The Adversary, Page 2

  “I remember when you fit into a car seat in your dragon form.”

  He exhaled a quiet laugh. “I remember too.”

  Of course he did. He remembered everything. “Just look at you now. How do you like it?”

  He mantled his wings. “I feel better now that I’m bigger. I’ll be forever grateful for the awesome childhood memories that you and Dad gave me, but there was always something inside me that was reaching for more. I think it was my dragon needing to unfurl.”

  “Maybe so.” She stroked his muzzle. “I’m glad it’s better now. I don’t care where you go, who you’re with, or what you decide to do. Work at Starbucks if you want. Backpack across Europe or tend bar for a couple of decades. All I ever want is for you to be happy.”

  “I know,” he said, his voice gentle.

  Fiercely, she locked onto the simple goodness of that moment, drawing hard on it as fuel to face the upcoming challenges. Then she climbed onto his back to settle in the spot where the base of his neck met his shoulders, and he launched into the air.

  As he followed the coastline, the dark water and white-capped waves glinted in the moonlight. The heat of the day had eased, and the balmy air felt refreshing.

  Mentally, part of her had already climbed back into the hole where she had lost her husband. A part of her had never really left, constantly reliving the stunning moment when he had succumbed to an invisible enemy.

  That wasn’t what Dragos did. He vanquished enemies. He didn’t succumb.

  He was one of the most ancient and accomplished magic users she knew, and something had felled him like a tree. A shudder ran through her.

  Maybe they didn’t have enough magic users to contend with whatever was lurking in that hole. Maybe they didn’t have anybody strong enough.

  Or, maybe they didn’t have someone with the right kind of magic.

  In a recent conversation with Bel, Graydon, Niniane, and Tiago, they had talked about the unseen that had wreaked havoc on the new settlement, and the possible reasons for why Pia could either glimpse, or at least sense them, when Dragos and many other people couldn’t.

  Just as each of the Wyr had different attributes and characteristics according to their individual personalities and animal forms, humankind and the rest of the Elder Races had their own strengths and weaknesses, and they had different strains of magic.

  And she was in a fight to get her mate back. This was too important to ignore such a basic fact.

  She ran down a mental list of their assets. They had Grace as the Oracle, and Grace’s partner Khalil was a Powerful, experienced, second-generation Djinn. He might be able to sense critical things about their entity who was bodiless.

  They also had Bel’s Elven magic, and Carling was a very old witch from her human roots as well as an elder Vampyre. If Pia remembered correctly, the heritage of her magic was from ancient Egypt. Plus, they had the Wyr sentinels who were all formidable warriors and accomplished magic users in their own right.

  There were other magic users in the various encampments in the settlement, in the representatives of Elder Races from other demesnes, but they each had their own agenda and motives. This list was made up of friends and they were the only ones she trusted.

  She thought of someone else. Telepathically, she asked Liam, Do you remember the sorcerer Dragos gave asylum to—the werewolf who settled in New York with that musician and a pack of other werewolves?

  Morgan le Fae, Liam replied instantly. How could I forget? He’s one of the most famous sorcerers in history. You make note of someone like that when they move into your neighborhood. Didn’t they decide to stay in New York, instead of relocating here to Rhyacia with you guys?

  That’s right. She patted his hide.

  Then they’re going to owe me fealty when I take over the Wyr demesne. His mental voice sounded both bland and satisfied at once.

  Surprise jolted her. Is that what you’ve decided to do?

  I’m not claiming it yet. I’m going to finish my time at college like we all agreed, but that’s my intention. Mom, that position was tailor made for me. He paused. Are you surprised?

  Not really. I’m just surprised you’ve admitted it so soon. She took a deep breath. When we get back, I want you to bring Morgan as quickly as possible. He has a different kind of magical expertise than anybody else here. I don’t know if we’re going to need his help, but I want every asset available in case we do.

  I’ll bring him as fast as I can, he promised. If Khalil will agree to help provide Djinn transportation, we should be very quick.

  Good, she said absently, having already moved on to other considerations.

  Liam’s task would kill two birds with one stone. Not only would it bring Morgan to Rhyacia, but it would get Liam out of the way for a brief, critical time.

  Because Pia had a feeling he wouldn’t like what she was going to do next, and he would try everything he could to stop her from doing it.

  Well, frankly, nobody was going to like it, and everybody would try to stop her. Liam, though, was the one who might achieve it. The others would argue and be extremely unhappy, but she knew they would go along with whatever she demanded.

  She was going to see Dragos again. She needed to see for herself what kind of damage they’d done to his body, especially since she was the one who had ordered it done, even if that meant she had to confront the alien bastard looking out of Dragos’s stolen eyes.

  This was going to one of the suckiest things she’d ever done in her life. She would rather go through childbirth pain again. She would rather be shot—and since she’d been shot before, she knew what she was talking about.

  Because whatever they had done to Dragos’s body, she hoped they had made it hurt really bad.

  Chapter Two

  When Dragos woke he lay in a small forest clearing.

  The scene was profoundly quiet, broken only by the distant rustle of wind playing through the tops of trees, along with the occasional warble of birdsong. The sunlight shining through tree branches dappled soft green grass, and the air felt heavy and hot like a summer afternoon.

  It felt good to sprawl at his leisure, ankles crossed, and hands locked behind his head as he contemplated the patches of cloudless sky overhead. He could lie there all day, with no agenda and no need to do anything. He wasn’t hungry and felt no need to hunt. There weren’t any enemies he had to fight, nobody he wished to see or speak to…

  (But that felt fundamentally wrong. His bones were very old. They had solidified when the earth was formed, and they knew better. Something deep within stirred and began to push back the overwhelming urge to sleep. There was someone he badly needed to see. He could almost picture her beautiful face…)

  But in fact, there was nothing urgent for him to do but nap. The forest clearing, the wind and birds, and the picturesque sky would all be there to enjoy when he woke up. He had all the time in the world.

  (But the sky, the sky, the sky was so much more than a pretty scene to contemplate. Like the someone he couldn’t quite remember but needed to see, the sky was somehow elemental to his existence.

  The sky meant freedom and storms, fierce sunlight warming his wings. The entire limitless expanse of sky was his true domain.

  Wings, he told himself. Don’t forget you have wings. Your life is so much more than this tiny, petty place. No matter what smaller creatures may call you, you are the emperor of the sky. And you have someone you need to see.

  He threw off the somnolence that weighed down his human limbs, climbed to his feet, and…)

  He woke up.

  And lay in a small forest clearing.

  The scene was profoundly quiet, with only the distant rustle of wind playing through the tops of trees, along with the occasional warble of birdsong. The sunlight shining through tree branches dappled the soft green grass, and the air was heavy and hot like….

  (Hold on. You’ve thought these things before. Wait and watch, and you’ll recognize what comes next.)
/>   …a summer afternoon.

  It felt good to sprawl at his leisure, ankles crossed, and hands locked behind his head as he contemplated the patches of cloudless sky overhead. He could lie there all day, with no agenda and no need to do anything at all. He wasn’t hungry and felt no need to hunt. There weren’t any enemies he had to fight, nobody he had to see or speak to…

  (There’s your lie. There’s someone missing. You can’t feel her, that light, feminine presence that is so fundamental to your life, and you should be able to. You made promises to each other. It is so much more than love that you share, although you share love too.

  That’s a truth that runs deeper than anything in this scene.)

  He woke.

  (And every thought that ran through his head was a lie.

  He couldn’t feel Pia. That was the truth beyond which nothing else mattered…)

  When he woke next, he remembered everything and knew he was trapped in a spell.

  Don’t tense up, he told himself. That was what triggered the imperative to sleep.

  Relaxing, he let the narrative run through his mind while he contemplated the details of everything around him. Individual blades of grass pressed into his skin. He could see the colorful wings of a bird flitting from tree to tree, feel the somnolent heat of the summerlike day.

  But his presence was so ancient and vast that it did not quite fit into the small, inadequate narrative that someone else’s magic fed him, and for some reason he could not access his Wyr form.

  The spell was very well done. If he had, in fact, been human, perhaps it would have worked more completely. He could see how it might be possible to drift forever, content to sleep the rest of his life away. The sleep imperative would keep the prisoner compliant.

  His brain, however, was too capacious to be captured this way for long. And whoever had cast the spell hadn’t taken into account the dual nature of the Wyr or the extraordinary depth of the mating bond. You might take away the conscious awareness of that bond, but the Wyr would still know in the most essential part of them that something was deeply, desperately wrong.

  Stretching, he rolled over and climbed to his feet. He kept his movements slow and casual, the surface of his mind easy and relaxed, letting the spell narrative flow.

  (…In fact, there was nothing urgent for him to do but nap. The forest scene, wind and birds, and picturesque sky would all be there to enjoy when he woke up. He had all the time in the world….

  Sleep. Sleep. The only thing he needed to do was sleep.)

  I can sleep in a moment, he let himself think, feeding it into the narrative. After I get a drink.

  (He needed nothing. He wasn’t hungry. He wasn’t thirsty. He wasn’t lonely. He could relax into a deep, refreshing sleep. Sleep. Sleep.)

  In a moment.

  (Sleep.)

  Keeping his movements gentle, he continued to misdirect the spell, not by fighting it directly, but by deflecting the imperative. If he fought, it would probably knock him out again. But as long as he kept his surface thoughts focused on sleeping “soon” or “in a moment” the imperative didn’t trigger.

  In the deepest part of his consciousness, while he had studied everything around him the dragon had also taken stock of the scene. He realized the forest neither looked like the Other land of Rhyacia, where he, Pia, and twenty thousand other souls had come to settle, nor did it look like Earth.

  It was too generic.

  It didn’t exist.

  The spell wasn’t just a narrative to keep him snared in sleep. It encompassed everything around him.

  Whirling, he grabbed a sharp stick and stabbed himself in the hand. The stick passed painlessly through his palm. He had a brief, lightning bolt realization.

  It wasn’t just that the scene itself was an illusion. Or that the spell was inadequate to hold the consciousness of an ancient Wyr.

  His body was part of the illusion.

  Darkness struck like a rattlesnake.

  He came awake raging and threw the full force of his fury at the spell, and the details of his cage dimmed.

  And there she was, his beautiful mate, staring pointblank into his face. She looked entirely unlike her usual mild, good-natured self. Her face was ruthless, her jewellike eyes glittering with hate.

  Holy hells, she looked hot.

  “If my husband is dead,” she said, “then I have nothing to lose, do I?”

  Dragos heard himself start to laugh. Shock and realization struck again. THAT IS NOT ME. Outrage surged, and he fought for control—then he felt himself convulse.

  Everything became crystal clear. It was night, lit by the cool light of the moon and the pagan gold of nearby bonfires. He was fully grounded in his body, and he lay on trampled sand on the beach. Behind Pia’s shoulder, all his former sentinels stood in the ring, watching with cold, wary expressions.

  He tried to move and discovered he had been bound in chains. He reached for his Power, but he couldn’t access it. Reached for his dragon form, but he couldn’t shapeshift either.

  Lightning fast, he remembered almost everything. They had spent months planning their move from Earth to the Other land of Rhyacia that held a vast stretch of what Dragos had thought was unoccupied land.

  But something had lived here once. A massive network of ruins lay under the new settlement that hugged the shore of the gigantic lake. He and Pia had been inspecting the ruins, had found a sarcophagus, and then something had poured into his body like black ink into a well, and he had flung himself into a shapeshift to try to drive it out.

  He had been trapped in a bubble of illusion while that thing had taken over his body, and it was blazingly clear that an unknown amount of time had passed. Pia wore makeup and different clothes. She had fixed her hair. The sentinels had had time to travel from earth and arrive in Rhyacia.

  How much time had passed? Hours? Days?

  He caught a glimpse of another personality, existing alongside him like a shadowy snake.

  And, thank all the gods, Pia knew.

  Dragos had just enough time to snarl telepathically, Do what you need to do.

  Unconsciousness roared at him with the force of a freight train, and darkness enveloped him once again.

  The next time Dragos came awake, he found himself sitting by a forest pool and staring into the calm, glass-like water. His reflection stared back. Dispassionately, he studied the brutal features, the shock of black silken hair, the ruthless mouth.

  Some people would call his conscience inadequate. Some thought he was an abomination.

  Here is your adversary. This is the man you need to fight. He has stolen everything you valued about your life.

  Kill him now.

  Reaching out, he touched the surface of the water and watched the visage of the man disappear in ripples that flowed outward to the edge of the pond. Lifting his hand and clenching it into a fist, he waited until the ripples subsided. Then he looked into his own hard, glittering gaze again.

  The game had changed, and he recognized this one right away. This was a mirror spell. He was supposed to fight himself until he committed suicide.

  But now Dragos remembered everything. He knew who he was—Wyr and dragon, the Great Beast, ruler of demesnes, and Pia’s only mate forever. Something foreign inhabited his body and wanted his inconvenient consciousness out of the way for good.

  He thought of the time lag. Had that thing touched Pia? Dared to make love to her? If he had thought he felt rage before, it was nothing compared to the tsunami of towering fury that washed over him then.

  “I’ve got your number now, you son of a bitch,” he whispered, deep in the privacy of his feral dragon brain. “And I’m going to crush every miniscule part of you.”

  That was a stone cold fact. Now it was only a matter of time.

  He fed the spell what it wanted. Soon, he would go after the hard-eyed male staring back at him in the reflection in the water. He just had to make a plan of attack first.

  Never fightin
g the spell directly, always deflecting, he turned his real attention to the problem of how to unravel the spell itself.

  Possession was a tricky state to maintain. Dragos himself had possessed other creatures briefly before. It was easier to impose one’s will on simpler creatures, such as mundane animals, as opposed to those with more developed, sophisticated minds and entrenched personalities.

  But possessing simpler creatures meant you also took on their limitations. And the older and more sophisticated the creature, the more difficult possession became, until it was like trying to ride a bucking bronco. Sooner or later, you knew you were going to be thrown off.

  Without conceit, he knew that he had to be one of the most difficult rides anyone might try to take on. Even his body worked to throw off the intruder with the convulsions, fighting it like a virus.

  Back in the ruins, his invader hadn’t known any of that. It hadn’t known who Dragos was, or what his capabilities were. It had just struck at what must have been the first likely candidate in thousands of years.

  While Dragos placated the spell with surface thoughts, he studied its construction. Like the first sleep spell, it was elegantly crafted. It was larger and stronger than the first one, but it still wasn’t expansive enough to engulf Dragos.

  And the details of the illusion felt thinner, less believable. The water rippled but it didn’t feel wet. There was no wind overhead in the forest’s trees, no birds. This one had been hastily constructed.

  Either his adversary still didn’t understand who or what he was up against, which was a possibility, or he was distracted by what was happening in the physical world—and that was a certainty.

  Reaching deep into the part of himself that the spell hadn’t captured, he started to whisper his own incantation.

  Smoke from the dragon’s breath drifted along the forest floor, seeking the tiny, almost imperceptible cracks in the adversary’s spell. He could almost see the bubble of illusion flex in an effort to contain it.