his muscles. The dragon wheeled, shaking its head against the lopsided weight of the sword. One paw landed on Alessandro’s chest, the long, black claws puncturing leather, cloth, and flesh.
Pain of several colors sang through Alessandro’s body. He could smell burning flesh and knew it was his own, and felt his dark, sluggish blood sliding down his ribs. He heaved, but the beast was too heavy.
Movement caught his eye. Far to his left, Ashe peeled herself off the floor and rolled to her knees. She was coughing convulsively, barely able to sit up, but she was aiming her weapon.
The dragon looked down at him with the fixed, intense stare of a hunting cat. The tables were turned. After centuries as a predator, Alessandro was at last the prey. Wild denial gave him one last burst of strength, but it was useless.
Gunfire lit up the corridor. A sudden tearing sensation stole Alessandro’s wits as the dragon lifted its foot, the claws hooking and shredding as it pushed away. Ashe fell back on her heels, firing again and again, but the tough armor protected the beast.
Alessandro’s round of curses matched the gunfire. Anger alone was going to get him off the unforgiving stones and back into the fight. He staggered to his feet, refusing to acknowledge the shifting, crunching feelings in his chest. He was a vampire. He would heal.
Once up, instinct took over. He launched into the air, grabbing the sword again. With the strength of desperation, he tore it out of the dragon’s sinewy neck. It hadn’t penetrated much past the scales. It had probably felt like a bug bite. The creature roared its annoyance, its mouth stretching wide. The teeth framed its jaws in wicked symmetry, each canine as long as Alessandro’s forearm.
He swung for the eyes. The dragon snapped, rearing up as high as the ceiling would allow. Alessandro flew up, but had to dodge as the dragon’s tail snaked around. Injured, he wasn’t fast enough. It caught him in the side, tossing him against the wall.
The dragon fell back on all four feet, but not before Ashe grabbed the sword from Alessandro. As the dragon opened wide for another blast of flame, Ashe went for the throat. From the inside. Right for the soft flesh above the tongue.
The dragon gnashed down before Ashe’s lunge was complete. She jerked aside, barely saving her arm. The sword was not so lucky. The dragon spit it out like a munched-up stir stick, then shook its head like a wet cat.
Ashe raised her automatic again, spreading her feet in a belligerent stance. “Get outta here!” she screamed. “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.
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.”
Chapter 27
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.”
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.
