Page 91 of The Prince of New York

That thought chilled me, and it angered the beast within.

I understood my brother and his fate well enough.

His beast within had given him the only way out: death.

I wanted life, and my talent knew it. I didn’t just wantmylife, however. I wanted Daphne, Madelyn, Danielle, and May to be protected. I wanted every RPS agent at the airstrip to walk away with nothing more than bruises and grazes. I wanted Eddie to go home to his mom and dad and his collection of other parents, who surely freaked over the fact he was in the middle of a terrorism event and one of the targets.

I wanted my sister to have a sense of security when the dust settled, knowing I could—and would—do anything to protect New York and our family.

When I released my flames, the world would know that I, the Prince of New York, was not just some snooty royal with an enjoyment of smoothing feathers and helping those I considered to be a friend.

I was a flame, and I would burn brightly—and those who dared to engage in terrorism would burn to ash, and as I was not some fool lacking finesse, only they would burn.

I would leave their clothes untouched and pristine so we might extract what evidence we could from their remains.

My thoughts captured my talent’s attention, and I swear he purred, much like an oversized cat anticipating a chance to toy with his supper.

After a lifetime of clinging to my talent and keeping him held back, aware of my brother’s fate, it was easier than I thought to release my hold and allow him to run free. Rather than burn me from the inside out and take everything and everyone around me out in a blaze of glory, my magic manifested as small motes of fire and light, much like fireflies on a clear summer evening where a million stars twinkled overhead through the trees.

Terry sucked in a breath, and Eddie whistled.

Then, one by one, the motes drifted down the cargo bay ramp. A whoosh warned me of the fuel’s ignition, but neither heat nor smoke came near us. A gentle breeze accounted for that, directing the inky plumes away from the plane.

Dark snakes slithered from the fuel, and within the churning smoke were flashes of blue and orange and white. The blue warned me of the fate of those who stirred the serpent’s ire.

The hottest and purest flames tended to burn a pristine, electrifying blue.

An RPS agent, a Californian as far as I could tell, endured one such serpent of smoke and flame climbing up his leg, detaching, and settling on his shoulder, taking the form of a winged beast, as much of a cat as a dragon. It opened its mouth, yawned flame, and settled, waiting.

Terry lifted his hand to his ear and said, “Prince Ian has gotten to work. Please disregard any hitchhikers that you may acquire. They are his workings. I do believe he is showing the world he is a dragon and a lover of all feline and animal kind.”

“It’s true,” I told Eddie in a whisper. “But if he thinks I’m actually controlling this, he’s out of his right mind. Do you know all those things they tell you about New Yorkers having to constantly control their magic? I’m breaking all those rules. I think my talent might be a kitty dragon, and we should name him Sir Kitten of Clan Dragon so he knows he is an acknowledged and cherished entity.”

Both RPS agents sighed.

After lowering his hand, Terry said, “At least pretend you’re controlling your talent, Ian.”

“But then I’d be lying, and I only like lying to terrorists and nasty politicians.”

He grinned at that, shook his head, and resumed working on his phone, leaving me to my work, not that I was doing much of anything beyond basic direction.

Some of my smoke serpents opted to take the form of horses, ranging from the size of squirrels to demonic drafts that sparked flame from their hooves as they charged across the tarmac.

The first terrorist to die failed to dodge one such manifestation, and as I’d wanted, he burned but left his clothes and belongings behind.

Perhaps they would be unable to speak to us, but their possessions might tell us their secrets.

After the smoke came the flames, some of it taking the form of stalking cats, large enough to devour my sister’s tigers in one bite. Some converged into the shape of dragons, taking to the sky to hunt their prey.

Then it dawned on me that my talent took the route of least resistance, feeding on the spilled fuel rather than on my reserves. “Terry, can you ask the airstrip staff to dump fuel from the tanks?”

Terry did as told, and after a few moments, I spotted someone darting for the nearby fuel pump, opening the nozzle, throwing the hose on the ground, and turning the valve.

Fresh fuel spilled onto the tarmac, and the agent wisely bolted for the general safety of the airstrip’s primary building some three hundred feet away.

A few motes of flame lingered around me, and one darted off, appearing near the spilling fuel and setting it ablaze.

A herd of stampeding horses surged forth and headed in the general direction of the road. With a little luck and enough fuel, they would find Daphne and the rest and bring a swift end to anyone foolish enough to threaten harm to them.

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