Page 24 of The Last Slayer
Wow, that offer could sure tempt you if you had a single-digit IQ.
Swain’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second before he smoothed his face into a mask of pleasantry. “That’s very generous of you.”
Generous, my ass. Wyrms formed the basic ground troops of a dragon army, but they were not the lowest of the low. What the hell was a “lowest of the low” dragon anyway? Furthermore, the ability to control a wyrm had nothing to do with commanding a wyvern. Wyverns were the proud elite, with a pair of wings and two powerful forelegs. Although better suited for air battle, they could also fight on the ground. In the chain of command in a dragon army, wyverns outrank wyrms. So if you passed Apollyon’s test, you might be more powerful than a wyrm but most likely still far from being able to control a wyvern.
Apollyon’s lips curved. It was the smile the snake must have given Eve at the moment of temptation. “Then do you accept my proposal?”
“It depends on what you’d like in return.”
“I require nothing in return.”
Oh, bullshit. I took a step forward. Andersen grabbed my arm. “Don’t,” he said. “It’s not your job to interfere.”
“Do you really think he wants nothing?” I hissed.
“He said it front of everyone.”
“He wants to have fun—”
“We know what we’re doing. We didn’t bring you here to get in the way. Just do your job.”
Oh. My. God. Why had they hired me if they were planning to do what they wanted regardless of my professional opinion?
“When would you like me to send someone for this task?” Swain was saying.
“Now would be fine.”
“Now?”
Apollyon glanced around theatrically. “We’re all here, aren’t we?”
Swain nodded, also looking around. His gaze came to rest briefly on me.
Ah hell.
I didn’t care how much Swain was paying us. I was not fighting a wyrm.
Andersen still had my arm. “Just wait,” he whispered.
Apollyon smiled politely. “Would you please invite a wyrm of mine? And name your champion.”
“On the company grounds?”
“My wyrms are quite well mannered.”
A frown marred the thin skin on Swain’s forehead. “But there are no wyrms with you.”
“They’re always with me.” Apollyon waved a hand, the heavy rings on his fingers sparkling in the sunlight. “I shall repair any structural damage, but I can’t guarantee the safety of your man if he fails.”
Swain looked to one of the executives he’d brought with him. It was the one with the raw magical talent, who I’d thought looked familiar. The man nodded smartly and stepped forward as though he was about to receive a military honor.
“I invite a wyrm for the test,” Swain said. “Mr. Patterson will command it.”
Finally I remembered him. The name and that step forward had done it. Ed Patterson, a fellow alumnus from Stanford, who’d majored in necromancy. Long on ego and drive, but short on intelligence and magical talent. He’d failed to get his mage’s license and—as far as I’d heard through the grapevine—knew nothing about dragons. What was he doing here?
Swain and his executives merely smiled, as if the entire event had been scripted the night before. The bodyguards moved forward to protect the overpaid suits.
I pointed at Patterson. “Does he know what he’s doing too?” My voice was low, but I wasn’t whispering anymore.
