Innocent Beladors being judged unworthy to live because Imortiks had attacked them and slid inside their bodies. Those men and women now had less than two weeks before the Imortiks could take full control. A week Daegan had hoped to save them by finding all three volumes of the Immortuos Grimoire.
Here he sat helpless to protect his people and Casidhe, dammit.
Fury boiled his blood.
Ruadh banged around inside him.
Another male voice nearby said, “Hey, do you feel something weird? Like a pressure building in here?”
Frightened grumbling followed. Someone made a click noise, probably activating a weapon.
Daegan forced himself to settle as much as he could. Crashing this aircraft would not save anyone and he’d kill humans who had not given him reason to take a life.
Not yet.
The pungent smell of fear lessened, leaving a strong wave of cigarettes in its wake.
He would not have allowed himself to be captured if not for the satyr coating and Imortik venom in his body shutting down his ability to move, shift, or teleport.
Or to reach one of his Beladors telepathically. No one answered his calls.
“You think he doesn’t understand English?” one of the men asked.
Another one answered, “I have no idea. If he’s one of those supernatural things, they may have their own language.”
Daegan had taken on the only defense he could when these men dropped out of the sky to surround him with weapons raised to fire. They kept asking, “Where is that dragon? What did you do with that flying beast?”
Daegan had answered them with a blank expression.
They’d tried different languages on him.
He knew many languages, but remained mute. Let them think he did not understand their words. He had greater concerns.
As bad as the unknown situation he faced, he had no grimoire box after all he and Luigsech had gone through to find that and the stolen scepter.
Not Luigsech, but Casidhe.
She’d been Luigsech to him when he’d been angry over her secrets, angry about Tristan being captured, and angry over Imortiks attacking every time he turned around.
None of that had been her fault.
If Daegan were honest, none of that had been the true reason for using her last name to keep distance between them. He’d battled an attraction to a woman he hadn’t trusted at first, but there had been more to it. Just breathing in Casidhe’s scent had chipped at the wall he’d built to survive thousands of years locked in captivity.
He’d judged her to be a nonhuman stranger when they met. A dangerous mystery.
She’d become more than a stranger.
More than a resource.
But she could never be more than a friend to him. He clenched his hands, struggling not to roar in fury. For the first time in too long he was drawn to a woman whose energy called to his. His energy came to life around her, but he could not act upon the desire.
He’d never have a mate.
Dragons couldn’t mate just any nonhuman, which had been the reason for arranged marriages long ago.
Maybe he should have accepted Brynhild when her father offered her to be Daegan’s mate. That union would have built an alliance between their families, but he’d been arrogant enough to think he’d find a love match.
And to be honest, he’d never much liked Brynhild as a young woman.
She was nothing like Casidhe. He missed his little termagant so much it physically hurt.
Would she be safe all alone on that mountain?
When he closed his eyes, he could see her in his mind standing firm in the face of Imortiks, demons, and satyrs with her sword raised to do battle.
The whine of the helicopter blades changed. He felt them descend, but to where he had no idea. His best guess was they’d been flying for one or two hours. Based on where they’d picked him up on the northern coast of Spain, they had to be flying east or south. Would it be daylight yet?
Would Tzader or any Belador find out he’d been captured? Tzader had to know Daegan would have done all in his power to make the deadline to save their three Beladors from execution.
Death or capture were the only two reasons he’d fail to arrive on time. Since Tzader would expect Daegan to escape an enemy, his friend might believe him dead.
Only on the inside for now.
Someone must have opened a door. Blessed fresh air buffeted the interior. Men talked to each other in low tones, discussing how to move the prisoner from the helicopter.
Grief and disappointment clawed Daegan’s chest. If he survived this, how would he face his people again after failing to prevent the deaths of innocent Beladors?
That damn coating on his skin kept digging in with tiny claws as it moved across his body and tightened. That hard covering inched forward from the back of his neck. Soon it would reach the front to form a collar around his throat and suffocate him.
Muscles across his back, arms, and legs drew taut as if they were being twisted and shortened.
Daegan picked up shouts from outside the helicopter somewhere below. Probably the landing spot. Men moved around inside, making noises about having weapons ready and who would exit first.
This military team reminded him of Isak Nyght’s black ops soldiers in Atlanta, a human ally of the Beladors. Deadly fighters with weapons created by Isak’s company to stun and kill nonhumans.
Voices buzzed with energy, both excited and apprehensive.
No one mentioned the name of their destination.
The helicopter settled with a hard thump. The sound of boots clomping around outside were joined by those jumping down from the cabin.
Daegan readied himself to be moved. Where would they take him? Some sort of confinement.
He and Ruadh had suffered thousands of years in TÅμr Medb. He’d never intended to allow that to happen to them again.
I am sorry, Ruadh, he whispered telepathically.
Ruadh sent back, Humans terrified. Air filled with sick smell of fear. We will kill them if they attack. We will escape.
His dragon did not make empty promises and did not care if a human or nonhuman imprisoned them, but Daegan couldn’t shift with the coating binding his body.
Still, Ruadh’s words were meant to remind him they would not go down without taking others with them.
Daegan twisted his hands to give the raw skin on his wrists some relief. A futile effort, but at least his wrists moved.
The humans had not seemed to notice the thin layer of slime. Probably too distracted by losing sight of Ruadh to pay attention to Daegan’s human form.
A hand clamped his arm.
Burning streaked across Daegan’s skin.
Ruadh roared a vicious sound.
The hand disappeared. “What the fuck was that sound?”
Refusing to say a word, Daegan stood and turned toward the open air he could smell, but could see nothing beneath the black sack.
“Get back. He’s coming out,” someone outside the helicopter shouted. “Weapons up.”
Daegan eased forward on his bare feet until his toes bumped the edge of the opening. He’d only been able to call up a pair of jeans to cover him when he shifted back from dragon form.
Remembering the height when he’d entered, he bent his head to avoid hitting the metal frame.
He tried calling out telepathically again. I am Daegan of Treoir. Any Belador hearing me must tell Brina and Tzader I am captured.
The sound never left his head, rolling around like a wooden ball banging the inside of his skull.