Forbidden Embers

He was dreaming. He knew it, understood it, yet could do nothing to wake himself up.

In the world of his mind’s creation, it was already too late. But then it always was. Part and parcel of his gift, these little trips into dreamland were his psyche’s way of foretelling the future. His future. And as the dreams were never wrong, he knew within a few minutes of falling asleep exactly what he had to do.

Even as the idea came to him—even as he continued to sleep—Logan Kelly searched for a way around it.

But there was none, as he’d known all along that there wouldn’t be. Better minds than his had been working on this for months now. Years.All to no avail. The thought that had snuck into his dreams and expanded until it already felt like reality, really was the only rational solution.

That didn’t mean he had to like it.

As he slept, the walls and ceiling of the cave seemed to be closing in on him, the stalagmites closer and sharper than they had ever been before. Without conscious thought, he reached up and broke one of the very sharp ones off and shoved it into his pocket before using a burst of preternatural speed to get him outside.

Under the stars.

Amidst the sand and cacti.

In the middle of the desert that had become more of a home to him than the rolling green hills of Ireland had ever been.

The thought destroyed him, made him dizzy. Nauseous. Not the knowledge that he’d forsaken Ireland, but the sudden recognition that he would soon be forsaking the endless caves and deserts of New Mexico as well. And with it the only men and women he’d ever considered friends. Family.

Bending over, he braced his hands on his knees and sucked huge, gulping breaths of air deep into his lungs. One after the other, until the world around him stopped spinning. One after the other, until the burst of short-lived panic receded.

He would do this for them, he told himself, because he was the only one who could. That realization was enough to steady him, when just moments before he’d been certain that nothing would ever be able to do so again.

Unable to bear his thoughts—his own stillness—for one more second, he began to walk. Around him, the desert teemed with life. Night predators searching out prey.Prey searching out new and better hiding spots. In the distance, an owl swept down toward the still warm sand at amazing speeds. Seconds later, a small animal squealed in pain.

He refused to let it get to him. Predator, prey. It was the way of the world. Certainly, the way of his world and after a decade of watching his clan mates living in fear, he was sick of being the quarry. Sick to death of hanging around and waiting for the next attack, the next wave of sickness, the next horrifying death of someone he loved and was sworn to protect.

He was ready to strike. It was the nature of the beast, after all. The nature of his beast and those of his closest friends. He would find his enemy’s weak spot, hit fast and hard. Whatever damage he sustained—whether it be fleeting or absolute—would be more than worth it if he could finally find a way to neutralize the enemy.

He snarled at the thought of the Wyvernmoons, his long legs eating up the miles as he walked off his frustration, his pain. Inside, his beast thrashed and snarled in an effort to get out, but Logan kept him on a very short leash. One slip up and the dragon would burst free. He couldn’t afford that, not now, when logic and reason had to be everything.

Not now, when the hot-tempered screams of the animal would do nothing to advance the case he knew he had to make.

As he walked, he memorized the feel of the desert at night. After more than two hundred years, he should be able to call it up at will, but he wasn’t taking any chances. South Dakota in the winter time was as different from New Mexico as one could get and still be in America. And God only knew how many winters he would have to endure in that hellhole compound before he would once again find his way back here.

If he ever did.

The pragmatist in him knew that there was more than a passing chance that he would die on this latest quest, knew that after he left here in a few days he might never see his beloved stretch of desert again. And while he didn’t fear death—at three hundred and ninety-seven years old he had faced that enemy many times before—he did regret that he might never again enjoy the peaceful solitude of a walk over the land, his land, while a blanket of stars carpeted as far as the eye could see.

He broke into a run, then, all but flying in human form across the forty or so miles that separated him from the small house he kept in town. But that was the thing about dreams—fiction and reality could mix until it was impossible to tell one from the other.

The closer he got to the small city that was the heart of the Dragonstars’ home, the more voices and thoughts crowded in on him. They pressed down from every side, nearly blinding him. Almost making him insane with the fear and worry and pain that threaded through so many of his fellow dragons.

He could feel the walls closing in even though he was outside. Could feel time ticking away from him like the sand of his beloved desert through an hourglass.

It was exactly what he needed to cement his resolve. Usually his psychic abilities drove him nuts. Though they made things easier in battle, the rest of the time they were nothing but a pain in the ass.

An ability to eavesdrop on thoughts and conversations that were never meant to be public.

An invasion of privacy that, even after close to four centuries, he sometimes couldn’t block.

A knowledge of people’s most embarrassing moments and deepest, darkest secrets.

It sucked, big time.

His psychic ability was one of the reasons he spent so much of his free time deep in the desert, away from the other dragon shifters. It was often the only way he could give the civilian dragons of the clan any privacy. The only way he could quiet the nonstop chatter in his head. It was also the reason it had taken him nearly three centuries to find a home.

He shied away from the thought and the emotions that were still too raw even after all this time. Then slipped silently into town, nodding to his friend and fellow sentry, Ty, as they crossed on the street. It was Ty’s turn to patrol the town boundaries and though he looked like he wanted to talk, Logan didn’t stop. He couldn’t afford to, not now when his plan was only half-formed. It would still be too easy to talk him out of it.

No, there was a Council meeting in a few days, a gathering of the other sentries like himself, and that was where he would reveal his plan. It wasn’t much time, but he was determined to be prepared.

To be resolute.

To be unshakable—otherwise his peers would never go along with what he wanted to do.

They still might not—that fact was what had driven him towards town before he even knew that that was where he was heading. He needed to talk to Dylan before the meeting, needed to talk him into the idea that was still not fully formed inside his own head.

It shouldn’t be that hard to convince the Dragonstar king, a little voice inside Logan’s head whispered. Dylan had to go along with it. They were running out of time. Even with the new advances Quinn, Jasmine and Phoebe had made against the virus, it was only a matter of time before the Wyvernmoons trotted out some new version of the disease that was killing his people.

Even with their last attack party decimated, it wouldn’t take long for them to regroup and head back to New Mexico, looking to wipe out the Dragonstars once and for all. And while they couldn’t beat the Dragonstars in a fair fight, the Wyvernmoons had much greater numbers and an amorality that gave them a firm advantage. After all, their clan hadn’t been decimated by disease for more than a decade.

He wouldn’t let them destroy the Dragonstars. He couldn’t. Not when this clan, his clan, was the only one who had taken him in after long centuries of searching. Not when these people, his people, had given him the only home he’d ever known.

That generosity was one of the many reasons it was so difficult to contemplate leaving. And one of the many reasons he had to.

After checking around his house for signs of disturbances, he opened the door and let his senses flood the place—searching for the thoughts, the presence, of any intruders. He found none, but that didn’t stop him from making the rounds, checking every room to make sure no enemies lay in wait. As he did, he cursed the Wyvernmoons and the fact that such hyper-vigilance was even necessary when he and his clan mates wanted nothing more than to live in peace.

It wouldn’t be for long, not if he had anything to say about it.

When he was convinced his house was clear, Logan strode into the kitchen and yanked a scissors out of one of the drawers. Then went into the bathroom and, without thought or remorse, cut off the long, flowing hair that had all but been his trademark for centuries. Amidst the Dragonstars, almost all of whom were dark, his too long blonde hair and amber eyes were legendary.

After the hair was gone—and he was barely recognizable even to himself—Logan reached into his pocket and pulled out the stalagmite he’d shoved in there earlier. He studied it for a moment, made sure it was strong enough and sharp enough to do what had to be done.

Then, without pause, he reached up and raked the hard, sharp tip of it down the right side of his face, from his eye to the corner of his mouth.

They had reached the point of no return. As he watched blood flow freely down his face and neck, he knew that nothing else mattered.

His clan would be safe. He would make sure of it.

He woke up a few minutes later, shivering and huddled up on the couch in his living room in town though he had fallen asleep in his cave. He blinked a few times, brought the world around him into focus.

And realized that the pillow he’d been sleeping on was coated in his blood.

His fight had already begun.