Prologue

March 3, 2007

The reckoning had begun.

All around the world, gazes turned skyward for the total
lunar eclipse. Not everyone realized that it was the first
eclipse of a new cycle, that it was the beginning of an age
of reconciliation.

There were thirteen who knew.

No sooner had the shadow of the earth passed over the full
moon than the first six met in the quiet reaches of
southern Libya. The moon glowed red and unnatural, as
unnatural as many might have found the sight of the dragons
circling out of the darkened sky. The members of the high
circle gathered silently, as prearranged, honoring custom.
They landed unobserved beneath the path of the eclipse.

There was no need for conversation: the process of
ordination had taught them their responsibility, though
none had known whether they would be summoned until now.
Dread and anticipation mingled in one of the eldest,
Donovan, as he watched his fellows arrive. He didn’t like
foretold events, didn’t like the sense they always gave him
that there was more controlling his future than his own
will. Heat rose from the sand underfoot and the sky
appeared to be stained with blood.

Erik arrived last, his onyx and pewter figure casting an
erie shadow as he wheeled with confidence out of the sky.
He carried a black velvet sack, moving as if it weighed
nothing. Donovan knew that sack’s contents and the burden
Erik carried.

The blessing was murmured in old-speak by all of them, even
skeptical Donovan. The bag’s cord was loosed to reveal the
treasure of their kind, still nestled in the shadowed
interior. The Dragon’s Egg was as dark as night, as
fathomless as obsidian, and the surface of the stone
gleamed as if wet.

The sight of it gave Donovan the creeps.

“It’s not working,” Niall said.

“Nonsense. It must taste the moon’s light.” Erik was
impatient with doubt and skepticism. “Give it room.” The
others withdrew slightly and Donovan restrained the urge to
destroy the sacred relic. It was older than any of them,
mysterious and potent, and to his thinking, it brought more
trouble than it solved.

Erik spun the Dragon’s Egg three times, requested an augury
of the Great Wyvern, and released it. The stone spun like a
top across the scorching sand. When it came to a halt, the
six clustered closer, as close as Erik would permit.

For a long moment, only the reflection of the moon’s red
glow was visible in the orb. The eclipse was already
progressing - if Erik felt the press of time passing, he
gave no outward sign. Their leader was as cool and composed
as always, as confident as Donovan had always known him to
be.

Donovan was inclined to prod the stone. If he kicked it
hard enough, it might shatter. Before he could move,
though, the orb sparkled, as if lit from the inside. Lines
of gold appeared in the darkness, running across and around
its surface.

“First it traces the planet,” Rafferty said, for those who
had not witnessed the marvel before. The outline of
continents appeared, as if drawn in gold by a frantic map
smith.

“North America,” said Donovan, recognizing the shape of the
continent displayed on the top. He sighed. “It figures. Why
can’t we ever be dispatched to Italy, where the women are
gorgeous, or some South Sea island where they’re naked?”

“Silence!” Erik commanded. Rafferty chuckled darkly until
the leader silenced him with a look.

Nothing happened after the continents were drawn. The
shadow of the earth moved relentlessly across the full
moon. Sloane stirred, restlessly, until Erik held up a hand.

Finer hairlines appeared on the Dragon’s Egg, straight
lines of force. The leylines could have been lines of
longitude and latitude, because they triangulated a precise
location. What they really marked was lines of energy,
earth energy, energy that might as well have been Roman
roads for the readiness with which Donovan and his kind
could follow them.

The lines targeted the nexus where the next firestorm would
begin. The leylines glowed briefly as they made a
conjunction and the six leaned closer, anxious to read the
location before the gleaming lines faded to darkness.

“Ann Arbor,” Erik murmured, his old-speak echoing in the
thoughts of his fellows with authority. “I will go.”

“I will be your second, if you wish it,” Donovan said,
speaking out of some impulse he could not name.

“You will all second me,” Erik declared. “It is time.” A
frisson of alarm pass through the group. Donovan exchanged
a glance with Rafferty, knowing that the old prophecy must
be correct for Erik to make such a demand.

The final battle had come.

And the world would never be the same again.

•••••••

Further south, in the Kalahari desert, the other seven
gathered in a dark parody of the high circle. They also
appeared in the sky when the eclipse was complete, although
not all of them flew under their own power. The last of
their number was a terrified captive, harnessed and
shackled, who fought and bit to no avail.

They were six powerful males, all in their dragon form, and
they easily held the lone female down in the hot sand. She
was afraid when she saw them all together, afraid of their
intent.

“What do you want from me?” she demanded.

“A prophecy, of course,” declared the dragon who had his
claw upon her neck. He might have been made of turquoise
and hammered silver, and he was larger and more brutal than
any Pyr she had ever known. He dug his talons deeper into
her neck and when she caught her breath in pain, he
chuckled.

“A name,” clarified the leader, a magnificent ruby red
dragon with trailing plumes. “All I want is a name.”

“Your name is Boris,” she said and he laughed. It was an
unpleasant sound.

He leaned closer, his breath hot and dry, his eyes glinting
with malice. His scales were brilliant and looked to be
edged in brass: she knew he was old to have taken that
metallic sheen. “I want the name of the human who will feel
this firestorm.”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Of course you can.” His smile was reptilian. “You are the
Wyvern, keeper of prophecies. You know such things.”

“I am untrained. I cannot predict...”

“Cut her wings.” His terse command cut short her protest.
She watched, incredulous, as a topaz yellow dragon moved to
do Boris’s bidding. The one who held her neck indicated a
tender spot, scratching it so that she flinched, then the
yellow one took pleasure in showing her his sharpened
talon. It was long and black and had an edge that looked
wickedly sharp, especially against the pale delicacy of her
own skin.

Sophie choked on her shock. “But it is forbidden to injure
the Wyvern!”

“We do not play by the old rules,” Boris said in old-speak,
his tone contemptuous. “Times demand that useless
formalities be abandoned.”

Sophie knew she would never erase the echo of his hatred
from her thoughts. “But...”

The topaz dragon slid his sharp talon across the tendon at
the root of her wings and giggled. Sophie felt the pain of
the cut, could not mistake the warm trickle of her own
blood across her flesh.

“Hers is red,” exclaimed the topaz dragon.

“You’ll have to make her bleed more to be sure,” insisted
her turquoise captor. “Go on. Cut deeper.”

Sophie closed her eyes as the talon carved into her flesh,
hating that she had no choice. His nail bit deeply, more
deeply than any natural nail could have done.

It wasn’t the pain that persuaded her. It was the fact that
there’d be no chance of escape if she couldn’t fly. She had
to escape.

She had to survive.

Whatever the price.

She begged the Great Wyvern to forgive her weakness.

“Her name is Sara Keegan,” she said in a quiet rush,
knowing that she might be condemning the woman to death.

In the same moment that Sophie uttered the mortal woman’s
name, the name of the Pyr who would mate with Sara came
became clear. Sophie blinked as she felt a whisper of hope.

“And the Pyr who will feel the firestorm?” Boris demanded.

“You cannot ask me that. It is forbidden.”

“I just have asked you.”

“You said one name.”

“I lied,” Boris said easily. “It’s a bad habit of mine.
Tell me who he is.”

“I don’t know.” The Wyvern gritted her teeth, not wanting
to tell these villains more.

“Liar! Cut her again.”

The talon of her tormentor cut so deeply that Sophie cried
out in pain. They would cripple her, without a moment’s
regret, and abandon her in this endless desert. She’d die,
and where would the Pyr be then? Without a prophet as they
entered the greatest battle of all time. She owed her kind
better than that.

“It is the Smith,” she confessed, hating the choice she had
to make. She felt their shock and awe.

“His name. Confirm his name.”

The talon touched her flesh. “Quinn Tyrrell. You knew that
already.”

“I thought he was dead,” Boris mused, sparing a cold glance
to a golden dragon who had thus far been silent.

“I never believed he was,” said that dragon, with a
defensiveness to his tone. This one, too, was old, and his
scales gleamed with the mysterious lights shared by tigers’
eye stones.

“He lives because you failed,” Boris said coldly. “Here is
your chance to finish what you began, Ambrose. Try not to
make a mess of it this time.”

The golden dragon inclined his head as if submissive but
Sophie saw the flash of fire in his gaze. She would never
turn her back on him, if she had the choice.

Boris looked back to the Wyvern and she dreaded what he
might say. “You can keep her until the next eclipse in
August, Everett,” he told her captor and that dragon
laughed. Sophie’s blood ran cold. “Don’t wound her, not
yet.” Boris tickled her chin with his talon, as if she was
a favored pet, and she yearned to bite him. “She has shown
some talent for usefulness.”

That wasn’t all of it, though. Boris leaned closer, his
breath as hot as a desert wind. Sophie closed her eyes but
she couldn’t evade his voice. “I would not recommend your
giving Everett any trouble. He tends to be somewhat
volatile and forgets his own strength.”

Everett chuckled and poked his talon into her wound. The
Wyvern knew it was no accident.

She was glad her eyes were closed. Let Boris think her
weak. What these Slayers did was wrong and they would be
exterminated. Justice would prevail, evil would be
vanquished, and the true Pyr would triumph.

She was the Wyvern.

She ensure that they paid for their crimes.

Somehow.

•••••••

The eclipse could not be fully viewed in Traverse City, but
its pull could be felt all the same.

Quinn was ready.

He fired his forge in anticipation. It was unlikely he
would have company with the the snow piled outside, but he
took precautions anyway. He locked the doors of his studio
and covered the windows, ensuring that no one could witness
his secret.

It was no accident that he had kept it so well for so long.
It took diligence to work iron, diligence to hold a secret,
diligence to train to meet one’s destiny.

Quinn didn’t have to see the progression of the eclipse to
feel when it was complete. He knew, right to his marrow,
when it was time. He took a deep breath and shifted to his
dragon form, memories crowding into his thoughts.

It was the first time in centuries that he had permitted
his body to do what it did best: he realized only as he
changed how much he had missed the transformation. The
sense of power was magnificent, heady, addictive. He felt
joyous and strong and powerful.

And this time, he was. The past had forged him into what he
was. He was tempered and strong and ready to claim his
mate. It was time for the Smith to ensure his own
succession.

Quinn breathed fire into the forge, sending its flames
higher and hotter than coal and coke could have made them.
The heat would have driven him away in human form, even
with his protective gear, but his dragon form welcomed the
fire.

With his talons, he removed the mermaid door knocker from
the fire where she waited. She was red hot, gleaming and
glowing, on the verge of turning liquid. He finished the
end of her tail with sure strokes. He had known when the
iron took this feminine shape beneath his hand that his
turn had come, he had known that he could only finish the
work in dragon form.

His firestorm was coming.

The others, good and bad, would follow the beacon of its
heat.

This time, he would triumph.

This time, he would protect what was his to defend.

He exhaled mightily, sending sparks dancing throughout his
workshop, infusing the hot iron with his desire. The
mermaid glittered as if she was made of fire, caught in a
magical wind of Quinn’s making. She looked to be filled
with sparks, but in truth, she was filled with the power of
his will.

He was the Smith.

His talisman was struck.

Let them try to stop his firestorm.