Page 18 of Bought for Blood

There’s movement on the other side of the wall.

“Red? You’re there,” I say, low, under the hum of the lights.

“Where else would I be?” The dragon’s voice comes through the concrete, dry as ever. “No draw for you today, little wolf?”

“First time that’s happened since I got here.”

“Since they took you from your sister, you mean.” Not a question. I’ve told her a little about my past. I don’t know anything about hers. This place doesn’t give much time for casual conversation.

“Since then,” I acknowledge. “They didn’t come for you either.” It’s something I’ve noticed but never commented on.

“They hardly do. Twice a week is all they’ve ever wanted from me. Rare, is what they call it.”

“I bet you taste like gunpowder.”

There’s a chuckle at that. “You could be right. I imagine there’s some sick fucker out there frying his brain with my blood twice a week.”

I find myself grinning, which is something I thought I’d forgotten how to do. “There’s something for all tastes, I guess.”

“Mm-hmm.” Her voice fades out as boots pass by again. They don’t pause.

“I know you’re a dragon,” I say. I’ve never confirmed it.

“Of course you do.”

“Tell me about flying,” I say, because I’ve forgotten what the sky looks like.

“Which part?”

“The free part.”

There’s a pause. I imagine her smiling. “Above the clouds, the air tastes thin and cold, older than anything down here. My clan winters up there, in the mountains, when the passes close below.”

“Your clan?” I ask.

“Yes. It’s small. We don’t come out much.”

“Secret?”

“I guess you could say that.” She inhales. “I miss it. We used to shift at dawn. Every dawn. My grandmother used to say a dragon who skips a day of her own shape is borrowing someone else’s.”

I think about that for a minute. About how long it’s been since my wolf ran free. “I think I know what she means.”

“It aches,” she says eventually, “along my shoulder blades, where the wings start. The dragon gets ready every dawn. Nothing comes. She gets ready anyway.”

“How did they take you? You’ve never said,” I say.

“You’ve never asked.”

“I’m asking.”

The pause stretches long enough that I think I’ve pushed too hard. Then: “Politics.”

“Politics?”

“An old story,” she says, “for a worse night. Ask me the thing you actually want to ask.”

“The vampire,” I whisper. “What do you make of him?”