“Weapons?” I asked, my pulse picking up.
“We don’t have proof of that.” But Ignatius didn’t deny it either. “What we do have is a pattern of human-born dragons in his orbit—employees, contractors—people who’ve experienced what he experienced and might be vulnerable to his brand of resentment.”
I set my glass down harder than I intended. The sound was sharp in the quiet room. “You’re saying he targets human-born dragons.”
“I’m saying he surrounds himself with them. Whether that’s for support or exploitation—" Ignatius shrugged, the gesture conveying decades of watching humans and dragons make choices he couldn’t predict. “The Council doesn’t have enough evidence to act. But we watch.”
My dragon was no longer prowling. It was focused, locked on the threat with the kind of intensity that came before a fight. “He’s in Dante Russo’s brother’s life. What I would like to know is, did his brother get this job because of his own merits, or when Clark discovered his brother had just been traded to the Dragons.”
“So would I,” Ignatius agreed quietly, and I knew Ignatius would find out.
The silence stretched between us, carrying weight it hadn’t carried in a hundred years. We’d been friends once, before Clara died. Before I’d withdrawn from the Council and everything else that connected me to the dragon community beyond basic survival. Ignatius had withdrawn too, for different reasons—his own mate lost, his own grief to manage. But he’d come back. For Keegan, his nephew. For Cole, when Cole had needed sanctuary. For all the young dragons who needed someone to teach them what they were.
“You have talent in metallurgy that Odin can only dream of,” Ignatius said, and his voice had gone careful. “The kind of instinctive understanding of metal that made you exceptional before—” He stopped.
“Before Clara,” I finished for him. “You can say her name, Ignatius. It’s been over a hundred years.”
“Has it?” He looked at me with those gray eyes that had watched empires rise and fall. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re still building walls with the same materials.”
I didn’t answer that. Couldn’t answer that, because he was right and we both knew it.
“Clara was human,” Ignatius continued, his voice gentler now. “But being your mate made her invaluable to someone like Odin, if he’d known what to look for. If he’d had the knowledge he has now.”
My hands tightened on the armrests. “He wasn’t born when she died.”
“No. But the people who killed her were looking for exactly the kind of leverage Odin would understand. They wanted to control you through her. They wanted your gifts, your knowledge, your ability to work metal in ways no human smith ever could.” Hepaused. “They failed. But the principle remains.” He paused. “And the ability to find it.”
I stood up because sitting was suddenly impossible, knowing exactly the precious resource he meant. One that not even Ignatius could find. I moved to the window and stared out at Chicago sprawling below us, all light and shadow and the anonymity of a city that didn’t care about your history. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I can see what’s happening,” Ignatius said behind me. “And if what I’m sensing is unfolding then you have more than a human team member to protect.”
“What the world does isn’t my concern.” I deliberately misunderstood, but he didn’t let me get away with it.
“No, Theron. We both know the boy is much more important to you than the world.”
Chapter ten
Line Change - Substituting players during live play.
Dante
I was halfway through reviewing game footage on my tablet when Kincaid dropped into the seat beside me.
The team plane wasn’t full. Most of the guys had spread out, Max and Flint in the back going over plays, Cole and Phoenix across the aisle with their heads together, Keegan two rows up already asleep with his headphones on.
I’d taken a window seat by myself because my ribs still ached and my face throbbed, and I wasn’t in the mood to make conversation about the loss or Antoine or any of the thousand things I didn’t want to think about.
Kincaid settling beside me changed all of that.
“Russo,” he said by way of greeting.
I pulled out my earbuds. “Coach.”
He had a folder with him—the physical kind, paper and everything, which seemed anachronistic for a man who ran plays off a tablet behind the bench. He set it on the tray table between us with care that suggested it contained something important.
“I want to talk about your training schedule,” he said. “Once you’re cleared to skate again.”
That made sense. Professional. The kind of conversation a coach had with a player who’d been sidelined by injury. I relaxed fractionally. “Okay. Cinder said maybe in a few days if the ribs cooperate,” which meant I would miss the next one, maybe two games.
