Page 25 of Tater
Coward.
A Hellhound grabbed my her from the side. She felt the jerk, the drag of muscle over muscle. She spun, letting the dragon guide her weight. Heat flared around her elbow, just enough to sear through his sleeve. He screamed, jerking his hand back, skin reddened and blistering.
She didn’t feel bad.
Ren caught a glimpse of Tater out of the corner of her eye. Beard had pulled a knife. The blade flashed toward Tater’s ribs. Tater blocked, but the edge kissed his side. Blood bloomed dark on his shirt.
The dragon roared like someone had stabbed it.
Everything went red for a heartbeat. She pushed the fire down, fighting not to shift fully. The med wrap around her ribs strained.
“Ren!” Tater snapped, sensing it without even looking.
“I’ve got it,” she ground out.
“You’re supposed to be middle of the pack,” he snarled, punching Beard hard enough to send him sprawling. “This is not middle.”
“Tell him that,” she said, ducking another swing.
Another bottle shattered somewhere, glass raining down. The jukebox died mid-song. The bar lights flickered, then steadied.
The guy by the hallway finally moved.
That’s when she caught the scent of another she had believed to be long gone.
They slipped through the back door like two little bitches.
Ren’s gut twisted. She wanted to go after them, tear the truth right out of their damn throats. The dragon liked that idea. “Hunt,”it urged.
But they weren’t done there yet.
A Hellhound came at her with a pool cue like a spear. She grabbed it mid-swing. The wood scorched where her hands closed around it, flames licking up the grain. His eyes widened.
“Holy—”
She snapped the stick in half and drove the blunt end into his gut. He folded. She let the burning halves clatter to the floor.
“Tater!” Eagle shouted. “We gotta move!”
He was right. Sirens were a distant echo now, faint but coming closer. No way the locals had missed this much noise.
Tater drove his fist into Beard’s face one last time. Beard dropped like a sack of meat, hitting the floor with a wet thud.
Tater grabbed the front of his shirt, dragged him up an inch. “Next time you send for my old lady,” he rasped, “you better bring a bigger shovel.”
Beard spit blood laughed weakly. “You think this is about her?” he wheezed. “She’s just the flame. You ain’t seen the hand holding the match yet.”
Then he slumped, out cold.
Ren stepped closer, fire still crawling across her skin.
“What hand?” she demanded.
He didn’t answer. Didn’t hear. He had gone to dreamland or worse. The dragon didn’t care which. It wanted to finish the job.
The chain slipped from Taters pocket and landed silently on the floor, they had no idea.
“Burn him,”it said.
