Another dive, this time not for play, curving her wings for control and speed and aiming to intersect at the place where the creature’s frantic leaps would bring it and then there was only warm flesh filling her mouth and throat and belly, the taste of blood and the pleasure of satiating hunger. A contented drowsiness came on her then and she settled with her long left flank protected by a sun-warm rock and let herself slip into an almost sleep.
In the place between sleep and dream, when her defenses and will were also at rest, fragments of Dreamworlds came to her. She sampled them, tasting them as if they were flavors—dark and light, with and without animals and people. One of them called to her more strongly than the others. There was a man with a face she knew, eyes like agate, and a voice that had once called her back from dragon to Vivian.
Vivian.
She was a twin soul, joined in this body. The giant, powerful force of destruction driven by desire, and the small and frail being who defined herself as a healer.
All of the Dreamworlds were before her still. All of the dragon connections open for her to tap into. But she was free to choose whether to listen to the voices. Could choose whether to be Vivian or to be dragon.
She remembered the door she had seen with her vision altered by peyote, and found herself airborne once more, wings beating a deliberate course to the place where the two-legged calling himself Weston had said there was a door.
Smoke curled up into the air below, the forest obscured by its haze, bright flares of fire licking through as one tree after another incinerated. Where there had been a camp last night there was nothing but charred and smoldering black. No Weston, no Poe. The part of her that was Vivian sorrowed for this and hoped they’d found safety, but she was only a small spark of consciousness within the dragon who did not know or care anything for the loss of this human.
The door was visible as a shimmering in the air. Untroubled by the white-hot coals, she set down before it, heavy and cumbersome again now that she was earthbound. It should have been an easy thing to brush the cobwebby light aside with her mind, to open the door. An airy thought, a burst of power, and easy access. But there was something else at work, a dark shadow weaving through the light and locking the fabric in place.
She pushed against the black weave and felt it give a little. Spouted fire against it and saw the fabric of the weaving glow silver-white, except for the black, which remained obdurate and unchanged. She remembered the vision of dancing atoms making up the door, understood their fragility. The black thread held them together, an adhesive beyond her power to break.
Perhaps that would not be necessary. If she were to adjust the atoms so, unravel the threads enmeshed in the binding, like so, like so. At last the black weaving stood alone, a lacework trellis of negative space. She blew a breath of fire on it, and it collapsed and dissolved in tendrils of hissing steam.
And just like that, there was no barrier between her and the Between. The door was too small for her clumsy body, but it expanded easily to let her through. There was a thing she wanted, a thing that should belong to the dragons but had been torn away and lost, then stolen. Lofting her wings high into the air she set a course for the Cave of Dreams, the only real landmark she had in the winding mazes of the Between. Deep within, the part of her that remained human whispered, “Zee,” a faint thread of sound that hung in the air like smoke, and like smoke dispersed into the atmosphere and was gone.
Twenty-eight
Weston ran for his life.
Even with the fire roaring behind him, the wind it created breathing down his neck like a giant beast of prey, the irony of this was not lost on him. Mere days ago he’d planned to throw himself into an inferno, would have welcomed this turn of events as a gift of the gods and turned to embrace the flames. Now he had things to do and the idea of a death by fire did not appeal to him.
A trio of deer plunged past, not bounding gracefully but blind and panicked. Smaller animals scurried by on all sides, the fire sweeping everything ahead of its destruction. All of the creatures were faster than he, even the snakes.
So far he’d been able to keep ahead of the flames, but he was tiring, could feel himself slowing as his breath grew shorter and his heart beat harder. Poe, clasped against his chest, slowed him down. Not that the penguin was heavy, but he was an awkward shape and his feathers slick; it took both hands to hold him. This left no way to balance himself on the uneven terrain. Twice he’d stumbled and only just barely caught himself from falling.
Damn flightless bird. It was easy for the raven, flying far ahead, growing ever smaller and more distant. The odds were all against him, Weston thought. If the wind shifted, the flames would easily overtake him. Or if the fire jumped to the canopy it would leap from the crown of one tree to the next, far faster than any man could run.
No matter which way he looked at it, his chances for survival were grim.
For the first time in his life, Weston wished he had a dreamsphere and could walk into another reality. He wished he had honed the ability to create and open doors. He wished he hadn’t tossed his dreamsphere into the fire.
The raven had circled back, flying low, demanding attention. It croaked twice and veered left. Weston followed, hoping that the bird had some sort of knowledge he lacked, because he wasn’t going to be able to keep up the pace much longer. The fire was gaining. Heat played over his body with increasing intensity. Smoke choked him. His legs felt odd and lifeless, as if they’d been injected with Novocaine.
Wrong, wrong, wrong, he thought, even as he made the turn. It would take him slantwise in front of the wall of flame, increasing his need for speed even as he was tiring. Poe slipped again in his grip and he slowed his steps a little while he shifted the bird back upward. The fire gained on him.
But then he saw his salvation in a wide sweep of water. In the mad dash and panic he’d forgotten about Halcyon Lake. If he made it, he might just survive this after all.
He had to survive.
And so he flailed onward toward that liquid gleam, his body barely under his control, wild animals dashing past him, all with the same goal. His lungs were going to burn up with the heat. His hair was stiffening and lifting from his scalp, the fire wind swirled around him. And then his feet were slowed by some strange, cold encumbrance. He overbalanced and was falling, falling.
Water.
Poe wriggled out of his arms, and Weston dove beneath the surface, swimming as far as he could before coming up for a breath of air. It wasn’t far; his body was oxygen starved and the water was icy cold. He bobbed up to the surface for another breath, lungs cramping, heat of the fire scorching his face. Black ash rained down.
Again he immersed himself beneath the saving grace that was water, shutting out the roar and crackle and snarl, forcing his arms and legs to move. When he came up again, he had gained enough distance to stay safely on the surface. The fire had slowed as it neared the lake—less fuel, fewer trees growing close to the rocky shore. The raven circled high overhead.
A loud splashing to his left drew his attention—a bear swam by, fixed on its course and paying him no attention. The water was full of other animals, all seeking safety, all on a temporary truce from the usual hunt-and-be-hunted in their common goal to escape the force of the fire. The penguin swam in circles around him, staying close.
Reality of the new dangers settled in: hypothermia and drowning. Already he was shivering, and it was hard to draw a full breath. His boots and heavy clothing weighed him down, and he realized there was no hope of making it across the lake.