Chapter 22 - GIDEON
As I disappeared into the dark, I refused to think about Klaus. If I let myself think about the boy too long, think about how small he was, how soft his hair still felt under my palm, how he'd smiled at me and held Inga's hand like she was his universe—I shook my head—I'd burn the city down.
So I didn't think. I moved.
I cut into the first alley past the corner, narrow and stinking of coal smoke, piss, and rotting brick.
A stray dog bolted deeper into the shadows when it saw me, ribs sharp under its mangy coat.
A cat stared down from a second-floor window with no glass, just a black rectangle cut into ruined stone.
This was a bad idea. Shifting in the city was always a bad idea. Too many eyes. Too many guns. Too much that could go wrong.
The dragon did not care.
They took our brood, he snarled. They took our hatchling!
He wasn't mine by blood, but that didn't matter. Klaus had crawled under my skin the day he'd waved at my plane below the air bridge, and something in the dragon had quietly marked him.
One of ours.
I pulled my jacket off, then my shirt, fingers moving fast, breath coming too hard. Boots, socks, trousers—folded them into a bundle the dragon could carry. The cobblestones were cool under my bare feet.
I closed my eyes and let the dragon uncoil the second I stopped holding him down. Heat began in my chest, low and deep, a coal that had been sitting banked all day suddenly cracked open. It spread along my ribs, down my spine, licking through my veins with molten fingers.
Bones stretched.
Joints popped.
The world tilted.
I clenched my teeth and rode it out, jaw grinding as my muscles bunched and twisted, tendons lengthening, skin tightening. Scales rippled up my arms, across my chest, down my legs in a wave of molten gold and bronze, catching the faint lantern light in a thousand tiny mirrors.
My hands curled, fingers lengthening, nails turning black and hard as iron.
My shoulders wrenched backward, blades tearing free, unfolding into wings, vast, heavy, every movement a rush of air and muscle.
My vision sharpened; the alley exploded into detail: every crack in the bricks, every shift in the shadows, the shimmer of heat from the sewer vent.
The pain was bright, clean, familiar. It felt like coming home.
When it passed, I was no longer standing; I was crouched low in the alley, massive and coiled, tail thrumming against stone, wings half-furled to avoid brushing the walls.
I exhaled.
A thin streamer of smoke curled out into the night.
I picked up the bundle of my clothes with one talon.
The dragon's eyes—my eyes—saw Berlin differently from above the ruins.
Even hunched, my head brushed the second story.
With care, I pressed claws into the stone and launched myself upward, wings unfurling in a heavy, thunderous beat.
For one second, my belly cleared the rooftop by inches.
Then I was above it, wings catching a stray gust, rising into the hazy sky.
The city spread beneath me like an open wound.
Pale scars of half-cleared streets. Black craters where buildings once stood.
The skeletal spire of the ruined church, a snapped finger pointing accusingly at the stars.
A few pockets of life: a tram rattling along a repaired line, its windows casting a warm yellow glow; a single street musician playing a lonely accordion on a corner; a line of women carrying buckets from a pump, their washing lines strung between broken walls.
I pulled a deep breath into my lungs. Under the coal smoke and river stink and distant engine fumes, scents sharpened into layers. Warm metal from Tempelhof. Cold stone from the government quarter. Old blood from a bombed hospital that would never be rebuilt. Soot, urine, damp plaster.
No Klaus.
Not yet.
But the dragon could smell fear like a storm on the air. And underneath that, the sour tang of Soviet tobacco and cheap spirits, the reek of gasoline and leather from Russian trucks, the faint trace of the grease they used on their rifles.
They were everywhere. But the line between sectors had its own scent too. Three times I wheeled low over the boundary streets, muscles itching to dive, but I held back. If they saw a dragon in their air? That wouldn't just be a provocation.
That would be war.
Information first, I told myself. Then fire.
Reluctantly, I angled toward the American sector, toward a street I had always avoided. A requisitioned townhouse with darker windows than the others. Extra guards. Curtains that never opened fully.
The spook's nest.
I circled once, twice, then dropped low into an alley behind it, claws scraping brick as I pulled in wings and let the bones break backward into a man's shape again.
The reverse shift was faster—less fight, more collapse—but it still stole my breath.
When I could stand, I grabbed my clothes from the bundle and yanked them on with shaking hands. I didn't bother with the front door.
By the time I reached the corner, the scent was already there: ink, cold tobacco, soap too expensive for this city. The gray suit. I would have recognized it anywhere. I followed it.
He was under a broken gas lamp two blocks away, flame flickering weakly inside the glass like it didn't want to be alive. He stood with his back to me, lighting a cigarette with careful hands, talking to a man who looked like he'd be rather anywhere else than here with him.
I stepped into the alley, and the spook turned slightly. If he was surprised to see me, he didn't let on. I jerked my chin at the other man, and he was smart enough to recognize my interruption as a get out of jail free card and took off.
"You're going to tell me where the boy is," I told the spook.
He exhaled smoke and sighed, long-suffering. "You pilots," he said mildly. "So dramatic. Catch me up."
I closed the distance in three steps. Not fast. Not loud. Just inevitable. "Klaus," I clarified. "Six years old. He was taken tonight."
That got him to finally turn. Up close, his calm looked thinner. His eyes flicked once—left, right—measuring exits. The dragon stirred under my skin, pleased.
"You're asking about matters you don't understand, Captain," he shook his head.
I leaned in close enough for him to feel the heat bleed off me. "Try me."
His eyes flickered slightly, then he shrugged. "Children disappear in Berlin every day."
He was right, I'd heard about the Russians collecting children and taking them into the east sector. Still, "Not like this. Not after you threatened her."
It took a good amount of self-control not to grab him by the throat and pin him against the wall. Every second wasted here was time Inga suffered not knowing, and Klaus… God knows what.
"They're usually taken in groups," I went on to make it clear I knew more than he thought I did. "Trucks. Promises. Klaus was targeted."
That's when I remembered the dark shadow a few nights ago when we were taking Hilde to the hospital.
I should have listened to my instincts. I should have stopped and demanded what he wanted.
I ran a hand through my hair. Too late. Fury weaved through me; it was getting harder to control by the moment. "Where," I repeated softly, "is Klaus?"
He studied me for a long moment, then smiled without humor. "You really would burn the city down for her, wouldn't you."
That wasn't a question.
"You've been interested in my services before," I said. "Now I'm interested in your information."
His smile sharpened. "Careful. That sounds like an offer."
I took another step. The gas lamp guttered. Steam hissed through my teeth.
"I'm not offering," I said. "I'm collecting."
"Now, let's talk about that. Tit for tat." He tried with a gleam in his eyes. He thought he had me.
We glared at each other. I allowed the dragon to shift through, carefully, just enough for the Spook to see the fire in my eyes.
Finally, he spoke. "I didn't order to have the child taken, but my bet would be that he is alive.
" My lungs unlocked, my eyes narrowed, and he must have realized I wasn't in the mood for games, so he added, "With family. "
The word didn't make any sense.
"Inga is his family," I growled.
He sighed. "His Father. He's with the Russians—high-ranking and untouchable."
My blood went ice-cold, my mind whirled. Inga said her father went missing in Russia. If he were alive… no, there wasn't time for any of that right now, I would find out the details later.
"Address," I demanded. "Now."
He shook his head once. "And what will you do for me if I give it to you?"
"I'll let you live."
We stared at each other again. He backed down first. But he tried, "If you cross that line, you can't uncross it. East Berlin is not your playground."
I smiled, slow and cold. "Let me worry about that."
The dragon surged. The lamp shattered. Glass rained down around us, and the flame went out with a hiss.
In the sudden dark, he swallowed hard and gave me the address.
I stepped back, already pulling away, already shedding skin and bone as I ran.
Within moments, Berlin reeled beneath me as I rose, the city small and fragile and flammable.
I would bring Klaus home. And anyone who stood in my way would learn exactly what kind of monster they'd just provoked.