Prologue
Fire consumed him. It burned cold and blue from within, igniting bone and sinew into fiery agony. He beat his leathery wings, fighting to remain airborne, to escape the sorcerer, but each muscle contraction spread the spell closer to his heart. The scales on his chest blackened and cracked and the soft skin underneath peeled and burst, raining blood on the earth below. He roared, spitting fire between his teeth and snorting smoke from his nostrils.
An updraft forced him higher into the sky. Miniscule thatched roofs dotted the landscape, like game pieces along a winding dirt road. A patchwork of fields stretched as far as the eye could see and only small forests, not nearly big enough for him to hide within, stood on the edges. His wings trembled. His whole body trembled, the fire blurring his vision. He couldn’t remain aloft for long, but he couldn’t land, not so close to the humans. He wouldn’t survive the fight. And yet, each movement, even the tiniest ones to keep aloft, sent sharp agony straight to his heart.
More scales blackened, cracked, and peeled away. He strained ahead, his reptilian snout stretched forward, as if that would make him fly faster. If he could just get away, maybe, just maybe he wouldn’t be the next of his kin to die. The next to fall to human treachery.
He beat at the air, each stroke more unbearable than the next. His breath caught in his throat, and the ground below swam in and out of focus, growing darker and darker. Just a little farther. He could do it.
Sharp, sudden pain clutched his heart. He gasped, and with that inhalation the spell entered his veins and consumed him. It burned brighter and hotter than even the core of a lava bath. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. All he could feel was pain. An all-consuming agony. He hurtled toward the earth, the wind biting the soft flesh exposed by his broken scales.
With the last of his strength, he cast the only counter spell he knew.
Chapter One
Anaea climbed over the railing and watched the water below rush by. Its cold, dark embrace called to her, promising to wrap around her, pull her down until she was numb and sleepy. She hadn’t thought this was how she’d die; pills had seemed more likely. Heck, she had hoped she could win her fight and die of old age in some retirement home, not at thirty-three when her life was just getting started. But her doctor had said: metastasized.
And now she was here.
She hadn’t even thought about it, just fled from his office, knowing she didn’t want to waste away, fading into death in some hospital bed. She had fought so hard, and had still lost. Lost her job, lost her right breast, lost her husband–and good riddance to the cheating bastard–and now she would lose her life. The only thing left in her control was how.
The water moved too fast to freeze, even in mid-January, but her winter coat would drag her down and the cold would ease her senses and she would slip into that which she had feared the most, death.
Her gut churned at the thought. She wanted to scream and rant and cry and knew it would be all for nothing. It wouldn’t make her feel better. It wouldn’t make her stop trembling.
In a way, it was a relief. Good or bad, her battle was done. Finally. And if she kept telling herself that, maybe she wouldn’t lose her nerve.
Really. There was no more left to do. She supposed she should call Mark and say goodbye. But her marriage had isolated her, alienated her from her best friend and she didn’t know if Mark wanted to talk to her any more.
“Hey.” The voice was firm, masculine.
Great. A good Samaritan. Just what she needed. She should jump, avoid the conversation, save herself the trouble, but she couldn’t make herself let go of the railing. It wasn’t a sense of self-preservation–she was sure of that–it was something else, perhaps the tone of his voice.
“You know, whatever it is, I’m sure it won’t seem so bad in the morning.”
She snorted. Nope. She’d still be dying in the morning.
“Listen, I’m sure you mean well. . . .” She leaned back and glanced at him. He looked like his voice, firm and masculine. He wore a double-breasted coat cut to mid-calf that accentuated a broad chest and narrow hips. His face was square with high cheek bones and dark eyes. A brush-cut of his dark hair finished off the look. The overall impression was deliciously handsome and if it were a different day–or she a different person–she might have considered flirting with him.
He inched closer, crossing the headlight beam until it backlit him, casting his face in shadow.
“Why don’t you just climb back over the railing.” His voice held a tenderness she hadn’t expected from someone who looked so . . . well, so masculine. It was just fate being cruel that made them meet under such circumstances, and that, really, was neither here nor there.
“And once I’m safe on the bridge, what?”
He hesitated.
Ah, didn’t want to waste extra time on her. Sure, be the hero then rush away. Fine. What the heck was she waiting for anyway? He didn’t really care about her. How could he? He didn’t know her, and even if he did there was nothing he could do for her. No miracle cure for cancer expected in the next three months.
She let go of the rail, spread her arms, and leaned forward. This was it. She didn’t want to do it and yet she didn’t want a slow death, either.
From the corner of her eyes she glimpsed a flash of movement, then something jerked her back. Her collar dug into her throat, cutting off her breath. Shit. He’d grabbed her coat.
“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded.
She twisted in his grip, but he held tight. “What does it look like?”
“It looks like you’re crazy.”
“Then let me go.”
“No.”
God. She couldn’t even kill herself in peace. She fumbled with the buttons on her coat, her fingers numb from holding the metal railing.
“I will not justify myself to you.” He had no right to tell her what to do. Her fingers were too slow. She grabbed the edges of her coat and yanked. The buttons pinged against the railing. She twisted to face him, using his grip on the coat to shrug out of it.
He seized the front of her sweater with his free hand. She clawed at it, but he pulled her close and wrapped his arm around her back.
She twisted, squirmed, but her last bout of chemo had left her weak and the railing between them made it difficult to fight back.
Sudden, sharp pain bit her shoulder. She gasped and froze. The man’s eyes were hard, his mouth a tight line. Behind him stood a blond woman with a smile that sent a shiver down Anaea’s spine. A blade protruded from the man’s chest. The weapon had gone right through him and cut into Anaea’s arm.
The woman leaned against the man, pinning him to the railing and pressing a jagged hunting knife against his neck. “Give me the medallion.”
The man shook his head. His eyes were fierce, dark.
“Good answer.” The woman yanked the knife across his neck.
Hot blood sprayed Anaea’s face, stinging her eyes. An enormous, horrifying gash opened his neck.
The man gurgled, his grip on her sweater tightened, turning his knuckles white, and his face contorted in pain as he threw himself over the railing. His weight slammed into her. The railing tore from her grip and they tumbled off the bridge.
Over his shoulder, the woman stood in stark detail. Her expression was stunned, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. The headlights from the man’s car glinted off the sword blade and blood ran down its length onto her hand. A sword, an actual, honest-to-goodness, medieval weapon. What kind of trouble was this man in?
Then they hit the water. The force of the blow knocked the breath from her, and the cold stung her face, scalp, and hands. Her clothes grew heavy, pulling her down. The need for air made her lungs burn, and her brain screamed at her to surface.
But this was what she wanted. If she just waited long enough she’d sink too far and not be able to surface in time. Her struggle would end. She’d finally beat the cancer.
And her good Samaritan would die with her. If he hadn’t stopped to help her that woman might not have found him. He made no attempt to surface, and with that gash in his neck and a hole through his chest he probably didn’t have the strength to do so. It was shocking he still lived. The wound looked deep enough to have severed his wind pipe and arteries. He still clung to the front of her sweater and she clutched his hands to keep them in place. Perhaps it wasn’t as bad as it appeared and she could save him.
She kicked against the water but with his extra weight and their engorged clothes she merely stopped them from sinking any further.
Come on. She kicked again. She knew he was hurting, but she didn’t know if she could do it by herself. If she thought it hard enough, let it show on her face, maybe he’d understand and help. She might be ready to die, but she wasn’t ready to let him die even if the odds of his survival were slim.
His gaze met hers, freezing her in place. Something flickered through his dark eyes, a decision, but she couldn’t fathom what. Jerking her toward him, he smashed his lips against hers. He thrust his tongue between her lips, forcing her mouth open. His breath was warm and sweet, tasting ever so slightly of mint. It sent heat to her very core, pouring down her throat and spreading across her chest and deep into her gut.
The heat grew, melting away the bite of the freezing water until fire radiated from every pore. An inferno rushed through her veins, raced into every organ, muscle, and bone. Growing, burning, until she felt she’d burst or burn up or both.
She threw her head back and screamed. Water flooded her mouth and white light shot out.