Immortal Coil
A Dragon Spirit Novel
Book One
By C.I. Black
Copyright 2012 C.I. Black
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without written consent, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are entirely the produce of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual locals, events, or organizations is coincidental.
For true love and best friends.
I can’t thank you enough.
Fire consumed him. It burned cold and blue from within, igniting bone and sinew into searing agony. He beat his wings, fighting to remain airborne, to escape the sorcerer’s spell, but each muscle contraction spread it closer to his heart. The scales on his chest blackened and cracked and the soft skin underneath peeled and burst, raining blood on the earth below. He roared, spitting fire from between his teeth and snorting smoke from his nostrils.
An updraft forced him higher into the sky. Minuscule thatched roofs dotted the landscape, like game pieces scattered along a winding dirt road. A patchwork of fields stretched as far as the eye could see and only small forests, not nearly big enough for him to hide within, stood on the edges. His wings trembled. His whole body trembled, the fire blurring his vision. He couldn’t remain aloft for long, but every instinct he had screamed not to land so close to the humans.
And yet each movement, even the tiniest ones made in order to stay aloft, sent sharp agony straight to his heart.
More scales blackened, cracked, and peeled away. He strained ahead, stretching his snout forward, as if that would make him fly faster. Each stroke burned, more unbearable than before. If he could just get away, maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t be the next of his kin to die.
The next to fall to human treachery.
But that was just a desperate wish. The spell had been cast. Dark Egyptian magic cast by Greek sorcerers frantic to not let his kind become another weapon for the Roman army, and nothing could stop it. No one could hide from it.
Sharp, sudden pain clutched his heart. He gasped, and with that inhalation the spell entered his veins and consumed him. It burned brighter and hotter than even the core of a lava bath. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. All he could feel was pain.
An all-consuming agony.
He hurtled toward the earth, the wind biting the soft flesh exposed by his broken scales.
With the last of his strength, he roared the words his goddess had sacrificed her entire being to give to her children and cast the only
counterspell
he knew.
Anaea
climbed over the railing of the
Queen
Street
Bridge
and watched the streetlights’ flickering reflection on the sluggish water and ice of the
Allegheny River
. She hadn’t stood on this side of the railing since childhood. Then, it had been summer. Her heart had pounded with exhilaration and her friends, already swimming in the water below, cheered her on.
Now, her heart still pounded, but no one swam below. Now the river’s cold embrace called to her, promising to wrap around her and pull her down until she was numb and sleepy.
She sucked in a shaky breath, not believing what she was thinking.
Jumping would end it. End the fight, end the isolation,
end
the slow wasting loss of self and life.
She hadn’t thought this was how she’d die; pills had seemed more likely. Heck, she had hoped she could win her fight and die of old age in some retirement home, not at thirty-three when her life was just getting started. But her doctor had said it: metastasized.
And now she was here.
She hadn’t even thought about it, just fled from his office and aimlessly driven around and around. The sun had set, but no clarity had come with nightfall,
nor
hours after. All she knew was she didn’t want to waste away, fading into death in some hospital bed. She had fought so hard, and had still lost. Lost her job, lost her right breast, lost her husband—and good riddance to the cheating bastard—and now she would lose her life. It wasn’t fair. And while she knew life was like that, she had hoped so desperately for something better. But now the only thing left under her control was how.
Ice lined the river’s edge, but its heart still flowed, even in mid-January. If she jumped, her winter coat would drag her down and the cold would dull her senses and she would slip into that which she had feared the most.
Her gut churned at the thought. She wanted to scream and rant and cry but knew it would be all for nothing. It wouldn’t make her feel better. It wouldn’t make her stop trembling.
She closed her eyes, imagining the summer sun warming her face, the laughter of her friends. But the winter’s evening wind picked up, biting her cheeks and nose. That little girl was gone, her friends grown up and moved, the courage for summertime swimming frozen by a loveless marriage and consumed by cancer.
In a way, it was a relief. Good or bad, her battle was done.
Finally.
And if she kept telling herself that, maybe she wouldn’t lose her nerve.
Really.
There was no more left to do. She supposed she should call Mark, her best friend—ex-best friend—and say goodbye. But her marriage had isolated her, alienated her even from him, and she didn’t know if he wanted to talk to her any more.
“Hey.”
Her heart leapt, pounding furiously. This close to
the bridge should have been deserted.
The voice was firm and masculine.
Oh, great. A
good
Samaritan.
Just what she needed.
Why did this have to be more difficult that it already was? She should jump, avoid the conversation, save herself the trouble, but she couldn’t make herself let go of the railing. It wasn’t a sense of self-preservation, she was sure of that. It was something else, perhaps the tone of his voice.
“You know, whatever it is, I’m sure it won’t seem so bad in the morning.”
She snorted. Nope. She’d still be dying.
“Listen, I’m sure you mean well...” She leaned back and glanced at him. He stood a few feet away, one side of him illuminated by his car’s headlights, looking every bit like his voice, firm and masculine. He wore a double-breasted coat cut to mid-calf that accentuated a broad chest and narrow hips. His face was square with high cheekbones and dark eyes. A brush-cut of dark hair finished off the look. The overall impression was deliciously handsome and if it were a different day, or she a different person, she might have considered flirting with him.
Maybe she should. She wasn’t dead yet. But that was just a fantasy. No one would be attracted to her bald head and sunken eyes and cheeks. Her illness couldn’t be hidden.
He stepped toward her, crossing the headlight beam until it completely backlit him, casting his face in shadow.
“Why don’t you just climb back over the
railing.
” His voice held a tenderness she hadn’t expected from someone who looked so...well, so masculine. It was just fate being cruel that made them meet under such circumstances, and that, really, was neither here nor there.
“And once I’m safe on the bridge, then what?”
He hesitated.
Ah, he didn’t want to waste extra time on her.
Typical.
He wanted to be the hero then rush away. He’d run even faster, if only he knew…
What the heck was she waiting for anyway? This stranger didn’t know her well enough to care, and even if he did there was nothing he could do for her. No
miracle cure
for cancer expected in the next three months.
She let go of the railing, spread her arms, and leaned forward. This was it. She didn’t want to do it and yet she didn’t want a slow death, either.
From the corner of her eye she glimpsed a flash of movement,
then
something jerked her back. Her collar dug painfully into her throat, and she struggled to breathe. Shit. He’d grabbed her coat.
“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded.
She twisted in his grip, but he held tight. “What does it look like?”
“It looks like you’re crazy.”
“Then let me go.”
“No.”
God.
She couldn’t even kill herself in peace. She fumbled with the buttons on her coat, her fingers numb from holding the metal railing.
“I will not justify myself to you.” He had no right to tell her what to do. Her fingers weren’t working, were too slow. Grabbing the edges of her coat, she yanked, hard, popping the buttons off. She twisted to face him, using his grip on the coat to shrug out of it.
He dropped the coat into the river and seized the front of her sweater. She clawed at him and he pulled her close, wrapping an arm around her back. She twisted, squirmed, but her last bout of chemo had left her weak and the railing between them made it difficult to fight back.