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“She was in the database. She disappeared about two weeks ago, and her family put a notice up on one of the Drakán forums. She belongs to the Belgae.”
“What?” This was not what I’d been expecting. She was one of Julian’s. I wasn’t a big believer in coincidence.
“This could work to your advantage,” Erik said. “You now have a reason to show up in his lands unannounced without accusing him of anything and risking your death.”
“Did you find out anything else?”
“Nothing that makes sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“While you were gone I went to dispose of her ashes, and as I was sweeping them away I found two different places where silver had melted from her body and was re-hardening into discs. Each disc weighed exactly 5.995 grams.”
“So she had coins embedded in her skin. That’s not unusual for dragons who sleep on their hoards.”
“No, but those were the only two pieces I found, and they just happen to be the exact weight of a silver half shekel—the silver coins that Judas Iscariot received to betray Jesus.”
“So she was a traitor?”
“That’s for you to find out. I’m just a scientist.”
“You’ve never been just a scientist.”
Erik’s posture stiffened and he gave me a curt bow—every inch the Roman general he used to be—before turning on his heel and heading to his wing of the house. Erik’s moods changed with the winds, and I never knew if the things I said hurt or helped the way he felt about being powerless.
I put Erik out of my mind and fled the rest of the way up the stairs, my thoughts racing with possibilities. I didn’t know what Jillian had to do with The Destroyer, or what she’d done to deserve such a horrific death. But I knew I had to find him. And the best place to start was with Julian of the Belgae.
I had a plane to Belgium to catch. I just prayed to the gods that Julian gave me a chance to explain my reasons for crossing into his territory before he tried to turn me to ashes.
ChapterEight
When the plane landed in Brussels, I uncurled my cramped fingers from around the armrests and leaned my head back against the cool leather of my seat. The nausea was slowly fading. My skin was clammy with sweat and my legs were shaking. If an enemy wanted to kill me, now was the perfect time to do so. I hated to fly.
The only flight I could get on such short notice had three connections, so I got to experience the pure terror of takeoff and landing three times as much as normal. My connecting flight from Heathrow to Brussels had been the last one of the day. The flight attendant had announced—in a chirpy voice that made me want to vomit down the front of her crisp white blouse—that it was after ten o’clock in the evening when the wheels touched down. 10:07 to be exact.
I restrained myself from dropping to my knees and kissing the ground as I walked through the terminal with my small carry-on wheeled bag and my purse. The airport was all but deserted—the gray walls dingier than they would have seemed in daylight—the kiosks more pathetic as they stood abandoned. I was starving, but all of the food places were already closed. The only thing that was still open was a small bar, about a hundred square feet of long countertop and cramped tables. It was dark on the inside. A neonOPENsign flickered in the front window, trying to decide if it wanted to go out completely. It looked like an oasis after the hell I’d just been through.
“Three fingers of whiskey, please. Neat,” I told the bartender. She tore her gaze away from the book she was reading and looked me over from head to toe, obviously not impressed with what she saw. She handed me the drink and went back to her book. I knocked the whiskey back in two swallows, and finally felt warmth return to my body. The tension that squeezed along my spine and up to the base of my neck started to ease and I took my first deep breath.
I paid for my drink and turned to leave, but I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the front window. No wonder the bartender hadn’t been impressed. I wore a black pencil skirt and white silk blouse. The skirt was wrinkled beyond repair and torn at the hem, and a man had spilled coffee down the front of my blouse during my connecting flight in Boston. I’d already thrown my jacket in a trash bin because the shoulder seam ripped when it got caught in the turnstile at Heathrow. Not to mention I’d been selected for a random security check at all three airports.
I had an extra change of clothes in my carry-on, so I headed toward the restrooms. It would be a few minutes before my checked luggage came through, so I’d have time. My heels clicked in rapid staccato against the tile floor and echoed against the space that surrounded me. Everything was too still. Warnings surged inside my mind, and the exhaustion that had taken over my body from the long trip flared into pure adrenaline.
My steps quickened, and I resisted the urge to rub warmth into the pebbled flesh on my arms. Power was a physical rush, and the greater a person’s power, the larger the circle it cast out. The airport wasn’t crowded, but the people who were there all began to slow. Their movements stilled completely until they all stood frozen in time—a lifelike snapshot they’d never remember. It was surreal moving between the fleshy statues. I’d never before seen anything like it.
My dragon senses were rioting inside me, and I began to run.
Rena Drake. Come.
I looked over my shoulder. There was no one there. The voice wasn’t low or high, but the language it was spoken in was unmistakable. Only the oldest of our kind still used the language of our lost civilization. My father and Calista both still used it. I knew how to speak it because it was required as Enforcer—just like it was required to speak the native languages of all five of the clans. But the old language was power in itself.
I’d never had the ability to change into a physical dragon form. It was an ability I’d always assumed had passed me by because of the human blood that ran through my veins, and I’d never questioned this lack because most of the younger generations couldn’t transform.
But just because I couldn’t transform on the outside didn’t mean my dragon wasn’t inside me. And she let herself be known with a vengeance as the old language was spoken. The words called her, and she writhed beneath my skin as she tried to follow orders like an obedient soldier. It took all my willpower to put one foot in front of the other and not succumb to the seduction of that immense power.
Julian had sent a telepath as strong as I was to greet me. Maybe even stronger. Other than Calista, I wasn’t even aware that someone like this existed.Is she an Enforcer?These were questions I was definitely going to ask.
But for whatever reason, Julian had sent her for me. And it wasn’t a good sign. Even in times of war there were rituals to be upheld, and I’d assumed Julian would follow tradition. I’d fully expected a ceremonial greeting as soon as I’d gotten off the plane. Stupid me.
