Chapter 35 Brynn #2
He and the vampires move toward the crumpled vehicle, and I follow, my feet crunching on broken glass and damp leaves. The metallic tang of blood is so thick in the air it practically coats my tongue as I step around one of the clearblood bodies.
The van’s back doors are dented inward, the lock mechanism smashed from Chad’s fracas with it.
Chad doesn’t bother trying the handle. He and Horace each take a side, dig their fingers into the buckled metal, and pull.
The sound of tearing steel is a high-pitched scream in the sudden quiet of the forest. The doors groan open, revealing the dark interior.
The dragon is huddled in the far corner, clearly injured from the crash.
She can’t be much older than me, her face pale and heart-shaped, framed by a cascade of blonde hair matted with dirt and blood.
Her clothes—what’s left of them—were made from some course beige fabric, designed for combat, but are shredded and scorched from clearblood torture.
A mark on her shoulder catches my attention. Seared into her pale skin is a brand, an intricate, swirling crest of ceremonial scar tissue. It’s a sigil of nobility. A Dragon House crest. I’m not familiar enough with them to know which.
Silver chains, etched with glowing blue runes, are wrapped tight around her wrists, ankles, and neck, the clearblood containment charms pulsing with a sickening light that seems to sap the very air around her.
She looks up at us, her eyes startling, luminous, slitted with fear but still holding a core of defiant fire.
A low, pained growl rumbles in her chest.
“We can’t leave her here,” I murmur. Humanity and morals aside—and we basically always leave those aside—she’s too dangerous a tool to leave in the clearbloods’ possession.
“Well, we don’t have a lot of time,” Horace grates out. “Reinforcements will be here any minute.”
He’s right.
“So we’re taking her,” I say. “Back to Darkbirch.”
The dragon flinches as I speak, pressing herself further into the corner. Her eyes dart between us, weighing one set of captors against another. I can’t blame her.
Chad steps forward, moving with a surprising gentleness. He crouches down, keeping his hands open and visible. “We’re getting you out of here,” he says, his voice low and steady. “But you have to let us.”
She watches him, her breathing shallow and ragged. For a long moment, she doesn’t move. Then, with a slow, pained deliberation, she gives a single, almost imperceptible nod. It’s enough.
Ignatius moves into the van. The dragon hisses in pain as he bends to pick her up, the movement jarring her injuries, but she doesn’t fight them.
I watch as the vampire lifts her, her form surprisingly slight in his arms. She is a creature of immense power, a being of fire and fury, reduced to this—a wounded, shackled girl.
As he carries her out into the moonlight, I see the full extent of the damage.
A deep gash runs along her thigh, and her arms are marred with blood-colored bruises.
But even in this state, there is an undeniable aura of command about her, a regal bearing that the chains and the blood cannot completely extinguish.
This is possibly a bad idea—bringing another lit fuse into our powder keg.
A noble dragoness, captive, in the heart of a darkblood coven, on the very night her people are coming to burn us to the ground.
The political fallout alone could be incendiary.
I’m not sure what Dayn would think, but he isn’t here to consult right now, so…
“Let’s go,” I say, turning my back on the carnage before we can rethink this. “Before hell officially arrives.”
Ignatius takes flight with the dragon—which leaves Horace, Chad, and me.
Horace crouches, lowering himself just enough for me to climb on. I hook my arms around his shoulders, clinging to the cold, unnervingly solid frame of the vampire.
Then Chad steps in behind me. He presses in close, his chest fitting to my back as his arms slide around me to anchor himself to Horace. His hands grip the vampire’s shoulders just above mine, his breath brushing my ear.
My pulse spikes. I’m held between them—Horace’s unmoving strength in front of me, Chad’s heat sealing me in from behind. My back is flush against Chad’s chest, my head tucked just under his chin. There’s nowhere to go, no space to breathe, no part of me not bracketed by one monster or the other.
We are a sandwich of dark creatures, with me as the very mortal, very overwhelmed filling.
Chad's heartbeat hammers into my spine like he's trying to Morse code some demonic message through my vertebrae. He's a freaking furnace, which would be great if I weren't packed between him and Horace's ice chest. Talk about temperature whiplash.
Horace launches himself into the air with a powerful thrust that steals the air from my lungs.
The ground falls away, and we become a dark shape arrowing through the night sky, Ignatius and his dragon cargo a twin shadow beside us.
I try to fixate on counting treetops, cataloging cloud patterns—literally anything that isn't Chad's thighs locked around mine like he's riding a particularly stubborn horse.
Then the world to the south ignites.
A bloom of orange light blossoms on the horizon, silent and terrible.
A moment later, a low, guttural roar rolls across the sky, a sound so deep and primal it vibrates in my bones.
Another gout of fire, bigger this time, punches a hole in the darkness, illuminating the underside of the clouds with a flickering, hellish glow.
Hell’s already here.
“Gods,” I breathe. “That’s the clearblood outpost.”
The camp we just fled. Dragons are attacking it.
From our vantage point, we see them—massive, brutal beasts of scale and fury.
Their wingspans blot out entire swathes of the forest as they descend.
Fire plumes from their mouths, turning the clearing into an inferno.
We are miles away, and I can still feel the percussive force of their assault, the very air trembling with their power. It’s… an annihilation.
A strangled sob cuts through the rush of the wind. It’s the captured dragon. Her eyes are wide as she watches the carnage. Any proud defiance has shattered, replaced by raw, naked anxiety.
“None of this should be happening,” she chokes out, tears streaming down her pale cheeks, catching the distant firelight. “It was all a mistake. We shouldn’t be here.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Her voice cracks. “We basically had no choice. King Anees… he gave us no choice. It was this or be branded a traitor. It was join his war or watch our families be stripped of their names, their lands… their lives. He already arrested my uncle.” She’s shaking now, her body trembling in Ignatius’s arms. “I don’t want this, not really.
We were surviving and peaceful in our home, not perfectly happy but… not at war.”
Her words hang in the cold night air, a damning and depressing confession. Of course, Nyssa already hinted to Esme that this wouldn’t be a unified invasion. It’s a draft. A forced march. The same way I’m shackled to whatever war our coven elders rope us into… including summoning Ides.
The horizon erupts again in a shockwave of heat and light. Even miles away, the heat slaps my face like opening an oven door.
“Faster,” Chad growls, his voice a low rumble against my ear. He's talking to the vampires, but one of his arms cinches around me like he thinks I might dissolve into the night air if he doesn't hold on tight enough.
“Easy, big guy,” I murmur. I’m already seeing stars.
The bloodsuckers amp up the speed and we tear through the night sky toward Darkbirch, the howling wind drowning out everything except the distant roar of dragonfire consuming everything we left behind.