Who Needs Enemies

“You lived with sirens for nearly twenty years, Harriet. You’re one of them.”



I was never one of them, and that was half the reason I’d left. “That doesn’t mean they’ll talk to me, Lyle.”



“Everyone talks to you. It’s your gift.” He pulled a photo out of his pocket, then handed it across. “Her name is Mona Delmare. No family, and not many friends, even within the community.”



That was unusual within siren ranks, as they were generally a tight-knit bunch. I frowned down at the photo. Looks wise, Mona was all siren—she was busty, with an hour-glass figure, platinum hair that fell in ringlets to her waist, and big, sea-green eyes. I’d always been thankful I’d taken after the Elven side of my heritage—black hair and sapphire eyes—although there had been times when I wouldn’t have minded either platinum ringlets or big boobs. Usually when I was with some male who was too busy talking to take the hints that I actually wanted more.



I pushed away from the bench. “Are you going to be okay?”



“Yeah, I’ll catch a cab home and rest up for a while.” He hesitated. “I really need to know what’s happened to her, Harriet.”



“I’ll do my best.”



“Good. Just be careful.”



Given what had happened to him, it was a somewhat superfluous warning. I walked through the curtain into the next room. A man sat huddled on a stool near the door, looking like little more than a bundle of rags. Maggie was measuring what looked like yellow grass into a small sack, but looked up as I entered.



“Off so soon?”



I nodded. “Yeah, got stuff to do.”



“You up for dinner later this week?”



I smiled. What was the betting the very single son of a good friend was going to be there? Still, the old witch had been good to me over the years, and it never hurt to humor her now and then. “Sure. Give me a call.”



Maggie got back to her sacking, her smile cheerful. I left the shop, but hesitated on the steps and looked skyward. The sun was on the verge of breaking night’s grip, spreading pink and red fingers across the sky. The nagging sensation that something was wrong stole through me again, but if it wasn’t Lyle, then what the hell was it?



In the distance came the soft whir of rotor blades—a helicopter flying low through the city, probably heading for the helipad down near the old World Trade Center building.



But beyond that, almost lost in the growing symphony of the waking city, came the sweeping sigh of wind, the creak of leather. A sound I knew all too well. It was a dragon, but one flying in restricted airspace, and beyond officially approved times.



And that really did mean trouble if it went anywhere near the helicopter. Dragons didn’t have great sight at the best of times, but in the half light of the early morning their problems with identifying smaller objects increased tenfold.



I stepped onto the pavement and headed back to the railway station. I’d left my car up near the Berren Cricket Ground this morning so that I could enjoy the walk through the parks that surrounded the city, but I’d catch a train back. The parks, like the city itself, would be filling with people taking the shortest route from one point to the other. The serenity offered by the century old elms and oaks would now be swamped by the rush of everyday life.



I glanced skyward again. If the sighing of the wind was anything to go by, the dragon was drawing closer. So, too, was the helicopter. Most of them were fitted with equipment specifically designed to deal with the occasional misdirected dragon or griffin, although even witches had been known to cause the odd problem for aircraft.



The pilot had to be aware of the dragon’s presence. There would be all sorts of warnings going off.



A sudden gust of wind hit, knocking me several steps sideways. I caught my balance and quickly looked up. Like a shadow forming life, a fire-colored dragon swooped out of the shadows, leathery wings outstretched and gleaming molten gold in the pale, early morning light.



I quickly shoved a memory card into the camera and took several shots of the creature against the barely visible mirrored sides of the Rialto towers. I might not work for the paper any more, but my former editor loved shots like this, and he’d pay good money for it if no staff photographer had managed to capture it. If nothing else, it would give us decent coffee for the next few weeks.



The dragon suddenly dropped several meters. One wingtip brushed against the closest building, scraping a trench in the concrete as it soared skyward again. Its tail flicked and smashed into radio towers, sending them crashing downward.



This was more than an inability to see, I realized suddenly. The damn dragon was drunk.



From my right, the helicopter swooped, a gleaming silver insect compared to the size of the dragon. For a moment it appeared they would avoid each other, then the dragon did an abrupt, half turning rise just as the sun broke over the horizon and spread her brightness across the sky.



Whether the sudden shift into light blinded the dragon, I have no idea, but he flew straight into the path of the helicopter.



I raised my camera as the two collided in a fiery explosion of metal, heat, and flesh.



Chapter Two



Dragon and helicopter plummeted to earth, hitting Princess Bridge with enough force to crack asphalt. The dragon somersaulted and went nose first over the railings, plunging toward the riverbank below. What was left of the helicopter exploded again, firing bits of metal and god knows what else into the air. The smell of burning fuel and flesh churned my stomach, but the instinct to grab photos was stronger than distaste.



I pushed my way through the crowd that had gathered and threw up an arm against the heat. The helicopter lay on its side like some giant’s ill-used toy. The tail boom hung over the same railing the dragon had flipped over, the metal twisted and the rotor blade dipping toward the Yarra river. Flames covered the remnants of the cabin area, crackling fiercely as they devoured the remains. There was very little chance of anyone being left alive inside.



I couldn’t see the dragon from where I stood, but if the slurred abuse currently staining the air was anything to go by, it was very obviously alive.



Only trouble was, it was a voice that sounded horribly familiar.



I took some shots, then put my camera away and edged around the crowd, heading for the steps that led down to the river bank. Fire crews hadn’t yet arrived, but the cops were currently pushing everyone back. They were creating the same sort of space around the fallen dragon, too, and it was just as well. He was on his back, thrashing about like a turtle trying to get right side up. One wing—battered and bleeding, but otherwise whole—flapped about, creating a wind strong enough to knock the unwary over.



The other one was broken. A dragon’s wing, while fragile looking, actually wasn’t. They were formed by a tough membrane of skin, muscle and other tissues that stretched from their small back legs to a dramatically lengthened fourth finger. It took a lot to break a wing, but they were relatively quick to heal. There were advantages to being able to shift shape, and one of them was the fact that your body healed wounds in the process.



Not that I could shift shape. That was another siren gift I’d missed out on—although I wasn’t really all that sad about not being able to become a fish. I did have an affinity with the ocean, but not so much that I wanted to spend a part of every month in it.



Black liquid oozed from under the dragon’s back, staining the ground and stinking to high heaven. Dragon blood was highly toxic, though in an open area like this it was doubtful it would do anything more than pollute the air. But the cops were erring on the side of caution and pushing the gawkers back even further. I headed for the most senior cop there.



“Officer, that dragon is a friend of mine.” I stopped in front of him and gave him what I hoped was a winning smile. “If you’d let me closer, I might be able to calm him down.”



The cop looked me up and down, no doubt seeing a tall, somewhat slender individual with Elven features. He didn’t look impressed. “Sorry, lady, but we have orders to keep everyone away until the tow trucks arrive.”



“They won’t get him on the truck unless he’s calm, trust me. You need to let me-”



“Lady, you really need to step back a safe distance.”



He looked over the top of my head and made a come-here motion. Obviously calling in back-up. So much for common sense and charm. Time to bring in the siren. I hit him with every ounce of siren magic I had in me. His eyes went wide and, for several seconds, he did nothing more than blink. I hastily toned it down. He was obviously a more susceptible to sirens than most if he was that affected by one who couldn’t even sing.



“Officer, with the way he’s thrashing about, he could cause serious damage to the bridge. I really need to get in there to calm him down.”



“Uh, sure,” he said, and waved me in.



“Thanks, officer.”



I lowered the wattage another notch and he blinked again. His gaze burned a hole in my back, but he didn’t attempt to stop me.



The dragon’s one good wing still thrashed on the ground, and trenches deep enough to lose a person in were beginning to scar the river banks. I stopped just beyond reach.



“Keale,” I said, raising my voice to be heard above all the noise he was making. “You really need to calm down.”



The dragon stilled, and his head snaked around. Black eyes regarded me owlishly. “S’arri?”



A dragon’s mouth was not designed to speak English, and everything came out sounding a little weird. “Yeah. The shit has really hit the fan this time, I’m afraid.”



“No ‘rink, s’romise. With ‘umar.”



Numar was an old school friend of Keale’s who’d been in Berren the past fortnight for training purposes. I frowned. “I thought he flew back to Brisbane yesterday?”



“No. Was ‘rinking with him.”



My confusion increased. “But didn’t you have a date with Rebecca last night?”



Rebecca was both a dragon and his current girlfriend. She was also fiercely opposed to any sort of drinking. Given Keale was in the midst of his mating cycle, it really was doubtful he’d risk a drink and jeopardize his chances with Rebecca—especially given a dragon’s mating cycle only came around once every couple of years. He wouldn’t have left her until he had to, and he certainly wouldn’t have left just to grab a drink with Numar. Friendship stood no chance against the possibility of sex.