“Actually, this is an alpha model. The hinges are more durable than the beta versions, cast in high heat steel.” Florence held up the gun, inspecting it in the light. “I’ve also reinforced the locking mechanism and tightened the springs. It’s meant to hold up under the strain of active combat, so it can take a bit of abuse from canister loading.”
Derek was silent, but she could feel his eyes on her back. There was a certain type of power that came from knowing she had done something to earn stiff-lipped respect. Eventually, she might even get through to him and the rest of them that her value extended far beyond the marking on her cheek.
Let him watch, Florence thought as she pushed small piles of dirt on either side of her feet to assume a wide firing stance. She wanted him to see the fruits of her labor. To respect her ingenuity like she had respected Ari’s for years.
Power surged though her arms. It was leeched from her blood like sweat from pores on a hot day. It oozed through her hands and flowed in a perfect channel to the runes along the barrel. It wrapped around the canister like a constricting serpent.
Her finger curled around the trigger. That was always her favorite moment: the half second when her skin first came in contact with the trigger of a gun. It was a surge of power. Judgment encased in metal, welded together with the ability to change the world with the merest twitch of muscle. In that breath, everything else faded away, and Florence felt like the universe hung on her will.
The last rune along the barrel lit up. The charge was too slow, but she could work on that later. Florence took her aim and pulled the trigger.
The gun exploded in her hand with a rain of shrapnel. She tumbled backward, half in surprise and half from force. A clumsy beam of energy shot forward, radiating outward and carving a ditch into the earth underneath the line of its shot.
She hit the ground ungracefully, bringing a hand up to her stinging face. Bits of metal were lodged into her cheek. The pain was ringing in her ears and the exhaustion from her magic working overtime set in, forming bruises along her legs as it tried to heal the cuts on her face.
“You’re going to kill yourself,” Derek muttered.
Florence hadn’t heard him move, but he was now squatted before her. One hand curled around the more intact side of her face. She blinked away the haze as his other hand began to pick out the bits of metal. Even when he wasn’t trying to be graceful, his movements held a surgical precision. Her eyes settled on the tattoo on his cheek: two solid black triangles, one pointing up, the other down, connected by a line.
“It wasn’t a bad attempt.” It was clear his compliment was nothing more than placating. No, it was a positively miserable attempt. Embarrassment stung the back of her throat, becoming more potent with the taste of blood.
“Then I never want to see a bad attempt of yours.” Derek knew she was lying, his chuckle told her so. But the statement was void of any sting.
Her magic had set her face to knitting at the expense of some burst blood vessels. That was the way of magic. Florence had always known it, but this was the first time she was experiencing it. When magic was overused it turned the organs it lived in—which, in Flor’s case, was her blood—brittle and necrotic. If too much magic was used, the body was pushed beyond repair.
She looked with clarity and a heavy sigh on the broken remnants of her revolver. She’d need another, more gold, more chemicals… She wasn’t looking forward to another trip to the armory.
“Up with you.” Derek took her hands, pulling her to her feet. “Nora wasn’t up late last night. She’ll be awake soon and wondering where we are.”
The man relinquished her fingers and walked back over to the trike. Florence stood in limbo. She felt trapped between the failure of her passions and the weak successes of a duty she’d never wanted.
“Flor?” Derek called from atop the vehicle.
“Coming.” She left the remnants of the gun in the dirt. Failure was a missed shot; quitting was never reloading the gun. She was Florence, student of the White Wraith, and she did not quit.
5. Arianna
“Hold on.”
Arianna immediately took issue with Cain’s tone. “You think I can’t figure that out?”
She settled herself on the back of the giant purple flying chicken, hating the feeling of a living creature under her rather than something mechanical. She’d nearly prefer the busted glider over the bird. At least it didn’t have a mind of its own that could rebel when she was in the open air.
“Well?” He drew out a long pause at the end of the word, looking over his shoulder.
“You don’t think I’m actually going to touch you, do you?” Arianna gripped the back of the saddle with both hands for show. Her legs pressed tightly on either side, stabilizing herself.
“Technically—” His eyes darted down to where her hips were pressed against his backside by virtue of the shape of the seat.
“I don’t want to hear it, Dragon.” Arianna narrowed her eyes and reached for her dagger. “Cross me and I will cut—”
“Suit yourself.” Cain shrugged and snapped the reins.
With a mighty caw, the bird lurched off the ledge. Arianna’s stomach was instantly in her throat. She held on with white knuckles and all the determination that came from being keenly aware of how vulnerable she presently was. Arianna had absolutely no control: not of the bird, not of the man before her, not of where he was taking her.
“Where are we going?” She needed to take something back from him, even if it was just knowledge.
“The Xin Manor.” Arianna hadn’t actually expected him to answer. “The Dono will be on Ruana soon, and we need to try to scrub the stink of Loom off you before he arrives.”
“Dragon—” she half snarled.
He jerked the reins and the bird banked hard to the right around the mountain. Arianna’s grip slipped and she teetered in the seat. Still her hands didn’t seek out the stability of his form. She righted herself, collapsing the muscles in her stomach, compressing those in her back, and weighting herself in the seat.
Cain gave her another quick glance. “You’re a stubborn one, aren’t you?”
Arianna fantasized about all the ways she could peel his green-blue skin off his bones the second they landed.
“My name is not ‘Dragon’.” He turned forward again with a self-righteous squaring of his shoulders. “It’s Cain Xin’Da Bek.”
She rolled her eyes dramatically at his back. “Cvareh told me much the same when we first met.”
“That’s Cvareh Soh to you, Chimera.” She’d struck an obvious nerve as his tone shifted.
“So defensive,” Arianna mock-praised over the howling wind. “Cva would be so proud.”
Cain gave a sharp whistle and the bird dropped into a free fall. Arianna’s shoulder muscles strained from the tension she put them under as she worked to hold onto the saddle rather than giving in to the Dragon. She’d show him that Fenthri were not to be underestimated. That she was not to be underestimated.
Just when she thought she’d go deaf from the howling wind, he pulled again, leaning into the curve of the mountain. Arianna learned fast and moved with him. The centrifugal force held her in place.