Ignite the Infernos (Secret of the Syphon #2)

Chapter 1

Ever

My heart flutters in warning, and panic starts to sweep through me. I meet the flash flood of memories and trauma head-on.

You’re not there.

You escaped.

You’re okay.

I repeat the chant until my body starts to believe it.

The tremor in my hand disappears and my rapid pulse settles.

The tightness in my chest gives way, and I’m able to take a deep breath and carry on.

When the button on the device turns green, I quickly press it, not wanting to give myself any more time to second-guess what I’m doing.

Deftly, the instrument injects a needle and, thankfully, I don’t feel so much as a pinch.

The vacutainer attached to the other end of the venipuncture tool flashes from clear to dark red, confirming that everything is working as it should.

I exhale the breath I was holding when the sight of the blood doesn’t trigger any more reactions.

Progress.

In no time, my blood fills the first vial, and the chamber housing it rotates until a new vacutainer is loaded.

Each tube holds two milliliters, or forty drops of blood, which is a small fortune in Drameric.

I keep an eye on the closed door of my shabby rent-by-the-hour room, my senses trained on the empty hallway on the other side of it.

So far, so good. No one knows who I am or what I’m doing, but I need to hurry so it stays that way.

Another vial loads and begins to fill with my blood.

That’s five down with five to go. I debate again if I should draw more than the ten tubes already chambered.

It might save me a panic attack down the road if I sort it out now, but I don’t want to tempt fate.

Carrying around too many depositors is risky, and I’m not looking to add to the list of dangerous things that are hunting me.

When all ten vacutainers are full, the venipuncture device trills an alert.

The button on top flashes from green to purple, indicating that the tool’s needle has been withdrawn and the instrument is now self-cleaning.

The tourniquet depressurizes, and I quickly remove the full tubes from the chamber and insert them into their respective depositors.

Bright blue instructions illuminate the tops of the containers, but the light blinks out when I assign security codes that seal each depositor shut.

The anxious moths fluttering in my stomach begin to settle when the blood I’ve drawn is finally secure and no one has kicked down the door.

I’ve been careful about getting what I need for this part of the plan, but you never know when your luck is going to run out in a place like Temmeh.

Border territories are not for the weak.

My com flashes 9:07 a.m. and begins to vibrate from the silent alarm I set.

I turn it off and hurry to disassemble the Collector Kit until it’s once again a palm-sized cube.

The kit goes into my pack, and I prepare to leave.

I have three minutes to get out of this pay-to-stay room and down to the street where I’ve mapped out a handful of escape routes.

Thankfully, I haven’t had to use any of my just in case backup plans yet, but I’m not letting that go to my head.

It’s only been twenty-eight hours since I killed the Relacour Matron and took off.

Aeson and his Wing are going to find me—I have no doubt about that—but unlike last time, I’m not slinking through the shadows to avoid The Horde.

The curse is broken now, and in a few more hours, my hiding days are over.

I do a quick weapons check, ensuring everything I escaped with is still secure.

A twinge of regret passes through me when I run a hand over the two empty lock sheaths on my back.

They should house my lizard daggers, but I didn’t have time to look for them in the rubble back at the Fae Gate, so, regretfully, I had to abandon them.

My mind tries to take me back there, tries to plant me smack-dab in the middle of the collapsing barracks with Aeson and his Wing lying unconscious all around me.

I can taste the ash and dust in the air, feel the Matron’s blood cooling on my hands.

With a sharp tug, I leash those thoughts and force them away.

There will be plenty of time in the future, when I can relive everything that went wrong and right, but today is not that day. There’s too much to do.

The rickety chair I’m sitting on creaks when I get up.

I groan in agreement, my body painfully protesting the movement.

Fuck, I’m tired, and hungry, but all of that will have to wait until later.

I take one last look around the dilapidated room I’ve spent the last few hours in.

I don’t spot anything that I’m not leaving behind on purpose.

I haven’t gone near the bed, which is still made with a coverlet that’s a concerning hue of splotchy taupe.

The only things in the room I’ve touched are the wobbly table and the three-legged chair in the corner, and I quickly wipe them down, removing all traces of me.

It’s probably a pointless effort. I have no doubt that one of Aeson’s Thrashers will still track me to this location, but at least it feels like I’m doing everything I can to prolong the inevitable.

My small pack clips around my hips, helpfully covering my belt of PHaSR grenades.

I pull on the cloak I lifted off a drunk imp and do my best not to smell it.

For some reason, it reeks of centaur shit despite being perfectly clean.

I’m pretty sure it’s an anti-theft spell, but joke’s on them, because it’s working in my favor by masking my scent so far.

With the Syphon curse broken, I should smell like a drake now, but I can’t detect a change and I haven’t had anyone confirm it one way or another.

There’s been no screaming and running away from me, no mounting fear from the few people I’ve interacted with.

Then again, I’ve been taking advantage of unsavory channels managed by Arcs who don’t fear much or ask questions, so who’s to say.

Maybe I need to reveal first before my scent morphs into something more alarming, or maybe it’s my lucky day and centaur shit is the perfect olfactory distraction?

I check my reflection in the remnants of a shattered mirror by the room’s door and give myself a few seconds to marvel at my dragon mark.

I run a finger gently over the various lines cladding my throat.

They’re a beautiful array of strong and delicate markings that stop just under my jaw and spill down my chest, my back, and over my shoulders.

A chill rushes down my spine as I take the marks in.

Goose bumps crawl across my arms like constellations of confirmation.

I did it.

I freed the Syphons.

And now all I want to do is everything I haven’t been able to.

I want to call on my scale armor. I want to dive headfirst into the river of power now surging through my veins.

I want to reveal . But I can’t?.?.?. not yet.

Phase two of the Syphons’ plan is well on its way, and I need to get going.

I’ve waited sixty-two years for my dragon; I can wait another day, even if it feels like torture.

I study my fragmented reflection for another second, and then I pull my stolen cloak’s hood over my head.

Instantly, the smell makes me grimace, but my fire-red hair and new dragon mark disappear within the shadow of the cowl.

A few inches of my armored suit are visible around my wrists, but everything else is lost under night-blue fabric and an air of don’t fucking talk to me .

I blend in with the residents of Temmeh perfectly.

The door to the room opens and then closes with a dull click of the latch.

The dim hallway beyond is still empty, and my boots are silent on the sandstone floor.

No one loitering around the lodging house pays any attention to me as I leave, but when I exit the building, I’m bombarded by a swell of unforgiving desert heat.

Fuck the fae, it’s hot.

I forgot just how blistering it gets down here.

The morning hour does nothing to stave off the merciless temperature, and it immediately gets to work melting me where I stand.

The thermal sensors in the suit Nixy gave me for my Naming turn on and start rapidly working to cool me down.

The sweat already beading across my nape starts to dry, and I vow to give the wyvern anything and everything she wants the next time I see her.

The streets of Temmeh are calm, but every sense I possess is on high alert as I weave through pedestrians and dodge the drone traffic zipping around the walkways.

As cities go, this one has a failing grip on the title.

The facades of the buildings have been scraped raw by one too many sandstorms. The flyways above have an enter at your own risk appeal, and the residents take great pride showing visitors why this is a place you only pass through.

Temmeh is the feral little brother of all the other cities that border The Scorch.

It’s an Arc-eat-Arc world down here, and if one of them doesn’t get you, the elements will.

Head on a swivel, I wind my way through several blocks.

My pace is unhurried, but my heart doesn’t get the memo; it thrums harder and faster with each step toward my destination.

For the thousandth time today, I run through the plan.

It’s simple: Open a bank account, make a deposit, fund a credit band, and then get the fuck out of town.

It’s not the wisest move for someone needing to stay off The Horde’s radar, but it’s unavoidable at this point.