Soul of Fire Read Online Free PDF Page A

nothing so much as miscalculation and the natives’ fear of waking their nawab, who had retired to bed after ordering the men confined. Still, it was counted in England as one of the many reasons the Indians should not be allowed to rule themselves.
    This thought was in Peter’s mind—not so much in clear words, but in a certain feeling of frustration and despair—as the dragon’s paws touched the sun-warmed black marble. The dragon tucked its wings in and Peter—madly, with all his strength—tried for control of their joint mind before the dragon could flame his burden. He felt said burden slip down his back scales and step to the side. He heard the sound of her soles on the marble—but only as through a haze.
    With all his willpower, he was holding fast to the dragon, preventing it from turning and flaming, forcing it to yield control to Peter and give up its form for Peter’s. It was not easy. The dragon disliked turning into Peter as much as Peter disliked turning into the dragon. There had been times in his life where if he could have separated himself from the beast, Peter would have willingly—nay, gladly—killed the creature.
    But now he felt no hatred, only urgency, as he gentled the brute into giving him control of their joint mind and into allowing him to change their body into human form again. The dragon contorted and danced in a mad rictus of pain as bone slid over bone and flesh altered its shape. Wings and tail melted away and back into the body, and legs became long and human, and the teeth shrank to Peter’s accustomed, well-shaped human set.
    The transformation, though fueled by magic, wasn’t easy. Peter felt the pain wrenching the creature’s body, the grinding of bones, the seeming tearing of flesh. Lost in the mortal pains of change, he thought the girl must have run away by now. She must be running madly through the streets of Calcutta to alert her compatriots that there was a were-dragon on the loose, to call the wrath of the Gold Coats upon him.
    Trembling, he found himself human, his hand holding on to the foot of one of the heroic statues that surmounted the black marble. Sweat covered his body, cooling it even as the warm night breezes blew upon him. Panting, he blinked to clear his remaining eye of the sweat that had run into it, making it sting.
    He must get his clothes. He must leave this place as soon as possible. By the time the girl found someone to listen to her wild story, he must be well away, back at the home of his kind hosts, who had lodged him in Calcutta for six months, without ever suspecting that Peter might be a were-dragon. They’d vouch for him and he’d . . .
    Something—he’d never be sure quite what: a sound of indrawn breath or perhaps a shuffle of shoes upon the marble—called his gaze. The girl had not run away screaming. Granted, her pink, well-shaped lips were opened in what could be construed as shock, and her hands were clutching her carpetbag a little harder than strictly necessary. But still, there was in her dark blue eyes something that was very akin to curiosity. And that seemed to be enough to keep her silent, whatever else she felt.
    “I beg your pardon,” he said, his voice coming out shaky, like the voice of someone very tired, which he was after his transformation. “I beg your pardon, miss.” The words were automatic, as he fumbled under the monument for his clothes and quickly pulled on his underwear. “I should not be in a state of undress.”
    She didn’t answer for a long moment, and neither did she move. He wondered if he’d so wounded her sensibilities that she’d lost her senses. He should probably be very grateful she wasn’t swooning, or else crying, but he didn’t know what to do if she presently suffered an apoplexy of some sort. He knew nothing of first aid. For too long, he’d known more about killing humans than helping them.
    The girl cleared her throat. Her voice shook, too, as she answered, though her words