Page 72 of Brock’s Mate

“Let’s focus on the things we can control,” Flynn said. “A frontal or aerial assault is out—too much danger of them hurting the hostages.”

Kira added, “And a sneak attack isn’t going to work—not with those wards up. Otherwise I could worldwalk a strike force right into the basement. Emon and I can probably bring the wards down, but there’s no telling how long it will take, and once again, if they realize we’re trying, they just have to threaten the hostages to make us stop.”

“What about waiting until they’re in transit?” one if the other dragons suggested. “We could lift a fuckin’ van right off the road and fly off with it.”

“Same problem,” Emon said. “They might just decide to cut their losses, kill the hostages and bail.”

Desi said, “So the problem is that DB is unconscious and can’t use his powers to fight the sorcerer, right?” She didn’t wait for agreement. “It makes him and Brock both vulnerable. So there’s only one solution. We have to wake him up.” She turned to Emon. “I hope you brought the antidotes Brandon asked for. Because the only person who can get inside that cabin—and inside that cell—is me.”

It took a few more minutes to finalize the plan. Desi didn’t let anyone waste any of them by arguing with her about whether she should do this or not.

She was done with people who captured and used people for their own selfish ends. Brock and DB were her people, and these motherfuckers who took them were going down.

While the others talked deployment details for outside the cabin, Emon took Desi aside. He had a flat leather case that opened like a book, about two inches by three inches. In it were several crystal vials.

“Don’t worry about them breaking,” he said. “They’re spelled not to. If you actually want to break one, just say this word when you do.” He wrote ‘fika’ in the air in letters of fire. “Rhymes with peeka.”

He pointed to the different vials. “This one to wake the dragon up, this one for if they’ve blocked his magic. They’re blends, of all the antidotes I could find.” Then he pointed to the third vial. “This one is for the sorcerer, if you can get it into his face.”

“What does it do?”

His eyes got that scary look again, and he grinned evilly. “You don’t want to know. But he probably won’t bother you anymore.”

She nodded.

Emon added, “I’ve spelled the case so humans will tend not to notice it, even if they search you. Although, since all the ones there seem to be magical in some way, it might not work, so do your best to hide it.”

Desi nodded. “I’m good at that.”

Emon gazed at her for a minute, which was super-uncomfortable because he had a huge presence, and her street sense told her he was more than a little crazy.

Finally he said, “Are you Brock’s mate?”

She hadn’t been expecting that. She’d never had to admit it out loud before. “Yeah,” she said slowly. “I guess I am.”

“Good,” he said unexpectedly. “My dragon likes you.”

A strange voice said in her head,

Holy fuck. His dragon?

So’s our mate, doofus, Emon said.

Emon shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Like I said, he likes you.”

Desi blurted out, “Why are you doing this?” She was still overwhelmed by the sheer number of people who had come to help—and by the talk she’d heard, there were more they’d left behind who’d wanted to come.

Emon said, “Brock means a lot to a lot of people, whether he knows it or not. Did he tell you he saved my life once? When he was six.”

“Are you serious?” How the hell had a six-year-old saved a dragon’s life?

“Serious as fuck. Some shifter hunters—sort of like these guys, come to think of it—invaded my castle and tried to capture my sister, plus Brock, his mom, and Tristan. In the battle, I got shot in the back with a magical inhibitor that took away all my dragon powers, including my shifter healing. Then I took another bullet, and I was bleeding out, with a battle raging all around me. Guns and magic everywhere.”

Emon’s eyes grew dark. “My mate, Trish, tried to save me, but she couldn’t. No one else was close enough. And then all of the sudden there was little Brock, with a knife in his hand. He freakin’ cut that inhibitor right out of my back. Gave me my powers back, and saved my life.”

He shook his head. “Six years old. And in some ways, he hasn’t changed at all. He sees the good in people—until they make it impossible. He doesn’t like to fight, but when he has to, he doesn’t flinch.”