As her cousin took care of the interloper, Aimi peeked around for its cohorts. She already knew one wyvern wouldn't attack alone, especially against a half-dozen Silvergraces. She knew there were a few on board, tangling with her family, but she suspected there were others outside the plane, too. Why else open the door?

She dipped under the aircraft, and her eyes widened as she noted the bodies in the sky flapping toward them, the many bodies, and that wasn't counting the ones that suddenly perched on the plane's wing. The weight of it unbalanced things, and the nose of the plane dipped. Sweeping past the belly of the craft, she tipped up the other side to see another pair of wyverns on the wings, going after the second hatch and managing to tear it loose.

Nothing came flying out, the first breach having suctioned all the loose items, including at least one unlucky passenger.

There was only one thing left on board without a buckle. Brand!

Before Aimi could head to the plane, some of the arriving wyvern fleet saw her and banked in her direction, uttering shrill war cries.

You want to fight? Bring it. Uttering her own clarion, she swept in to attack.

Aerial fights sounded great in theory. Looked even more awesome on screen. But in reality, they were chaos.

Winds fought against fighting pairs, tugging at their wings, trying to tumble them. They grappled with claws, swiping and trying to grab, and yet, at the same time, being careful not to lock, lest their wings tangle and they both plummet to their deaths. Gravity also played a huge part as it tugged at their weight. They might have the pounds they condensed as a human expanded as a dragon, their bones lightweight and hollow yet tungsten strong, but any kind of weight was subject to gravity.

As Aunt Waida often claimed, "What goes up, always comes down and splats."

Watching the earth approach at breakneck speed was never fun, not with the memory of her aunt slapping her fist into her hand and making a squishy sound. A good thing an uncontrolled dive was the first lesson a mother taught her dragonling. The first time it had happened, Aimi could at least say she hadn't peed herself, but her lunch hadn't fared so well, and neither had the cow it landed on. Cousin Jackie from the Silverheart Sept never did forgive her on account she was munching on said cow at the time.

But Aimi was a big girl now, and while she didn't have the experience her ancestors did when it came to an airborne fight, she could hold her lunch and her own against a smaller wyvern. Unless there were several attacking at once.

Little bastards. Since they tried to swarm, she screwed with them, letting herself drop straight down and then flipping to her back. She caught the first wyvern by surprise and gutted it, her claws more than just pretty. Adi slammed into a second, easily recognizable even without their bond, given Adi's dragon form had a short pink ruff on her neck. As for the third wyvern who thought to play unfair? Aimi had to chase it.

As she got within arm's reach, a shrill bugle of a cry had her putting on the brakes midair.

What's this? A late arrival?

She craned her head, her long neck twisting, and noted an attacker, a red dragon hovering just outside the plane and the breach.

Aha, there's the culprit behind the attack. And, apparently, the attack had nothing to do with the Silver Sept and everything to do with her mate. A pair of wyverns shoved Brand into the door. He faced them with his back straight, and was it her, or did he give them the finger and utter, "Fuck you. Come and get me."

Undaunted. Fearless. And mine.

Until the dragon reached out and snatched her man from the plane. That would not do at all.

He belongs to me. Time to get him back.

Except, Brand freed himself before she could reach him, his closed fist pounding at the claws holding him until, with a screech, the dragon let go, and Brand fell.

I'd better catch him. A plan that would have worked better if the red dragon hadn't spotted her and uttered a challenge.

I don't have time for this. The dragoness didn't care. She slammed into Aimi and hissed. Nice of her to bring the fight, but Aimi wasn't in the mood, not with Brand free falling and not in a good Tom Petty kind of way.

Let me go. She struggled with the other dragon, the red viper belching obnoxious fumes in her face, and Aimi could only hope she'd already spat her fire, and the flames were now extinguished. Unlike the storybooks, dragons didn't have an unlimited supply. A good thing, or she might have needed a vat of aloe to soothe her burned face.

Their wings flapped and tucked, alternatively keeping them aloft and coasting the high winds at this altitude, but gravity also pulled, forcing them to flutter lest they get drawn into a death spiral.

Their breaths grew short. They couldn't wrestle forever, especially since the longer it took, the farther her mate fell.

Scraping Brand off pavement didn't seem like a good way to start married life.

Enough. Aimi didn't use her dragon power often. None of the pure-blooded Silvergrace did because it was so deadly and final. Their particular family Sept wasn't one of the most powerful families for nothing. Their breath could impart death.

Bye bye, bitch.

Aimi pulled from inside herself, pulled at that core within that made her dragon, the silver essence of herself. It tingled.

She blew, exhaled deeply, and let the flaps within her throat open, drawing through them the venom she carried. All dragons had some kind of special power. A poisonous gas, acid, flame, and even ice.

One branch of silver had the Midas Curse, and yes, it was related to the fable humans told, except the Midas legend had gotten a few things wrong in the retelling. First, Midas was a dragon-an uncle several times removed. He was also a king, a conquering one, who turned all those who thought to thwart him to silver-not gold. It turned out to be a lot of people until, one day, he found himself all alone, with only silver statues of people, expressions still screaming, left to keep him company.

Then there were those with the Silver Rain gift. They could literally spit machine gun fire. The Silverleafs? They could shape silver, using it to cage their enemy or create a fine lattice for sale.

As for the Silvergraces, their power was the nastiest of all. They had the Dust.

As Aimi breathed out, she saw the horror in the other dragon's eyes. The backpedaling as, suddenly, it recognized its mortality.

Too late.

Her exhalation puffed fine particles onto the other dragon. It seemed so innocuous at first. A dust that the opponent sucked in. It didn't hurt, not one bit, and yet, they were dead as soon as they inhaled.

Much like a virus, the Dust spread to living tissue, consuming and killing it. Worse than killing it, it crumbled into...nothingness.

The red squealed as the Dust took hold, and the reaction was instantaneous. Pieces of the other dragon flaked away, fluttering much like ash. The red dragon thrashed in the air, her color turning gray as more and more of her succumbed to the wasting death.

Back in the day, according to her Aunt Waida, the humans had called it the unmaking, which Adi declared was so much cooler sounding than the Dust, but no matter the name, none affected ever survived.

With her foe no longer a problem, Aimi focused on Brand, a mere speck too far below her. She plummeted toward him, feeling the yank of gravity hastening her plunge. The wind streamed hard into her face, pushing against her second eyelids, the thin membrane that covered her orbs from damage during flight. Her wings were tucked tight to her body, making her as small as possible, anything to streamline her descent.

She moved fast toward the earth, but it wasn't enough; she wouldn't reach him in time. Failure was unacceptable, and she uttered a fluted cry of frustration.

And got a reply.

Don't worry, moonbeam. I got this.

Chapter Eleven.

The reassurance he broadcast at Aimi-because somehow, he felt her worry for him-was perhaps a tad more confident than Brandon actually felt. Then again, he needed confidence right now.

Plummeting to the ground gave a man time to reflect on things, such as vowing to never pass up a chance to eat cheeseburgers slathered in every condiment known to man from a fast food truck. He also needed to visit the Grand Canyon and see a sunset just because he'd always thought it looked cool on television. But the thing he still wanted to do most? Fuck moonbeam within an inch of her life because he felt like a moron for passing up the chance.

All the optimism and confidence in the world couldn't hide the fact that he was going to die-smashed into the ground, creating a Brandon slurry. He saw his demise in her frantic flight, heard it in the panic oozing somehow from her to him.

And then it occurred to him.

I can fly, too. At least he used to, but the question was, could he change shapes, back into the hybrid one he'd met Aimi in?

Is anybody in there?

For a second, he could hear shades of Pink Floyd in that phrase.

Yes. I am always here.

He noticed how his gator's words didn't seem to roll the S's anymore. When had it learned to control its accent?

There is no it anymore. Me, myself, and I are one.

Not quite the sanest thing he'd ever heard, but no point quibbling. Want to give me a hand here?

Don't you mean a wing?

Whatever. Didn't it figure his other side had lost its accent and acquired a sense of humor.

He closed his eyes, mostly to ignore the earth rushing at him. Arms and legs spread wide could only do so much to slow a man's descent.

At first, he felt nothing. Why isn't this working? He forced himself to shut down the outside world and tug on that part of him inside that used to house his beast, except it wasn't there.

Where had it gone?

Everything is one now.

There it was again, that assertion that they weren't two entities. What a strange concept. He and his beast had always each had thoughts, distinct ones, while sharing one body.

Not sharing. Not anymore.

It implied there was no line between man and beast.

Not implying, stating.

All is one.

If true, then flipping shapes should be as simple as moving a limb.

Snap. Ouch. Still fucking painful, too.

The bad news, he lost his damned shirt, and it was chilly enough to make nipples cut glass. The good news?

I've got wings. Whoosh. He banked on the air currents, a gradual loop so as to take his momentum into account. His wings extended, catching air.

You didn't die!

The exuberant exclamation hit him almost physically, and he recoiled. He peered upward and, despite the dark night sky, saw a silver streak heading for him.

No way was he letting her grab him again. He'd been emasculated enough for one day.

Where are you going? she asked. We have to return to the plane.

Back onto that death trap? No, thank you.

No, thank you? How polite.

Did she just read his thoughts?

Not exactly. It's more like you don't hide them very well.

Did that mean everyone could hear him? How utterly appalling.

Not everyone. Only me, on account we are connected.

"Are you telling me I hear you because I'm reading your thoughts?" Brand spoke out loud because the mind thing just seemed freakishly wrong.

You hear only the thoughts I'm projecting at you.

Like this? He squinted his eyes and projected one message. Don't grab me like a mouse.

No need to shout. I hear you fine, and you hear me fine, and I won't grab you if you stop flying away and come back with me to the plane.

The problem with following her back was that the plane didn't seem too safe right now. He could see it angling toward the ground, looking to make an emergency stop. Only an idiot would go back on board, or-he glanced at her and noted her craning toward the plane-someone who had family still within.

"Let's go save them."

Save them? Her mental query sounded genuinely confused. Save them from what?

"Crashing. Death." When she blinked at him, with a translucent set of eyelids, he added more clues. "As in fiery ball of doom. Kaboom." He blew up his hands.

She laughed, a trilling sound as she dove and wove around him, her body undulating on the air currents, close and yet not touching him.

It was oddly erotic.

The plane is not blowing up. There is plenty of open space for landing in this area. And even if it did look like it might hit hard, we're not wilting flowers. We are Silvergrace. We would survive. We always survive.

How ominous sounding. But in a sense, it reminded him of the Mercer clan. As his grand-mere often said, "Yeah, we get shit on, but when it happens, we always rise above and manage to whoop some tail."

"Well, if you're not worried about them at all, then why do you want to rejoin them? I, for one, would prefer to ditch the plane. Falling from way too many thousands of feet isn't something I'm in the mood to repeat."

I'm sure there are no wyverns left to cause trouble.

"Wyverns being?"

The smaller, much less awesome creatures.