Page 34 of Rook
The heat was tremendous. Even for a dragon, the combined output of so many fires was like standing in a furnace. Sweat beaded on his forehead, ran down his spine. His shirt stuck to his back, the fabric already singed in places. The air itself seemed to shimmer with the intensity.
Stalling was the only thing keeping Sasha safe.
He'd managed to draw ten of them to his side of the camp. Those were better odds for Sasha, but it meant he was badly outnumbered there. Every second that passed increased the chances that one of their wild attacks would find its mark.
A spear of concentrated flame shot past his ear, so close he could smell his own hair burning. Another slaver had climbed onto a stack of supply crates, giving him the high ground. Rook cursed and sent a wave of fire rushing up the makeshift platform. The crates caught instantly, metal groaning as it warped in the heat. The slaver leaped clear just as the whole structure collapsed in a shower of sparks.
The acrid smoke was getting thicker, making his eyes water. It carried the smell of melting plastic and scorched metal, harsh chemical stenches that had no place in those woods. Soon, the whole camp would be visible from miles away, a beacon that would draw unwanted human attention.
If only he could shift into his other form, the battle would be over in seconds. But once he shifted, some of the slavers were sure to follow. And that would lead to disaster.
A dragon battle in the skies above Earth would be impossible to hide or explain away. The humans had primitive aircraft, but they also had cameras, satellites, social media. Within hours, footage would be spreading across their global networks. The existence of dragons would be exposed, and King Venin would want an explanation for Rook’s sloppiness.
He really didn’t want to answer to his uncle.
So he fought in his human form, limited and vulnerable, while his dragon raged beneath his skin like a caged beast.
Two more slavers coordinated their attack, coming at him from opposite sides with walls of flame that would meet in the middle. Rook dropped to the ground and rolled, feeling the heat pass over him like the breath of a furnace. He came up with fire already building in both hands and let it loose in a wide arc that forced both attackers to leap backward.
One of them wasn't fast enough. Rook's flames caught him across the legs, and he went down hard, rolling in the dirt to try to extinguish the fire eating at his uniform. The smell of burning flesh joined the chemical reek in the air.
A blade of pure fire whistled past Rook's head, so close it left his skin tingling. Another slaver had shaped his flames into a cutting weapon, something that took real skill. This one had at least some training, unlike the others. Rook studied his stance, the way he held his hands, and recognized techniques from the outer colonies. Military, probably, or at least paramilitary.
That one would be dangerous.
The slaver attacked again, his fire-blade extending and contracting like a living thing. Rook dodged back, then forward, staying just out of range while he looked for an opening. The blade carved through the air where he'd been, leaving trails of sparks that faded slowly.
Then the slaver overextended, putting too much power into a downward strike that left him momentarily off-balance. Rook stepped inside his guard and drove his fist into the man's solar plexus, channeling fire through the punch. The slaver doubled over, gasping, and Rook's follow-up blast sent him flying backward into a tree.
Seven down. Three still moving, but they were hanging back now, more cautious. They'd seen what happened to their companions who got too close. The smart play would be to retreat, regroup, come back with better tactics.
But slavers weren't known for their intelligence.
Sasha screamed.
The sound cut through the roar of flames and the crack of burning wood like a knife through his heart. It was pure terror, raw and desperate, and it made every protective instinct he possessed flare to life. His dragon clawed at his consciousness, demanding to be released, demanding blood.
Only years of training kept Rook from freezing at the sound of his mate's terror. He blasted the closest slaver with more fire, not bothering to aim carefully, just wanting him down and out of the way. The man stumbled backward, flames licking at his armor, and Rook took off running.
If Sasha was in trouble, there was no use keeping up the distraction.
He sprinted through the camp, weaving between tents and supply caches, his boots pounding against the packed earth. The sounds of battle faded behind him as the remaining slavers tried to decide whether to follow or regroup. Let them wonder. All that mattered was reaching Sasha.
The camp was nearly deserted. His plan had worked almost too well. Scattered equipment lay abandoned where the slavers had dropped it in their rush to join the fight. A pot of something that might have been food still bubbled over a small heating element, filling the air with an alien spice that reminded him of home.
But near the center of camp where the humans were being held captive, one of the slavers he recognized from earlier stood waiting. The one with the scar that ran from his jaw to his temple, the leader who'd been coordinating their movements. He had his arm around Sasha's throat, holding her against his chest like a shield.
The slaver had a ball of fire in his other hand. Not touching Sasha, but close enough to make the threat obvious. Close enough that one wrong move would end everything.
"Lord Rook," said the slaver. "So kind of you to join us."
Rook's eyes found Sasha's face, saw the fear there but also the anger. Her jaw was set in that stubborn line he was coming to know so well. She wasn't broken, wasn't giving up, even with death hovering inches from her skin.
He didn't see the other humans anywhere. The tent that had held them stood empty, its flap hanging open. He didn't know if that meant she'd gotten them out safely or if they were hidden elsewhere, still captive. The uncertainty gnawed at him, but he couldn't let it show. Any sign of weakness would only make things worse.
Rook raised a hand in a gesture of peace, forcing his voice to remain calm and level. "There's no need to harm the human. Let her go."
One wrong word and she would go up in flames. He could hear the other slavers approaching from behind, their footsteps crunching on gravel and debris, but they stayed in a loose circle out of the range of the scarred man's flame. Smart. They knew who was in charge here.
