Carpathian 23 - Dark Storm

pyroclastic cloud slammed into him.
    His good eye was pressed against his tail. His left eye was temporarily blinded by
     the wound Mitro had dealt him, so he couldn’t make out the faces of the people trapped
     beneath his wings. There was so much dust and ash from his landing that he doubted
     any of the people could see anything. They’d probably have a hard time breathing soon,
     too. But they would survive, and that was the important thing.
    Dax tried to calm the Old One, to silence the instinctive growls rumbling in the dragon’s
     chest. He didn’t want to frighten the humans more.
    Then, to his utter shock, a hand slipped out and touched the wound next to his eye.
     The touch was such a small, tiny thing, but so unexpected—so fearless and unafraid—that
     both Dax and the dragon froze in stunned paralysis.
    Long, long ago, before even Dax had been born, the world told tales of dragons and
     maidens. Some said, a maiden’s call was impossible for a dragon to resist. But now,
     as the woman laid that small, soft, gentle hand upon him, Dax knew it wasn’t her call—it
     was her touch. A caress that gentled the savage heart of the beast. It was such a
     paradox—frailty that conquered strength.
    Finally, the volcanic blast subsided, and for another, long moment, no one moved.
     Dax wasn’t sure what to do. Everything in him—every thought, every one of his senses,
     every nerve in the dragon’s body—was focused on that small, slender hand laid alongside
     the dragon’s wounded eye.
    Abruptly, foul, crowing laughter rang out in his mind, snapping him out of his strange
     daze.
    Once again you have failed, Danutdaxton. Just as you will always fail. Mitro’s sneering voice choked Dax’s enhanced senses with rotting filth. Because I am the superior being, and you will always be weak!
    The Old One unfurled his wings and flung himself back on his haunches. Despite his
     wounds, the dragon roared a defiant challenge with enough force to be heard for miles,
     then spouted a jet of intense flame high into the sky, a beacon in the dark of night.
     It cut through the ash and clouds, lighting the area in a fiery glow. But Mitro was
     already gone.
    Sapped of strength, the Old One turned slowly back to the humans, who had covered
     their ears against his shattering roar and curled up in tight balls to protect themselves
     from the intense heat of his flame. They were huddled in the only small spot of greenery
     left on this part of the mountain. As the echoes of his scream died away, they lifted
     their heads and slowly got to their feet.
    Dax’s heart skipped a beat as he caught his first good look at the woman—at the extraordinarily
     beautiful face that was as familiar to him as his own. The lush, womanly curves, the
     soft, fathomless dark eyes, the long, iridescent black hair and skin as pale as milk
     beneath the layer of volcanic ash that covered her from head to toe.
    Arabejila? Hiszak hän olen te? He whispered the question in astonishment on the private path they had forged between
     themselves centuries ago. Was it truly her? She had been an ally in his pursuit to
     bring Mitro to justice, but he’d felt her die centuries ago. Hadn’t he? It seemed
     impossible that she could have survived all these years . . . and yet, there she stood.
    She turned as if she might be seeking the protection of the three men with her, but
     the Old One surprised him by curling his tail more tightly, trapping her and forcing
     her a step closer. Her scent dizzied him as they breathed her in.
    Her heart thundered in his ears. Clearly, the red dragon frightened her. Perhaps she
     could sense, as Mitro had not, that the Old One was a true dragon, not simply a shape
     assumed by the Carpathian hunter she had once known.
    Dax radiated his will through every cell of the dragon’s body and their mutual, merged
     consciousness. The Old One was too weary from battle to fight for control, and the
     great, fiery red scales and immense mass of the dragon folded in upon itself. Shrinking
     down and metamorphosing back into the tall, muscled density of Dax’s natural form.
    “Arabejila. Hiszakund olenaszund elävänej. ” He truly had thought she was dead.
    She stumbled back, raising her hands as if to ward him off, clearly shocked that the
     massive bulk of the dragon would disappear to leave a human form standing before her.
     Two of the men in her company sprang into action, pulling weapons of some kind and