The fire-wielder shrugged, almost bored, and tossed the ball of flame directly at Erik. It hit him square in the chest and flared outward, engulfing him in an instant. It was too fast, too complete, nothing like the movies with their slow-motion agony.
Erik went up like dry tinder, the flames swallowing his scream before it could fully form. There was a smell, sharp, acrid, not quite like burning meat, more like scorched hair and melted plastic. The blaze flashed blue for an instant, then guttered out, leaving nothing but a blackened husk crumpled on the trail.
Sasha screamed, the sound tearing out of her throat raw and wild. Her legs gave out, and she landed hard on her knees, hands pressed to the earth. Her heart jackhammered in her chest, and her vision blurred, the world swimming between horror and disbelief.
Oh god. She was about to die. This was it. Her story was going to end in a forest, burned alive by monsters pretending to be men.
Rook stepped forward, his posture shifting. Something in him changed, the air around him growing impossibly hot. He held out his hands, palms open, and the flames swirling in front of the drug dealers seemed to hesitate, as if waiting for his command. For a moment, he looked like a circus performer, a fire-eater or an illusionist, but the power radiating from him was too real, too raw.
He was one of them.
No witnesses.
The words rattled in her skull, echoing in the same emotionless voice as the man who had just incinerated Erik.
She was the only living witness.
And she wasn’t going to let them burn her up.
Sasha scrambled to her feet. Her muscles screamed in protest, but she ignored the pain. She turned, picked a gap in the trees, and ran. Branches whipped at her face, but she didn’t care. She ran like her life depended on it.
Behind her, she heard Rook shout something, his voice a guttural snarl. Heat flashed, brighter than the sun, and the roar of fire chased her through the woods. Sasha didn’t look back. She forced her burning legs to keep moving, her arms pumping, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The forest blurred past, a smear of green and brown and shadow. All that mattered was the next step, the next patch of ground, the hope that maybe she could outrun the impossible.
She wasn’t ready to die. Not there. Not then.
Not like that.
4
This was a mess.
Rook shot flame at the nearest fugitive. Fire roared from his palm in a bright, searing arc that split the darkness and threw wild shadows across the trees.
But the man was a skilled wielder, quick and practiced. He caught the attack with his own fire. The two flames collided, hissing and twisting in the air before sputtering out with a sharp, acrid pop. The smell of scorched bark rose around them, thick and bitter, clinging to Rook’s tongue.
Even with the recent rain, if they fought fire for fire in those woods, there would be a conflagration. Flames would leap from pine needle to moss, racing through the undergrowth until the whole forest was a blackened scar. He could already feel the heat building in the air, a warning that pressed tight against his skin.
Damned flammable planet.
The trees there burned too easily. The air was too dry beneath the canopy.
The fugitives seemed to sense the same danger. They moved with a strange, predatory grace, slipping between the trees with the silent confidence of men who had spent too long on the run. Rook watched one of them flare his hands, conjuring a quick flash of fire that spun between his fingers like a coin. It was a taunt, a show of power meant to distract. Another let out a low, rasping laugh, the sound curling around the trunks and echoing in the growing gloom.
The tallest of the group, broad-shouldered with a scar running from his jaw to his temple, lifted his chin. He met Rook's gaze, his yellow eyes shining in the dusk, and tipped an invisible hat in mockery before melting back into the gathering darkness. The others followed suit, their movements efficient and practiced. One flicked his wrist, sending a spark whistling through the air before vanishing behind a fallen log. Another stepped backward into the shadows, the fire in his palm shrinking to a pinprick before it winked out.
In less than a minute, the entire group was gone. The forest swallowed them. The only sign of their presence was a faint crackle in the underbrush and the lingering scent of burned resin.
Rook cursed as the last one disappeared. He could give chase, but he was no fool. He would not run into an ambush. There had been at least a half dozen in the attack, and no doubt more were waiting.
Slavers didn’t work alone. They traveled in packs, covering each other’s backs, always ready to spring a trap.
His paperwork hadn’t mentioned it, a typical bureaucratic oversight, but he recognized two of the men from past run-ins. The one with the scar had a reputation for cruelty and cunning. There were only so many reasons dragons might come to Earth to regroup. The planet was rich in minerals, yes, but nothing so rare it couldn’t be found elsewhere in the galaxy.
People, though.
People were always worth something to slavers. Humans who had no idea the universe teemed with predators who would use them up and discard their withered husks were easy prey. They fetched a high price on the black market.
He closed his eyes for a second, listening to the faint echo of the fugitives’ laughter. Slavers. He’d known it as soon as he saw their eyes, their posture. Too confident, too cold.
