones cloned?

“Maybe I’ll leave you a legacy,”
Sloane taunted in old-speak.
“A little something to remember us by.”

Jorge laughed again. “Maybe you’ve become the Dreamer instead of the Apothecary.” He launched an assault on Sloane then, hitting him with such force that Sloane was stunned. Once again the syringe was knocked out of his claw, tumbling toward the valley far below and leaving Sloane without the means to finish the fight.

He couldn’t give up, not now, no matter what the odds against him. Sloane felt a grim resolve fill his heart and knew he’d fight to his very last.

He’d give everything he possessed to save the world and give Sam a future.

Even his life.

Chapter Thirty

Marco spontaneously manifested at Machu Picchu, right in the middle of a dragonfight. He found himself abruptly between Rafferty and one of the ruby and brass clones, just as Rafferty was slashing at the
Slayer
. Marco shifted into human form and ducked out of the way. He felt the
Slayer
’s black blood rain down upon his back as Rafferty’s blow hit home. His back burned but Marco didn’t care.

He could see that Thorolf was ensuring that another clone stayed dead, his dragonfire lighting the night sky. Far overhead, he could discern Sloane and Jorge locked in battle. Brandt was rotating between forms in the middle of a clearing nearby and the ground was rumbling underfoot with a restlessness that wasn’t reassuring. He could see Liz and Chandra bent over Brandt, trying to help him. Arach was in his dragon form and utterly still, a pool of red blood beneath him.

The moon would slide out of the shadow of the eclipse within moments.

He had to ensure Erik’s survival, first and foremost. Marco followed the scent of the antidote to find Sloane’s stash and took another pair of syringes. He checked that they were loaded with antidote and might have returned to Michigan, but Rafferty slammed a
Slayer
into the ground beside him. The
Slayer
looked dazed.

“This one,” Rafferty commanded, his eyes blazing. “I’m not sure he’s had his fill.”

Marco jabbed a loaded syringe into the
Slayer
, who shook his head in confusion then began to struggle. “It won’t kill you,” Marco said amiably. “It just eliminates the Elixir from your body.”

“Which means you can be killed,” Rafferty smiled coldly as the
Slayer
apparently understood his peril.

He might have protested, but Rafferty hauled the other dragon into the sky, and Marco doubted it was an accident that his talons were digging so deeply into his opponent’s scales. “Now, let’s finish up.”

Marco waited to watch Rafferty deck the
Slayer
so hard that the other dragon tumbled through the air and smacked against a fitted stone wall. The wall cracked, the stones fell, and the earth shook once more. Black blood flowed across the stone, and Rafferty held the
Slayer
captive as he breathed a ceaseless stream of dragonfire.

Marco nodded approval as the
Slayer
screamed, then he wished himself back to Michigan.

* * *

Sloane didn’t dive after the syringe this time, because he knew his opponent expected it. Jorge breathed fire to distract him, then bit into Sloane, shredding the shoulder of his dominant hand. Sloane knew it wasn’t a coincidence. He pretended the injury was greater than it was and let his wings falter and still, as if he’d passed out.

He fell like a rock toward the ancient city.

Jorge took a deep breath and dove after him. He was going to breathe dragonsmoke, to draw out the last of Sloane’s strength. Sloane knew he couldn’t let the dragonsmoke touch him, but he was buying precious time.

And getting closer to the falling syringe. He beat his wings, driving himself downward with greater speed, as if he were confused. Jorge plummeted after him, then dispatched a stream of dragonsmoke that spiraled toward Sloane with astonishing speed.

Sloane counted the seconds, wanting to time his recovery to the moment he could snatch the syringe out of the air. He watched his opponent though narrowed eyes. The dragonsmoke glittered, closing fast, immediately followed by Jorge’s gleaming eyes and sharp teeth.

Sloane waited until the smoke was a talon’s span away.

Then he came suddenly to life. He lunged at the syringe and snatched it out of the air. He passed it to his claw, glad that it was still full, and pivoted in the sky. He dodged the dragonsmoke and soared upward, straight for Jorge, with the needle point leading the way. Jorge’s eyes widened and he spun to evade the needle.

And that was the moment Sloane saw where Jorge was missing a scale. It wasn’t over his heart or on his belly, but in the joint, at the nexus of his right hip. The scales would overlap there, diminishing the size of the gap when he moved, but now Sloane knew where it was.

He locked on to his target, chasing Jorge with all his might. He seized Jorge’s ankle, earning a volley of dragonfire, but held fast even as his own scales burned. He reached up and his grip fumbled. He had a heartbeat to fear that Jorge would escape, then got his grip again.

There wasn’t an instant to waste.

Sloane buried the needle into Jorge and emptied it with savage speed. Jorge twitched and flailed, the color fading from his scales even as Sloane watched. The needle broke with the
Slayer
’s efforts, but the syringe had been emptied.

“What did you do to me?” Jorge demanded, his eyes blazing.

“An antidote to the Elixir.” Sloane smiled. “Congratulations, you’re mortal again.” He decked the astonished
Slayer
, sending him tumbling through the air. “Just in time to die.”

“That’s impossible!” Jorge roared and they locked claws once more, lighting the night with their dragonfire. The fight was savage and fast, Sloane’s determination giving him more power than he’d known he possessed. Jorge was battered and bleeding, his wings torn, his guts shredded, his scales burned.

Something fell from beneath his scales where he had tucked it for safety, a small gleaming cylinder that might have been a pencil. As much as Sloane wanted to know what it was, he wasn’t going to release Jorge to find out.

It fell, spiraling down into the darkness and disappearing.

“She did it,” Jorge whispered, his claw falling to the unprotected spot, then he snarled. “I knew she was worthy.”

Who did he mean? Sloane looked after the cylinder. What had it been? Who had given it to Jorge and what was it for?

Sloane was amazed that Jorge had ever been able to care for anyone. Perhaps the lost scale had given him little vulnerability because his affection was so limited. Either way, the Elixir was gone. The moon was about to emerge from the shadow of the eclipse and the battle wasn’t finished.

The
Slayer
tried to breathe dragonsmoke, making an effort to save himself, but Sloane easily evaded it. He slashed at Jorge, who could no longer offer much resistance. He ripped open his body so his black blood rained down on the mountains of Peru, and then he burned the
Slayer’s
body to a crisp. With the Elixir neutralized in his body Jorge couldn’t evade his just reward, and he didn’t fight for long.

When he was dead, Sloane carried him into the deep valley of the river, not wanting to take any chances. Only once Jorge had been exposed to all of the elements and his body had dissolved to ash, did Sloane race to help his fellow
Pyr
.

The moon was sliding free of the eclipse, and he was glad to find Thorolf flying toward him bearing the remains of one fried
Slayer
and Brandon with the other. “Water!” Thorolf cried and his triumphant word echoed off the cliffs.

Sloane watched the moon overhead as he caught his breath, and hoped all of his fellows had won.

* * *

Marco slid into the field beside Quinn’s home in a flash of blue light, only to find that Erik was holding down the last of the
Slayers
. His grip on his opponent’s neck was so tight that the
Slayer
could scarcely breathe. The
Slayer
was also cut to ribbons, his blood flowing like a black river, and the stench was enough to turn Marco’s stomach.

He shifted to human form and jabbed the needle into a wound, emptying the syringe as Erik watched approvingly. The
Slayer
moaned. He thrashed. He opened his eyes and glared at Marco.

“What have you done to me?”

“Eliminated the Elixir from your body,”
Marco replied.
“It’s part of the Apothecary’s plan to heal the world.”

This version of Boris sneered and spat, his disgust clear. Erik tightened his grip, holding his opponent’s gaze.
“This time, death is forever,”
he promised in old-speak, then squeezed the life out of him. The
Pyr
gathered around, breathing dragonsmoke and ensuring that the fight was sucked out of the clone.

In moments, he was still and didn’t stir again. Marco stepped back with satisfaction.

“Can you go to the others?” Erik asked. “I know you must be tired, but we need to know for sure that they’ve triumphed, too.” He pointed a talon at the moon overhead, and Marco saw that the first sliver of moon had slid from beneath the shadow of the eclipse.

“The corpses have to be exposed to all of the elements,” Donovan said. “Let’s get that done before the end of the eclipse.”

* * *

Sloane had tended to Brandt and to Arach, and was relieved that they were both responding to the Apothecary’s song. He was tired, and he didn’t have any more of his unguent for
Pyr
wounds, but he was glad to use it all to help his fellows.

“At least here we won,” Thorolf said, scanning the sky.

“I hope that’s true everywhere else,” Chandra said.

“Surely we’d feel different if we lost our powers,” Brandon said, his gaze also on the sky. Liz took his hand in hers and didn’t express the alternative aloud.

“I’m not dead yet,” Arach said and rolled over with a grimace.

“You might not ever have the chance to fight
Slayers
again,” Thorolf reminded him.

Arach opened one eye. “I’d be good with that.”

The others chuckled a lit, their uncertainty clear.

That was when the spark lit on the end of Sloane’s talon, illuminating the night with its radiance. All gazes locked upon the small flame, and it lit their features as they gathered close.

“A firestorm,” Rafferty breathed. “
Your
firestorm.”