Blade Bound (Chicagoland Vampires 13)

He began dragging me backward across the gravel, and then its breath was on my back.

“This is not how the story ends!” I said, and spun my sword blindly over my head.

The dragon screamed and reared backward in pain. I rolled away and scrambled to my feet, gravel spraying beneath my boots, and put distance between us before looking back again.

Like the scales on its foot, those on its neck were small and easier to penetrate, and I’d etched a gash on one side.

PAIN! it screamed, the sound cutting the air as sharply as my sword.

“It doesn’t have to be pain!” I said, and lifted my sword. “Surrender now, and I won’t have to kill you!”

I AM ANGER AND PAIN AND FEAR. I AM HATRED AND REVENGE AND AGONY. YOU CANNOT STOP ME.

The only dragon in existence, and it had to be a sociopath. “This sword in my hand says different.”

PAIN WILL EXIST EVEN IF AM GONE. THERE WILL ALWAYS BE MORE.

Now it was just pissing me off. I let my eyes silver, let my fangs descend. “Anger and pain and fear are part of life in Chicago and everywhere else. But so are joy and love. And I’ll be damned if you take any more of that away.”

Katana in front of me, nearly perpendicular to my body, I strode toward the dragon. “With blade and blood I bind you!”

It roared, swiped out, one nail catching a gap where rock had shredded leather and striping a slice across my ribs. The pain was outrageous, fire searing across my skin. But I didn’t have time to worry about that now.

I dodged and ran beneath its leg. “With darkness and steel I bind you!”

FEAR WILL ALWAYS EXIST. The dragon’s tail whipped to the side, and I jumped up to avoid it, hit the ground and rolled, sword in hand. I came up bruised and scraped again, but the sword was still in my hand.

“Maybe so,” I said. “But fear doesn’t have to be the only thing that exists.” I blew out a breath, narrowed my focus, and stared him down.

“With water and wind I bind you! With hope and fear I bind you!”

The sword heated in my hand, the blade going white-hot with the force of the spell. I ignored it, gripped it harder, and ran toward the dragon.

It opened its mouth and snapped, trying to pull the same trick it had pulled with Sorcha. I ducked beneath its mouth and thrust the sword up with both hands between two of the scales in the dragon’s neck.

Magic exploded.

Light shot from the katana as the dragon bucked, screamed with the pain of a million souls.

I let go of the sword, tried to scurry back from its thrashing legs and tail, from the magic that bloomed, huge and white, an unfolding flower of supernatural energy.

The dragon bucked as the flower enfolded it, then froze as if captured in glass, just like Portnoy’s drawing. But the flower kept growing.

I tried to run, slipped in blood and gravel and hit my knees again—and was too late. The blooming magic covered me. I instinctively braced against the impact of it, of the power I was sure would incinerate us both.

But unlike the Egregore, this magic wasn’t violent, and it wasn’t angry. It was familiar, because it arose from the connection that already existed between me and the katana, born when I’d tempered the steel with my own blood.

Even while the dragon was frozen, the magic moved through me, strengthening my bond to the sword . . . and the bond between me and the life that had only just begun to grow. A life I hadn’t known existed until the magic firmed its connection to me, binding it inside me, just as the magic bound dragon to blade.

Hope welled so powerfully that tears immediately spilled over. I moved my hand through thick magic, put a hand on my abdomen, felt the flutter that I’d been afraid I’d never feel, but which now seemed undeniably real.

“Hi,” I said with a silly grin. “Hi.”

Suddenly, with a high-pitched whine, the blossom began to retract, to shrink back toward the captured dragon, the bound dragon. I remembered I was still midbattle, inside a spell, and mere feet away from a magically petrified dragon. So, immediate priorities first.

When the magic freed me, I crawled back, putting space between us and the spell that folded itself over the dragon like a budding flower in reverse, condensing itself more and more until there was nothing in the darkness but a spear of light around my spinning blade, the dragon, the Egregore, condensed inside it.

One final flash of light, the sword white-hot with energy, and it stilled in the air, dropped to the roof with a heavy thud.