Chapter 5
Dylan
“Did you find them?” Jordan’s voice was faint in my mind. Our mental connection was no good over long distances and I was halfway across the city, deep in Don Leone’s territory.
“Yes Jordan, hours ago. Get out of my head and let me do my job.”
Crouched in the shadows of a rickety rooftop, I fixed my eyes on the entrance of one of Don’s infamous nightclubs below. It was one of his grimier establishments and the stench of cigarettes, alcohol, and general debauchery was palpable even from my elevated position. The neon lights flickered, casting a garish glow over the inebriated crowd that spilled out into the street.
Jordan’s tone was speculative in my head. “River had another vision. She was certain about what she saw, but what do dragon shifters have to do with Don Leone?”
I shrugged automatically, adjusting my crouch as I scanned the street life below.
My mission was simple enough: keep an eye on some of Don’s gang members and make sure they stuck to their end of the peace bargain. And verify River’s prophecy of dragon shifters in the area. The clairvoyant vamp was usually spot on with her predictions, but the dragon-born had not set foot out of Russia in centuries so the likelihood of them roaming around New York was slim.
“Maybe the two are unrelated,” Jordan mused. “But River swore she saw them on Don’s turf. Have those guys done anything unusual tonight?”
“If they had I would have reported it,” I stated blandly. “Can you shut up, I’m trying to concentrate.”
The gangsters hadn’t done anything suspicious all night. I had followed them as they stumbled from bar to club – drinking, smoking, and being generally unremarkable. They were certainly plastered and plenty problematic with their drunken catcalls to every passing woman, but that was nothing new.
It was a task I had performed countless times by then, but the stakes were always high. My presence in the area could be construed as a breach of the agreement, so I was relegated to watching from the shadows.
Jordan’s coy voice in my head was maddening. “Someone’s cranky tonight. Trouble in paradise?”
I let out an audible hiss, baring my fangs to no one in particular. “If you’re referring to married life, I assure you it’s hell. I don’t know how you and Sky do it.”
“We’re technically not married yet. But if you want to know how to make a relationship work – communication and compromise, Dylan dear. And the occasional mind-blowing sex. You should try it.”
“Thank you, I’ll take that to heart,” I muttered dryly and narrowed my eyes at the club entrance. The crowd writhed under the neon lights and faint thumping music reached my ears. Don’s men were on the move again, I spotted three of them jostling through the horde of bodies toward a nearby alleyway.
I followed silently, keeping to the shadows of the rooftop. There was a thrill to this kind of work, stalking unsuspecting prey. This was what I did best, lurking in peripherals, watching from a distance… Definitely not avoiding my real mission.
Jordan’s voice echoed in my head again. “Do you think she’s spying for Don?”
I scowled, darting over a dormer and keeping pace with the stumbling men below. “Who, Amara? Maybe. I’ve already caught her snooping around the apartment. She’s either working for her father or she’s just incredibly nosey.”
A brief spark of anger flared in my chest before it guttered out and died just as quickly. Hovering around the apartment didn’t necessarily make the woman a spy. But it did make her a pain in the ass. Finding her on the rooftop had been… unpleasant. It was like ripping open my insides and letting her inspect my organs, or wrap her fingers around my fleshy, beating heart.
“You know it would be easier to assess her loyalties if you weren’t avoiding her 24/7. Someone else could have handled this recon mission.”
“I’m not avoiding her!” I slipped silently down a fire escape as Don’s men disappeared into the alleyway. I followed after them at a safe distance, slinking around dumpsters and wrinkling my nose at the sharp stench that seemed to stick to my pores. The familiar aroma of piss, trash, and greasy pizza – the eau de Cologne of New York City.
“Riiiight,” Jordan crooned in my head. “So what does she do all day?”
I tiptoed past a sleeping street cat, a bedraggled tabby curled up in an empty beer crate. If I had more time I might have pet him, but I couldn’t risk my cover over a few head pats.
“I don’t know,” I hissed in my head. “She just hangs around the apartment. Her diet consists of mostly burnt toast and spaghetti. And she snores while she sleeps, I can hear it from my bedroom.”
“She sleeps on the couch?”
I resisted the urge to kick a crumpled can from my path. “I only have one bed.”
“Ah yes, because sharing a bed with one's spouse would be truly scandalous.”
“This is not. A real. Marriage. Now go bother your girlfriend and leave me alone.” With those charming parting words I shoved Jordan out of my head, relieved when she chuckled quietly and withdrew.
I slinked further down the alleyway, listening intently to the three men’s footsteps as they turned a corner ahead of me. I had just reached the corner when an unsettling feeling washed over me and I paused. A prickle of unease rippled up my spine and the hair on my neck stood at attention. I was no longer alone in that alleyway.
The silence was suddenly deafening, broken only by the distant echo of the gangmen’s footsteps and the alto bass hum of the city. I scanned my surroundings, drawing shadows that converged around me like needful disciples.
I stiffened when a mewling cry cut through the silence. The tabby cat from earlier streaked past my legs, disappearing through a broken window.
A flicker of motion caught my eye. I barely had time to register it before a searing pain erupted in my leg. I twisted, just in time to see a flash of claws and the gleam of reptilian eyes. My unseen attacker slammed into me, crushing me against the wall with the force of a wrecking ball. Something in my shoulder crumpled with a concerningly loud crunch and I sucked in air through my teeth to keep from crying out.
I could not be discovered. Don’s men were just around the corner and if they spotted me the tentative peace between us would shatter in an instant. Wrestling away from my bulky assailant, I forced myself to move, pushing through the pain as I scaled the nearest building. My route became a blur of movement and flashing street lights as I leaped over rooftops, putting as much distance as possible between myself and whatever the hell had just attacked me.
Whoever it was they didn’t pursue, but the damage was already done. Already my shoulder was healing itself, albeit slowly, but the wound in my thigh throbbed with a burning intensity that made me gasp and stumble, nearly toppling off a rooftop when I landed a particularly daring jump. My mind raced. I had to get home. The wound wasn’t healing. There were very few claws that could cause that kind of damage. River may have been right after all.
By the time I made it back to the apartment my vision was clouded, my movements agonizingly sluggish. I tried three times to grasp the door knob before my fingers finally responded the way I wanted them to. I stumbled through the doorway, dropping to one knee before hauling myself up again and leaning against the wall.
I fought against the encroaching darkness that dotted my vision, trying to recall what little I knew of the dragon-born. Dragon shifters were rare and reclusive. But their claws carried a poison that could hinder a vampire’s healing. Much like the bacteria in a Komodo dragon’s bite, if the wound itself didn’t kill you, the infection would. The gash in my thigh was a throbbing testament to the power those claws held.
The answer to my painful predicament was stowed away somewhere in the bathroom. Ever since the Leyore coven got to work mending bonds with the witches of Manhattan, I’d cultivated a friendship with Ursula, a young city witch who granted me a steady supply of healing potions for situations like this one. I just had to make it to the bathroom.
I took two feeble steps, groaning at the sharp pain that shot up my thigh. I could feel the poison creeping through my veins, and drew in a ragged breath. The room spun out of focus, and when I blinked to clear my vision, Amara was standing in front of me.
“Oh. It’s you.” I slurred out the words. I had been going for cool and indifferent, but considering the way I swayed on my feet it couldn’t have been that convincing.
Amara looked stricken, paler than usual as she sized me up. When her eyes rested on the gash in my leg, the wound that was now bleeding profusely, she blanched.
“Don’t worry about it.” I hobbled past her. Her attention, her concern, was the last thing I wanted. I would sooner crawl into a dark corner and die.
Amara followed me, rapidly moving her hands through gestures I assumed must be sign language. Considering I was moving at a snail's pace, there wasn’t much I could do to avoid her.
I made it halfway through the living room before breaking into a cold sweat and decided I deserved a short break. I paused, leaning against the arm of the loveseat, inwardly lamenting the trail of blood I’d left on the Persian carpet. I loved that carpet. I wondered if I was delirious.
The poison was spreading faster than expected, sapping my strength by the second. The bathroom felt very far away. Unlike Amara, who hovered at my shoulder like a gnat.
I swatted her hand away when she tried to grip my forearm, rounding on her with unmasked hostility. “I can handle this and worse! So back off .”
Considering how she’d reacted to my anger on the rooftop, I assumed it would be enough to send her away.
Instead, she kicked me in the shin.
“Ow! God – you bitch!” I collapsed back into the loveseat, gripping my thigh with one hand and my shin with the other. “Fine. Fine! You want to help me? Go get the first aid kit.”
Amara had already turned her back to me and didn’t catch a single word, but she seemed to have the same idea because she scurried off to the bathroom and returned with the first aid kit, dumping the overstuffed duffel bag at my feet.
I rifled through the contents, hauling out potion bottles and tinctures all labeled in the little witch’s swirling handwriting – probably not what Amara was expecting to find in a first aid kit. She frowned in obvious disapproval when I uncorked a vial of neon green liquid and put it to my lips.
I ignored her, guzzling down the cold liquid and leaning back into the cushions with a deep sigh. The effects were almost immediate. The pain in my leg subsided and my head grew heavy and lolled on my shoulders. Witches brew, I’d come to learn, was stronger than any alcohol. I had about five minutes to patch myself up before I was completely inebriated.
I grasped at a jar of ointment, something that would hopefully nullify the poison, but it slipped from my hand and I swore. Before I could reach for it again, Amara had picked it up, kneeling beside me and inspecting the label with a furrowed brow.
“I need that.” I tried to swipe it from her but she smacked my hand away, gesturing for me to lie back. I closed my fingers into a fist, slamming it down on a cushion instead. “I can do it myself!”
Amara rolled her eyes and cracked open the lid of the jar, setting it aside and leaning over my lap to inspect the wound. I froze when her hand rested on my knee, the other gently wiping blood from the gash with what I suspected was one of my tank tops. I watched as she pulled a set of scissors from the bag and snipped away the torn section of my jeans.
I wanted to fight it, but I was exhausted and her touch was gentle. I sat still, grappling with myself – wanting to protest, push her away, and take her in my arms all at once. But the truth was, I didn’t have the strength for any of it.
When Amara was satisfied with her handiwork, she dipped her fingers into the ointment and slowly spread it over the wound. I tensed up at the burning sensation, dropping my head back with a resigned groan. She didn’t stop there, a few moments later I felt the prick and tug of needle and thread and glanced down to see her sewing up the wound.
Amara paused when I winced, glancing up with a glint of concern in her eyes. I struggled to keep my eyes open, fixing them on her face and blinking slowly. Maybe it was the brew, or maybe the remnants of the poison-induced fever, but she looked lovelier than ever and I wanted to kiss her.
It took another stitch of the needle in my thigh to jolt me out of my stupor and remind me why that was a stupid idea. A reckless idea.
Amara finished the final stitch and sat back, watching me with apprehension. I dropped my eyes to the wound. The ointment was already working its magic and the visceral swelling was subsiding. She had been methodical, focused. Every stitch was tight and secure. She was good at this.
“Where did you learn to do that?” My words felt heavy on my tongue, each syllable a stone I couldn’t wrap my mouth around.
Amara cocked her head to the side like she was trying to decipher my words. I gestured to the stitches and her eyes darkened when she understood. After a beat, she shrugged nonchalantly. I supposed growing up with a mob boss for a father had her seeing plenty of bad injuries over the years.
“Well… thank you.” It was difficult to say, and even more difficult to look at her when I said it. Amara’s face brightened like a 100-watt bulb and I wrenched my eyes away, staring at the ceiling instead.
I’m not sure when my eyelids slid closed but when I opened them again the sun was out and I’d been covered in a blanket where I lay slumped over in the loveseat.
Amara lay across from me on the sofa, fast asleep and snoring lightly. Looking at her, something twinged in my chest and my heart beat to a frantic, reckless tempo.