Giving them a wide berth, Lukasz advanced down the hallway.
God, he loved this.
He moved methodically, checking each office, enjoying the old sense of adventure. This was what he liked. He had to stoop to avoid the black smoke cloud. It was the first time in a long time that he had hunted a dragon without Franciszek’s meticulous research. It was a good feeling. It reminded him, for a moment, of that first hunt, in the cathedral, when he had killed the Faustian. There had been that same sense of the unknown.
Lukasz sidestepped a shoe.
The hall seemed to go on forever, getting murkier and smokier with every stride. The dragon chirped. Lukasz caught a flicker of movement. Feathers flashed across the doorframe and disappeared. It chirped again. From the office. Lukasz shot to the wall.
He pressed his back into the doorframe. He took a breath. The dragon chattered, inside the office next to him. On the other side of that papered wall was a real, live Apofys dragon.
He grinned to himself. Not for long.
And with that, he lunged around the door.
The office was empty.
There wasn’t even a desk. No bookshelf, no chair. No papers. Just a bare carpet and bare walls. The sun streamed through the window, making the room look somehow even emptier. Lukasz frowned.
Another chirp. Somehow still . . . behind him? In the office?
Lukasz twisted around.
The other door—!
He had been so distracted by the voice-throwing, he’d forgotten that the offices connected. Now the adjoining door swung open. Silently. It was a terrible, dreamlike suspension. Everything slowed down. Lukasz raised his sword. The dragon took shape.
It was huge, orange, covered in feathers and scales. It had a curved beak and a quizzical, birdy look in its eye. It chirped again. It threw the sound to somewhere behind Lukasz, and he felt himself sweat. It was beating its wings steadily against the doorframe. Its feathers were soft, rasping.
Shhh. Shhh. Shhh.
The dull blade of the sword filled the empty space between them. Lukasz concentrated on his heart rate, forcing it to slow down. Letting it fall into time with the wingbeats. He’d done it on every hunt since the Faustian. It worked every time.
Shhh. Shhh. Shhh.
“Come on, you feathery bastard,” he muttered. “Come on.”
Time snapped back.
The dragon hurtled out at him. Lukasz swung. It twisted midair and flashed away. Its beak clicked. Flames erupted across the office and consumed the opposite wall. Thick smoke filled the room. It was oily smelling, burning. Lukasz choked, stepped back. His vision blurred. The Apofys chirped on his right. Temporarily blinded, Lukasz swung again.
The beak clicked again. Flames from the left. Heat seared his face.
This time, it didn’t miss.
Fire engulfed Lukasz’s left arm. Yellow flames silhouetted his unprotected hand. The sword trembled and dropped. For a moment, he just stared. At his hand, his fighting hand, burning like a torch at the end of his arm.
Then, pain.
Lukasz screamed. He was on his knees, screaming. Coughing. Tears streaming down his cheeks, dripping off his chin. Black smoke pressed in on him. The only light was his own flaming skin. Pure agony.
The dragon was coming back. He didn’t have much time.
Lukasz jerked his arm out of his coat and buried his hand in the flame-resistant material. The smell of burning flesh mixed with the oily smoke. The combination of smell and pain was too much, and he vomited.
You need to get up. But he couldn’t. He was kneeling on the floor, gasping, clutching what was left of his arm to his chest. Get up. The dragon was coming back. You have to get up. He could feel his hand twist and curl in the coat, useless, charred. Get up.
Another chirp.
The sound cleared his mind. The chirp had come from the smoke overhead. He needed his sword. Desperate, terrified he might lose another hand, Lukasz scrambled across the room, searching the darkening floor. The smoke pressed in from every side. Where is the damn sword? The dragon chirped again, overhead. But there was another sound. Behind him. It was soft. So soft he’d have missed it.
Shhh. Shhh. Shhh.
Missed it if he hadn’t been listening. If he hadn’t been looking for those wingbeats to slow his heart. To calm him down. It had worked for the Faustian. It was working now.
His hand struck metal.
Shhh. Shhh. Shhh.
His right hand, his last hand, closed around the sword hilt.
Shhh. Shhh. Shhh.
Wingbeats.
He whipped around. He was ready. Wingbeats, not chirping. He wasn’t going to fall for the voice-throwing. Not this time.