EMMA

Three weeks have never passed so quickly.

Or so happily.

I whistle to myself as I stuff a rag into an oil-filled bottle, making another homemade Molotov cocktail to add to my growing collection. I munch on one of the last of my candy canes and mourn that I didn’t pace myself better with them. I should have made them last for years.

You are greedy, comes the teasing voice. I warned you.

“Warn shmarn,” I mutter aloud, but I’m grinning. Zohr did warn me. I just…can’t help myself. I love sugar far too much to slow myself down. “At least I made the candy canes last a few weeks,” I tell him.

True. You ate all the cake in one night.

“Had to. It was going to go stale once I took the vacuum wrap off of it.”

Bah. Excuses.

Yes indeedy, I do love myself a good excuse. Turns out I love them almost as much as I love cake. “It’s a shame you didn’t find me more,” I hint.

I told you I would find you more, but you said this place was safer.

Damn it. Hate it when he’s right.

It’s true that our current home is a lot safer, even if it’s not as exciting as one of the warehouse stores. It’s an old chain auto center, complete with lifts and a bunch of bay doors and everything. The reason why it’s super defensible? Not many windows. No windows, in fact. The first thing I did when we moved in was lock down the bay doors with chains on the inside and welded all the crevices shut.

Well, I didn’t weld them. Zohr did, since he’s the fire-breathing one and all. After those were secured, we continued to scavenge the local area, setting this place up as our hidey-hole. I have a ladder that goes up to the rooftop, which is kind of our vacation pad. I’ve decorated with patio furniture under an umbrella, and stacks of books and binoculars up there. We hang out up there when the weather’s too hot to stay inside and it’s a non-dragon day.

Downstairs, I’ve made a thick, comfy bed with mattresses (from a nearby mattress store), pillows, and all the non-destroyed sheets I could find. There’s a working sink, a pit we can use for barbecuing, and if it’s not the most comfy or attractive spot, it doesn’t matter because no one’s getting into that building without us knowing about it.

Almost done hunting, boo? I send out to him.

I will return soon, I promise. His thoughts are full of goat and fresh meat.

Bring me back a chicken if you see one, I tell him. There was a whole flock of them wandering the street yesterday.

I shall.

Hurry back, I tell him, and send a few sexy thoughts in his direction. Your mate’s lonely.

I can practically hear his pleased growl.

Truth is, I’m not full of shit when I say that. I am lonely when he’s gone. It’s funny how I’d always prided myself on not needing anyone. On being happiest solo. Those days are long gone. I adore Zohr, and spending time with him is one of the greatest joys ever. I love touching my mind to his and sharing a random thought or a smile. He laughs at all my stupid jokes. He loves helping me weaponize. We read books together at night and play card games—and snuggle.

Lots and lots of snuggling.

I’m in love. I’m happy as could be and all I need in the world is him. Nothing else but Zohr matters…which is why I’m determined as hell to make sure this place is as safe as we can possibly make it.

So our little “home” is more of a compound than an actual cozy house to live in. My idea, not his. He says if we were living like dragons do, he’d pick someplace high up and settle us in for a nest, but he can’t fly and I’m not keen on a hundred flights of stairs just to do anything, so that idea’s out. Since we’re on the ground, I’m making us as defensible as possible.

Our little garage of a home no longer looks welcoming in the slightest.

The perimeter’s totally fenced off and barricaded. That took a few days of work, but we’ve got barbed-wire coils all up and down the sides of the building and through the parking lot. Spikes and broken glass carpet everything except for our “landing” spot. Since the front door’s welded shut, the only way to get in and out is via the hatch in the roof. Zohr carries me on his back, and if I need to get out on my own, I have an emergency ladder I can lower down the side of the building.

I’ve got a few booby-traps set up, too. Buckets are lined around the edges of the building, ready to rain down tacks or broken glass if someone gets too close. I have clear fishing-line trip wires set to tinkle wind chimes if someone approaches. Over the last week, we’ve blockaded all the nearby streets by moving broken-down cars to block the roads, so no one can ride a motorcycle up to our front porch.

No one’s getting close without us knowing about it, and I’ve worked hard on weaponizing from within, so even if someone does get close, I’ll be ready. I have guns, knives, homemade Molotovs, and a number of rather ugly implements ready to throw at anyone that approaches. If Azar’s human men come, we’re ready. On that end, we’re safe.

It’s the dragons that worry me.

I can protect us—or try to—from the evils on the ground. I know how to keep humans at bay. But dragons? Those are a problem. And they’re a problem that grows daily.

Dragons are supposed to be a predictable menace. They follow patterns. The males—the gold “king” dragons—attack every three days. Females—reds—attack for a week and then disappear for about three weeks after that. Everyone in the After has a mental calendar and knows when it’s dragon attack day. They’re more damn regular than my period.

Ever since I’ve “mated” with Zohr, there’s been a scarcity of golds flying over this area. I asked him about it the other day and he told me it was because they scented a male with his mate, and instinct would warn them away, along with Zohr’s “aversion” mental signal he sends out. Which works for me—the fewer dragon attacks the better.

It’s just that…I’ve been seeing a lot more reds lately. Normally you won’t see one in the skies unless it’s flame week. They go into hiding or avoid cities or something. I don’t know the specifics, and Zohr doesn’t, either, because he says their instincts are different than his. Fine, I can live with that. But that instinct doesn’t explain why I see them patrolling the skies lately. At first I thought they were looking for us. They’d glide through the skies, wheeling about, but Zohr tells me that they’re not trying to make mental contact. They never fly low enough to pick up our scents, either.

Zohr worries that they’re trying to go to the Rift.

I worry about that, too. Every time a red disappears into the clouds and doesn’t reappear in my sights, I worry I’ve seen a dragon just fall to its death somewhere over the horizon.

I don’t think it’s the same red over and over again, either. There are at least two, and maybe even three. I could swear one flew close enough to see its eyes, and I thought they were the strange, vacant gray of Azar and his mind-fuckery. That scares me more than anything. What if he’s building an army of zombie dragons to take over and this is just a long con? What if I’m being lulled into a false sense of security just because they don’t fly low and one day they’re going to appear en masse and nail us to the wall?

I’m not quite sure what to do, other than to hope we someday come across a fireproof hazmat suit and I never have to have a reason to use it.

Emma! Emma! Come to the roof!

I put down the jar of pickles I’m trying to open (with a pair of pliers, because lids that are seven years expired are a beast) and wipe my hands. I’m a little busy, babe. Can it wait?

No. It cannot. There’s excitement in his thoughts, and that keeps me from panicking.

All righty then. On my way. I grab the ladder and climb up to the ceiling, then snag the rope ladder that bridges the rest of the distance to the tall roof. I haul myself to the trap door that’s currently open and then onto the roof. Dusting myself off, I get to my feet and raise a hand to my brow, scoping the skies before I move to the edge, just in case.

A dragon glides in from the roof of a nearby building, and my heart stops. A chill goes down my spine and I can’t move, I’m so terrified. It’s so close—

The dragon tilts his wings slightly, adjusting with the breeze, and wobbles. Hard.

Zohr? I send, surprised. Is that you?

Would any other do this? He blows fire out his nostrils, moving his head in a slow clockwise motion. As I watch, the smoke forms a ring and he flies through it a scant second later.

I laugh, clapping my hands. You dork! Have you been practicing that?

The flying or the smoke? His voice is smug as he moves to the edge of the building and flutters to a landing. I pay no attention to the fact that his landing’s a bit hard and his wings are shivering, and I can tell he’s straining with the effort as he tucks them against his body. He was flying, and that’s all that counts.

“Both,” I call out, overjoyed. “You are such a badass! I can’t believe you! Flying again after only a few weeks!”

The wing stretching helps, he tells me, proud, and extends one so I can admire it. Scar tissue ripples up and down the length of his wings and they’ll never be pretty again. They still look wrinkled and a little smaller than they should.

It doesn’t matter. He’s flying.

Mostly gliding, he corrects. And not for long distances. But if we keep massaging them every night and I practice my flying regularly, I think I can build my strength up again.

“That’s so amazing! I’m so proud of you!” All those hours of work and bottles of lotion have been worth it. I’m filled with joy. He’s so strong, such a fighter. I’m so happy for him. “Such a swift recovery, babe. I don’t want you to overdo it, though.”

My wings ache right now, he admits. But it is a good ache, and it is all I will do today. Tomorrow I will go a little farther. The dragon preens, rubbing his head against one shoulder, and then lowers his head to gaze at me with whirling golden eyes. Did I surprise you?

I snort. “Surprise is not the word. I nearly had to change my underpants.”

Bah. Lies. You do not wear underpants.

“You would know,” I tell him saucily, twirling a lock of my hair. It’s easy to be flirty with him now that we’ve got a few weeks of being comfortable with each other—and a few weeks of really great sex—under our belts. The more we get to know each other, the more I feel like he’s the perfect one for me. He’s got that same mix of dark humor and practicality that I do. He kisses like a fiend, feeds me and pampers me like nothing else in the world exists, and he never pushes me to give him more than I can. I’m pretty convinced he’s the world’s most perfect being. I’m glad we found each other, even if the shittiest circumstances ever had to happen first.

Sometimes I almost feel disloyal to the human race for thinking such a thing. But I think if most people had a Zohr in their lives, they’d understand.

He just flares his nostrils and tilts his big, car-sized head from side to side as if he’s proud of himself. He should be. I’m practically bursting with how proud I am of him, too.

“So what kind of reward does a dragon get for making such progress?” I tease, playfully biting my lip and giving him my most sultry look.

Whatever he wants, Zohr tells me, and his big, golden body seems to bunch up, muscles tensing. Then in a flash, the dragon’s gone and my naked, gorgeous golden man is walking toward me, his long hair fluttering in the wind, a catlike smile on his handsome features. He’s giving me the most possessive, delicious look, and it makes me shiver with anticipation. He moves to my side and pulls me against him—

And pauses, cocking his head and gazing up at the sky.

What is it? I ask, afraid to speak aloud.

Another dragon, he tells me. Distant. Female.

Trying to connect? Now I’m worried. I don’t trust Azar or his crew, and it’s been days and days since we’ve seen—or heard—a motorcycle anywhere. They’re quiet, and quiet with a group of rowdy men is always bad. I feel uneasy.

No. She is not interested in my presence at all. There is nothing there, no response to my warnings, nothing.

I turn and scan the skies, and Zohr points at a distant smudge. Sure enough, there’s a dragon. It flits back and forth and then disappears into the distance. “Do you know where they’re going?” I ask him.

No. Do you want me to try to reach out to her and see?

I shake my head. That’s the last thing I want. We’re safe for now, even if not knowing what’s going on is troubling. “What do we do?” I ask him. “I don’t like this. I don’t know what to think.”

He puts a hand on my shoulder. It’s warm, comforting. It’s another wonderful thing I never realized I missed about being with someone—that they can reassure you with a simple touch and make your worries seem less urgent. We go on as we always have. We remain cautious and watchful. I will work on my wings, and when they are fully healed and it will not be dangerous for me to have you on my back, we will fly far away from here and from Azar.

I nod, touching his hand with my own. We keep on keeping on. I guess that’s all we can do. I hate feeling so powerless, though. I don’t like waiting for my enemy to strike. I’d rather be the one to strike.

I, as well, but I will not risk you. His mouth brushes against my ear. I do not like that he tortures my people, but I do not even know if they are my people anymore. There is no one there in that body. No one to connect to. I remember nothing of the long years I was wild. It is nothing but a blur, a bad dream. I did not remember who or what I was until I scented you upon the air. If there is a small comfort, know that they are not aware of what is happening.

He’s right. I don’t like it, but I can’t change it. At least they’re not in pain. Or aware that they’re in pain. Ugh. I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.

Whatever it is, it’s definitely soured the mood, though. All of the playfulness and joy over Zohr’s brief accomplishment has been ruined by the red speck in the sky.