I’d passed all my tests and confirmed that I could be trusted, that I cared about the survival of our race above all else.
I wished my sister had done the same. Because of her, our future was in question. Because of her, I didn’t know what Talon wanted from me now.
On the thirtieth floor, the elevator stopped, and the doors slid back with barely a hiss. I stepped into a magnificent lobby tiled in red and gold, my shoes clicking against the floor and echoing into the vast space above us. I gazed around, taking it in, smiling to myself. It was everything I’d imagined, everything I’d hoped Talon would be. Which was good, because I had plans for it all.
One day, I’ll be running this place.
My trainer, who’d told me to call him Mr. Smith at the beginning of my education, led me into the room, then turned to me with a smile. Unlike some dragons whose smiles seemed forced, his was warm and inviting and looked completely genuine, if you didn’t notice the cool impassiveness in his eyes.
“Ready?”
“Of course,” I said, trying not to appear nervous. Unfortunately, Mr. Smith could sense fear and tension like a shark sensed blood, for his eyes hardened even as his smile grew broader.
“Relax, Dante,” he said, putting a hand on my shoulder. It was meant to be comforting, but there was no warmth in the gesture. I’d learned enough to realize that all his overtures were empty; he’d taught me that himself. You didn’t have to believe what you were saying; you just had to make others believe that you cared. “You’ll be fine, trust me.”
“You don’t have to worry about me, sir,” I told him, determined to show nothing but cool confidence. A stark contrast to the twisting bundle of nerves in my stomach. “I know why I’m here. And I know what I have to do.”
He squeezed my shoulder and, even though I knew better, I relaxed. We turned, and I followed him down a narrow hallway lined with office doors, around a corner and finally to a single large door at the end of the hall. A simple gold sign hung against the painted wood: A. R. Roth.
My stomach cartwheeled again. Mr. Roth was one of
Talon’s senior vice presidents. One of the dragons who, while not so far up the chain that he was in contact with the Elder Wyrm itself, was pretty darn close. And he wanted to talk to me. Probably about Ember and what they planned to do about her.
Ember. I felt a brief stab of anger and fear for my wayward twin; anger that she would be so stubborn, so rebellious and ungrateful, that she would turn her back on her own kind—the organization that had raised us—to run off with a known traitor, consequences be damned. Fear of what those consequences could be. Under normal circumstances, a Viper, one of Talon’s fearsome assassins, would be dispatched to deal with a dragon who went rogue. It was harsh but necessary. Rogue dragons were unstable and dangerous, and they put the survival of our race in jeopardy. Without Talon’s structure, a rogue could accidentally, or even purposefully, reveal our existence to the humans, and that would spell disaster for us all. The human world could never know that dragons walked among them; their instinctive fear of monsters and the unknown would overtake them, just as it had hundreds of years ago, and we’d be driven toward extinction again.
I knew the measures Talon had to take against rogues were necessary. Though the loss of any dragon was a heavy blow to us all, those who refused to align themselves with the organization had already chosen their path, proven their disloyalty. They had to be put down. I understood. I wasn’t going to argue that.
But Ember wasn’t a traitor. She had been misled, deceived, by that rogue dragon. She’d always been hotheaded, gullible, and he had fed her a tangle of lies, turning her against Talon, her own race…and me. He was at fault for her disappearance. Ember had always had…problems…with authority, but she’d been able to see reason and listen to the truth until she met the rogue.
I clenched my jaw. If she just returned to the organization, she would realize her mistake. I would make her see the truth: that the rogues were dangerous, that Talon had our best interests at heart and that the only way to survive in a world of humans was to work together. Ut onimous sergimus. As one, we rise. She’d believed that, once.
I had never lost sight of it.
We stepped through the door frame into a cold, stark office. One entire wall was made up of windows, and through the glass, the city of Los Angeles stretched on to the distant mountains, towers and skyscrapers glinting in the sun.
“Mr. Roth,” said Mr. Smith, ushering me forward, “this is Dante Hill.”
A man rose from behind a large black desk to greet us, smiling as he stepped forward with a hand outstretched. He wore a navy blue suit and a watch that was even more impressive than mine, and a gold-capped pen glinted in a breast pocket. His dark hair had been cropped into short spikes, and his even darker eyes swept over me critically, even as he took my hand in both of his, nearly crushing my fingers in a grip of steel.
“Dante Hill! Pleasure to meet you.” He squeezed my hand, and I bit down a whimper, smiling through the pain. “How was your trip up?”
“Fine, sir,” I replied, relieved as he loosened his viselike grip and stepped away. Talon had sent a car to take us from Crescent Beach to Los Angeles, but the drive had been far from relaxing, with my trainer drilling me on company policies, protocol and how to act in front of the regional vice president. I was an insignificant hatchling, meeting with an elder who was likely several hundred years old. First impressions were crucial. And a terrible faux pas was, of course, to complain in the presence of Talon’s executives, especially if it was about the organization. “It was so smooth, I barely noticed the drive.”
“Wonderful, wonderful.” He nodded and gestured to the plush leather chair sitting in front of his desk. “Please, have a seat. Can I have my assistant get you something to drink?”
“No, thank you, sir,” I said, knowing the drill. “I’m all right.” I sat carefully in one of the chairs, feeling myself sink into the cool leather, careful not to slouch. Mr. Smith did the same and crossed his legs as Mr. Roth returned around his desk and beamed at me.
“So, Mr. Hill. Let’s not beat around the bush.” Mr. Roth clasped his hands on the desk in front of him and smiled over the surface. As I’d been taught, I politely dropped my gaze so I wouldn’t be staring right into his eyes. Another social gaffe, and a very dangerous one: holding the stare of another dragon, particularly a male, was a blatant challenge or threat. In ancient times, the challenge between two alpha drakes would be settled via personal combat, with the contenders ripping, biting and slashing each other, until one of them either fled in defeat or was killed. Nowadays, two rival dragons obviously couldn’t throw down in the middle of the city, but there were a thousand other ways to destroy a competitor without getting your claws dirty. Which was good, because that was something I could excel at.
“Your sister,” Mr. Roth said, making my insides clench, “has gone rogue.” He observed my reaction carefully; I kept my face neutral, showing no anger, surprise, sorrow, shock—nothing that would be considered a weakness. After a brief pause, Mr. Roth continued, “Ember Hill is now a traitor in the eyes of Talon, something we take very seriously here. I am sure you know our policy on rogues, but I have heard the organization wishes you to be in charge of retrieving her, Mr. Hill.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, careful not to sound overeager. “Whatever it takes to bring her back, whatever you need me to do, I’m your man.”
Mr. Roth raised
