Nice Dragons Finish Last (Heartstrikers) (14 page)

“Maybe I don’t want to be a good dragon.”

Chelsie stopped, turning back to him with blood-chilling slowness. “Excuse me?”

He pushed up to his knees, wiping the dirt from his face with trembling hands, though whether the shaking was from anger or fear, even Julius didn’t know. “So far as I can tell, ‘good dragon’ is just another name for coldblooded sociopath,” he said. “No friends, no trust, no love. Why would I ever want to live like that? It’s not like any of you good dragons are happy.”

The taunt echoed down the alley, and for one heartbeat, Chelsie’s cold expression morphed into a mask of pure rage. As he saw the anger flaring in his sister’s eyes, Julius knew this was it. This was his death. When Chelsie was done, they’d be finding pieces of him all over the DFZ. But just as he was making peace with his final end, Chelsie’s anger vanished, covered up in an instant by the usual haughty disdain most dragons wore when looking down on him.

“Oh, Julius,” she said, her voice pitying. “You are so young. Too young and far too exposed to sentimental human idiocy to understand what it truly means to be a Heartstriker. But you will learn, little whelp, or you will break. Either way, consider this your first and only warning.”

She crouched down as she finished, her face hovering over his like she was going to bite off his head. When she spoke again, her voice was barely more than a breath.

“You make one more mess,” she whispered. “You set one talon out of line, make one ounce of trouble for our family in this place, and you won’t have to worry about being a good dragon any longer. Because I will end you, right then, right there. You won’t even see it coming, and no one except your little human girlfriend will mourn you. Nod if you understand.”

Julius nodded, and Chelsie’s lips curled into an icy smile. “Good boy,” she murmured, straightening up. “And on that note, I hope you didn’t need any of those humans, because they’re fish food now.”

He swallowed against the bile that rose in his throat and ducked his head. Of course she’d killed them. Chelsie was a C, one of two surviving children from their mother’s third clutch, which meant she had to be seven hundred years old at least. She’d probably killed more humans in the name of ‘cleaning up messes’ than Julius had met in his entire life. He didn’t even care that Bixby’s goons were gone; he just couldn’t get the image of Chelsie casually breaking the unconscious men’s necks before tossing them in the water out of his head. By the time he pulled himself together enough to look up again, the alley was empty.

After his first shaky attempt at standing landed him back on knees, Julius used his hands to pull himself up the wall until he was back on his feet. He brushed off his worn jeans and shirt as best he could, but it was hopeless. His clothes had been ratty to begin with, and life in the DFZ was proving to be too much for them. Still, he took the time to make himself as presentable as possible and not like he’d just gotten kicked around an alley before heading back to the car.

To his enormous relief, Marci was right where he’d left her. He hadn’t actually realized how scared he’d been that she’d leave until he saw her sitting in the front seat of her car, examining something round and golden under the cabin light. From this distance, it looked kind of like a gilded softball, or maybe an oversized Christmas ornament. Whatever it was, she shoved it back into her bag when she heard him coming, leaning over to push open the passenger door for him instead.

“What happened?” she cried, eyes flicking over his disarrayed clothing as he sat down. “You look like you got mugged! Are you okay?”

“No,” Julius said, forcing himself to sit normally instead of collapsing, which was what he really wanted to do.

“No, you’re not okay, or no, you didn’t get mugged?”

Yes,
Julius thought. “No, I didn’t get mugged,” he said, pulling his phone out of his pocket to pull up the address Lark had given him for where Katya was supposedly shacking up with her shaman. “It’s not important. We need to get mov—”

He froze. Two new messages from the Unknown Caller had arrived on his phone while he’d been in the alley with Chelsie. One looked like a copy of the first message, just the word
duck,
but the final message was new.

“Goose,” Julius read, staring at the glowing letters. “Duck, duck, goose.”

“What are you talking about?” Marci asked.

Julius didn’t answer. He just leaned forward and banged his head against the scuffed dash. He brought it down a few more times for good measure before sitting up again. “I don’t know,” he said tiredly, waving his fingers through the hazy sphere of augmented reality above the phone’s screen to delete both of Bob’s messages forever. “I don’t understand anything. I’m terrible at this, apparently.”

Marci looked more confused than ever. “Terrible at what?”

Being a dragon, he wanted to tell her. Being a scheming lizard who didn’t need to be reminded to murder witnesses and understood cryptic messages from crazy seers. And right then, he wished Marci actually was his human girlfriend, because he could really use a hug.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered, leaning over to type the address Lark had given him into the car’s autonav. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Marci didn’t look convinced, but to Julius’s relief, she didn’t ask any more questions. She just let the car pull them into the dark, canyon-like streets between the factories, back toward the city.

***

When his retrieval team failed to check in, Bixby ordered the rest of his employees to cancel their evening plans. They were going to Detroit.

“
All
of us?” cried the mage he’d hired to replace the one the Novalli girl had blown up. “To the
DFZ
? But—”

Bixby’s second, Oslo, cut the man off with a wave of his huge hand, saving his life. Not that that was why Oslo had done it, of course, but the mage was too new to recognize when Bixby was in killing mood. If his ignorance got him shot, Oslo was the one who’d have to find them another replacement mage on short notice, and if there was anything Oslo hated, it was doing more work than was absolutely necessary.

“I want this taken care of fast and right,” Bixby went on, leaning forward on his desk as he swept his eyes menacingly over the hired muscle crowding his normally spacious office. “I don’t care what you spend, I don’t care who you piss off, and I don’t care what you break. I just want that overhyped golden grapefruit back in Vegas in time for the drop-off tomorrow night, and I want that little thief delivered to my office trussed up like a pig.”

Oslo sighed and removed his hat to wipe a white handkerchief across his smooth shaved, and completely dry, head. It was his favorite stalling technique when he wanted to say something he knew his boss wouldn’t like, so Bixby wasn’t at all surprised when his second finally said, “I know you’re pissed, sir, but if you don’t mind me asking, what’s all this with the girl? Aldo was the one who stole the thing from you in the first place, and he’s been coyote food for days now. It don’t matter how much money you throw at this, it’s gonna take a miracle for us to get your stolen property out of the DFZ and back here before the deadline. If we have to worry about the girl, too, I don’t think we can—”

“Oslo,” Bixby said, drumming his fingers on the arm of his leather chair. “There are times when you’re paid to think and times when you’re paid to do what I tell you. Guess which one this is?”

Oslo put his hat back on with a sigh. “Sure thing, boss. Thief trussed up like a pig. Got it.”

“And no killing,” Bixby said, jabbing his finger at his men. “Rough her up, scare her, cut off her arms, I don’t care, but she keeps breathing or you all don’t. Got me?”

When Oslo nodded, Bixby waved his hand. “Good. Now get out of here. I’m expecting a phone call.”

Actually, his phone call had been scheduled for two hours ago, but this client never called on time. If it had been anyone else, Mr. Bixby wouldn’t have tolerated such behavior for love or money, but this client was his seer as well as his buyer, and real seers were a lot harder to replace than mages.

Now that the marching orders had been given, Oslo jerked his head, and the room cleared out. When his men were gone, Bixby messaged his numbers guy to start moving money into the operational budget. Out-of-town work was always more expensive than one expected, and Bixby didn’t want Oslo to have any excuses if this fell through. He also sent notes around to his Detroit contacts to make sure no one up there took offense when Oslo’s war party rolled into their territory. He’d covered nearly half the DFZ before his private phone finally began to buzz in his pocket.

Bixby set the sleek black device on his desk. The no expense spared enchanted glass picked up the phone’s AR at once, throwing the incoming message up like a marquee in the air in front of him.

Having trouble, are we?

Bixby grit his teeth. This was another of his seer’s obnoxious peculiarities. The bastard set the call times, but never actually phoned. He only messaged, and none of Bixby’s hackers had ever been able to crack the number behind the Unknown Caller ID.

If the man’s predictions weren’t air tight every time, Bixby would have cut this nonsense off at the throat ages ago. Instead, he tapped his hand on the desk’s glass surface, bringing up the glowing virtual keyboard to type his reply. Since he was alone, he spoke the words out loud as he typed them, just to make himself feel like he was still in charge of this conversation. “It’s being taken care of. We’ll have everything in time for the pick-up tomorrow.”

That’s not what I heard.

Bixby almost put his fist through the glass. He checked his temper at the last second, closing his eyes instead with a deep breath. When he opened them again, several more messages were hanging in the AR.

Poor little Bixby, time’s running out. Of all the predictions I’ve made for you, every single one has come to pass, except the last. You’re courting your own death with this incompetence.

“Screw you!” Bixby yelled at the floating letters, but his fingers were shaking as he began to type his reply, because the seer was right. From the moment the first mysterious message had come into his life last year, everything the seer had predicted had come true exactly as promised, and Bixby had become very, very rich. But this latest prediction was the only one that really mattered, because the last thing the seer had told him was the story of Bixby’s death, and the role Aldo Novalli’s daughter would play in it if he couldn’t get her contained.

“I’ll find her,” he growled as he typed. “You think I don’t know how to catch runners? Even if my men don’t get her in time, I’ve been in this business for thirty years. I’ve had real assassins die just trying to get into my building. There’s no way I’m going down to some little mage girl no one’s ever heard of.”

Save your bluster,
the seer replied.
You think you can rattle your saber and scare the future into doing your bidding like one of your hirelings? How absurd. Time is a river. It flows on and on with no care or notice for those caught in it. But while you can see nothing but the water around you, I have the ability to look downstream. I can see all the possible paths the future might take, and while even I cannot say for certain which way the water will bounce when the time comes, I can tell you without doubt that there is not one single possible future in which you survive past midnight tomorrow without the Novalli girl in your custody. Not a single one. Do I make myself clear?

Bixby let out a long, angry breath. “I’m working on it.”

The reply came instantly.
Work harder. I’ve made you a rich man in many ways, Mr. Bixby, and I can make you richer still. I’ve even told you how to save your pathetic life, but you have to pay the price. I want my Kosmolabe
.
If you do not have my merchandise at sundown tomorrow as promised, the Novalli girl will be the least of your worries. I will contact you again tomorrow at six. See that the news is good.

Bixby slammed his hands on the desk, cutting off the AR with a curse. There was no point in replying after that. Once the seer posted the time of their next conversation, the current one was over, and any other messages he sent would be ignored. Being hung up on like this made him crazy, but there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. The fortune teller was the only person in the world he couldn’t squeeze. He didn’t know where the seer lived, he didn’t even know the jack off’s name. The best he could do was put the whole thing out of his mind and get back to work, and he was attempting to do just that when his phone buzzed again.