Hellbender - Dana Cameron Page 0,29

which was fine with me. I pulled out the phone and new earplugs Kazumi-san had thoughtfully provided for me to replace my battered ones. She’d even added my sim card, so I could settle down and listen to music, a pleasure I’d been denied for . . . I couldn’t remember how long.

Viktor went through his pilot checklist. We took off, and I watched the cityscapes and cargo ships fall away beneath us. When we left the fascinating coastline behind, I slept.

“Hellbender! Where do you go?”

I sat bolt upright. I could not see Quarrel when he contacted me like this, but even when he spoke in my head, muted to keep from scrambling my fragile werewolf brain, it was a shock to hear the dragon’s voice come from nowhere. I looked around. The werewolf on the computer was still busily at work crunching numbers or writing press statements or playing Angry Birds.

“Uh, home?” I said quietly.

“You left in such haste. Naserian recalled something to tell you, but I cannot understand it. She asked if she might communicate directly with you, as we are now.”

“Uh . . . sure?”

As soon as I’d given my consent, an image blasted into my head—one of my visions from Ephesus, of a cave in a desert and a scorpion, coming back hard and vivid. The last time I’d had this vision, I was in the middle of a raging gunfight, in addition to opening Pandora’s Box and feeling the bracelet driven into my flesh for the first time. Now I had time to pay attention to the details.

The cave I’d seen was actually a tomb overlooking a small village on the Nile. The blues and greens of the river and its banks stood out starkly against the sere brown of the hilly desert that stretched out beyond.

It had just dawned on me that Naserian was telling me I had to go to Egypt. The urge to get the artifact that was in that place was distressing.

Before I had time to panic, to worry that I might suddenly wish myself to nineteenth-century Egypt, more images flooded my brain, this time somewhat more familiar.

A young woman, in a smart 1940s suit, walking down a runway with a small square suitcase in her hand. She was clutching a ticket that said “Kuskokwim” and hurrying from a small prop plane to a log cabin with red shutters.

The artifact was in the Alaskan bush. I had to get it.

Naserian was gone as soon as I’d had that thought. I felt a vague sense of satisfaction from her, as if I’d successfully understood her meaning.

“Quarrel?”

“Hellbender?”

I chose my words carefully, knowing how dragons could be about objects of power. “Why did Naserian give me that information?” I was curious about why Naserian didn’t try to seize it for herself, but didn’t want to tip off Quarrel if I didn’t have to. I would not want to fight him over such power, especially because he seemed so much more vigorous than our first meeting when he considered eating me.

“She says she pledges herself to you.”

“Ah.” Which meant exactly nothing to me.

“She claims there’s power to be had by following you.” Quarrel didn’t seem convinced yet. “She is terribly learned among our kind, but she is so old she sometimes forgets how to communicate, with you, with us . . .” He continued in what I think was meant to be a whisper, but would have put the jet’s engines to shame for volume. “I think she may be losing grasp on her human memories entirely.”

“Well, convey my thanks.”

“What did she say, Hellbender?”

“I didn’t understand most of it. Mostly it felt like . . . best wishes. That sort of thing.” I decided if she wasn’t sharing her conversation with Quarrel, I wouldn’t, either. I changed the subject quickly. “Quarrel, why do you call me that? Hellbender?”

“It is what you are,” he said, a bit puzzled. “It is very unusual in one so young as you, especially with your incomplete—” Quarrel often became incomprehensible when speaking in terms only a dragon could understand.

“Well, thank you.” I thought a moment. “What are you up to now?”

“Up to?”

“How do you occupy yourself when I don’t see you?”

“I am often resting. Moving about as I do takes much energy.”

“I can imagine.”

“But sometimes I am in communication with the Makers.”

That reminded me of something I’d prefer stayed buried in memory. “Quarrel . . . how greatly did my speech, my manner, offend the Makers?”

“They were curious as to