Flameborn. Corinna Rogers
time in years.
They’d had a code, back when they’d first started hunting down the magical creatures that preyed on those less able to defend themselves. They’d sworn it then, in blood and when looking in each others’ eyes. “No matter what, we keep it from getting out into the world if we can help it.”
Drake throws himself sideways as the liquid fire streaks towards the door, and if his size is good for little else it’s at least good when he wants to act like a barrier. Out the door is where Shane is, Drake remembers just in time, and opens his mouth to call.
The fire darts sideways at the last second, neatly zapping itself down his throat, and Drake almost blacks out from the pain. He would scream, if screaming didn’t involve his throat. He throws himself back violently, slamming his back to the wall with the last bit of his conscious effort, trying to dislodge whatever it is in a haze of blinding, searing pain. The fire feels like it looks, which is no consolation; searing fire made liquid feels a hell of a lot like a huge gulp of boiling oil, and Drake can feel his insides roasting more every millisecond. His lungs lock up, unable to function when something tears its way through him. He only has a fleeting second to wonder whether the creature will burn a hole out or be suffocated inside his corpse when warm hands clutch his face.
It would be nice to have his face be the last thing I see, Drake thinks dimly. It’s the only thought that registers through the pain, through the smell of his own melting insides, but forcing his eyes open is a hundred, a thousand, times harder than usual. He can feel every slide of the creature in his throat, every frantic wriggle, and as a vague plan to suffocate it Drake closes his jaw as his last act of defiance.
Something long and cool presses into the palm of his hand, and Drake’s eyes snap open.
The sword in his hand blazes, pressed there by Shane’s hands around his, and the light from the sword envelops his body. Everywhere it touches, it seals, making his flesh stronger, making his body hardier, and Drake almost lets out a sob of relief when the pain starts to fade. He tries to take a breath and his lungs slowly, begrudgingly, start working. The first gulp of air banishes the firespots on his vision, and the second makes him feel like he’s not actually dead, something he considers pretty helpful.
Drake’s fingers close around the sword without Shane’s help, squeezing it tightly for the salvation it is. The creature is still inside him, thrashing around, and Drake doesn’t dare let go.
“—Got to open up for me, baby, let me see the damage. You need to call me before you start doing idiot things like—“
Shane has been talking for a while, Drake realizes, and has to wonder whether he’d passed out after all.
“Swallowed it.” He’d expected his voice to be a raw rasp of a thing, but it sounds as normal as ever to his own ears. “It came at the door. I didn’t know what to do.”
Shane’s laughter borders on the hysterical. “Oh, now your first impulse is to swallow.”
“Shane.”
“Sorry, sorry, but don’t expect that joke to die any time soon. Is it still…”
Drake grimaces. “It’s still in me. Gimme your hand.”
He grabs Shane’s hand with the one not clutching the sword, and brings it to his own belly. Shane lets out a startled curse and yanks his hand away. “It’s—it’s hot!”
“Having any more luck with that ice?”
Shane makes a face at him and helps him off the floor, where he’d apparently fallen without realizing it. “Not sure what’s up. Might have something to do with being so close to a bunch of fire.”
“Never stopped you before. I’ve seen you make fires when you were surrounded by ice.”
“Yeah. It’s probably to do with the Ice King. Maybe he took that away from me. Pretty small revenge for destroying his palace and murdering all of his servants, but maybe he’s also a petty son of a bitch.”
“Wouldn’t you know if he is?” It’s a delicate question. Drake isn’t sure how much Shane really doesn’t remember and how much he’s just repressing because he doesn’t want to remember it. Honestly, knowing even a small fraction of the things Shane had done in the Ice King’s service, he can’t say he blames him.
Shane hesitates, then shakes his head, kicking what’s left of the door off its hinges. “I don’t remember much of that time, you know. Plus, I’m pretty sure we weren’t exactly best friends. Even when I was his number one, I was still scared as hell of him, back when I still had fear. Can you walk?”
“Nothing wrong with me.” At least, nothing feels wrong. The sturdy truck Drake bought second-hand to replace the SUV that had flipped on him is a wide older model, but neither of them blink at it when they hop into the cab. Drake gets in a bit more carefully than Shane, on the passenger’s side, and carefully lays the sword diagonally across his lap.
“Not sure I’m real comfortable with this,” Shane admits. “What if I hit a bump and you impale yourself?”
“What if you don’t drive like an asshole? Besides, I’m a lot less fond of some flaming slug eating its way through my intestines.”
“Yeah, it might damage the upholstery if it gets out. You need to go by the Church?”
Drake chews on his bottom lip for a minute, thinking. “I’d better. The sword is working really well against it, better than most things. I might be able to get something out of Father Aaron there.”
“I bet you will,” Shane mutters.
Drake shuts his mouth, clenching his jaw shut. There’s nothing good he can say to that comment that won’t start a fight, and both of them know it. Shane has never liked Father Aaron, but Drake had always assumed it was some natural aversion to the Church in general. It hasn’t abated since he got his soul back, however, and the idea that he’ll just have to accept this animosity rubs Drake the wrong way.
Shane pulls jerkily out into the street, amid unhelpful tips from Drake about how to handle the stick shift. At least he doesn’t stall at the intersection this time, which Drake decides to consider a small win. “You want me to wait in the car?”
“You don’t like it inside.”
Shane’s hands tighten on the steering wheel and his voice is tight when he speaks. “That wasn’t me. You know that. Christ, why are we still even having this conversation?”
Drake gives him a sideways look, then focuses on the road so he doesn’t lose his temper. Shane might not remember all that well, but Drake had lived through that decade and remembers it plenty for the both of them. “You’re saying you want to come in and talk to Father Aaron?”
Shane almost swerves into traffic and Drake grips the sword as tightly as he can. “Is there some way I can avoid going in and avoid you being alone with him?”
“Why don’t you want me alone with him?”
“Nothing against him, I just don’t like you hanging out with guys that want to bone you into next week.”
Drake’s eyebrows shoot straight up and he turns, incredulous, to stare at Shane’s clenched jaw, his fingers tight on the wheel. Whatever reply he’d been about to make fades on his tongue. Shane is a lot of things—irrational, flighty, over-eager, occasionally petty—but he’s not jealous for no reason. At least, he hasn’t been in the past, Drake reminds himself.
Not for the first time, he has to wonder how much of the boy he’d loved is in the man driving the truck.
“He’s a priest,” he says quietly, trying not to dismiss Shane’s feelings just because he thinks (knows) they’re ridiculous. “Even if he had some weird thing for me—which I really don’t think he does—“
“He does.”
“Even if,