Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
It takes me a moment to realize he’s not talking to me, but to Zohr. When the dragon-man beside me growls, I see a thin smile curve Azar’s mouth, displaying his odd-looking, too-square teeth.
Kurt and Marty just look confused, Kurt’s shotgun lowers a bit as his gaze flicks from me and back to Azar again. Are they just now starting to realize something’s weird with Azar? Something that they have no comprehension of? I almost feel sorry for them. Almost.
“Take the girl,” Azar commands in his calm, silky voice. “With her, we can make him yield.”
“How?” Marty asks, and I practically cringe at the malevolence that rolls off of Azar.
“With whatever it takes,” Azar replies, doing his best to look as calm and unruffled as possible. I can sense an undercurrent of anger in him, though, and his eyes still have black edges, which worries me. I’m so focused on the distant rage that’s radiating off of the Salorian that it takes a moment for me to realize he’s talking about harming me. He lifts one tiny finger and then shrugs. “We can start by breaking her fingers one at a time and see how he reacts. If that does not get a response, we can try…other methods.”
Both Kurt and Marty grin eagerly, looking at me, and I feel sick to my stomach. I can just guess what that would be.
Zohr’s growl gets even louder, more furious. It’s so loud that it seems impossible that all that rumbling is coming from one man, no matter how oversized he is.
“Go and retrieve the female,” Azar tells them.
They hesitate, looking at each other.
I pull a knife from my boot, ready to fight. If they want to use me against Zohr, it’ll be over my dead body. I’m going to go down fighting.
Flashes of strange images start to flick through my mind, and I blink rapidly, confused. I don’t understand what I’m seeing. Deserts and blood and…anger? Is this more from Azar? The images disappear, then flick through my mind again.
“I said, retrieve the female,” Azar repeats, his voice deadly calm.
That decides Marty and Kurt. Both nomads hop into the pool, heading toward me.
I get to my feet, standing protectively in front of Zohr, my knife in hand. They won’t touch him. I won’t allow it.
More of the strange images crash through my head, along with a rumbling roar. It takes a moment for me to realize that the roar isn’t in my head anymore—it’s all around me.
Marty goes pale. Kurt drops his gun.
Something surges behind me, knocking me forward off my feet and onto the ground. I slap onto the chipping plaster of the pool, palms down, and pain shoots up my arms. My knife skitters a few feet away.
The air is roaring around us.
I don’t understand what’s happening until Marty touches his face, and I realize it’s spattered with blood. Kurt, too. Even Azar’s clothing is flecked with red.
Something heavy moves behind me. The world seems like it’s moving in slow motion, and I turn.
It’s a dragon.
Covered in bright, coppery blood, his wings shredded like bloody spiderwebs, Zohr plucks the cage-vest off of his scales and flicks it aside. His eyes are whirling with black, and I can smell fire building, like charcoal and ash and brimstone just waiting to ignite.
He’s burst free. Zohr’s given up on his wings and his freedom and burst free of his confines, destroying them.
“Oh, my poor Zohr,” I whisper as he folds the shreds of one wing back and then roars his agony. The images flutter through my mind, faster and faster. Hate. Anger. Frustration.
The need to protect.
His crazed thoughts are overwhelming me, and I feel pinned to the ground all over again, as if his thoughts are holding me down with the intensity of them.
Kurt recovers first. He scrambles to pick up his gun.
Zohr lets out another earth-shattering roar and flicks his foreleg forward. Kurt goes flying, his body smacking against the side of the pool with a crunch.
Marty bellows, raising his shotgun, and before I can scream a warning, it goes off.
Zohr ignores it, and I remember dimly that dragons aren’t hurt by gunfire. I gasp as Marty and the gun disappear into Zohr’s toothy maw. He lowers his enormous head—golden and beautiful and deadly—and I see Marty’s legs hanging out of his mouth. He shakes him back and forth, violently, like a dog with a bone, and then drops him to the ground as if he can’t be bothered to eat him.
I stare at the crumpled corpse in front of me, dumbfounded. I’m unable to move.
Something hard moves gently around my waist, and I look down to see claws encircling me. Zohr picks me up and pulls me against his chest. There’s blood everywhere, and heat envelops me like a wave. He bellows his anger again, and my mind fills with more wild images—some of the current situation, some of strange battles, some of other dragons. They’re chaotic nonsense, and it’s impossible to think straight.