Donovan would have preferred to have spent the day alone with Alex, but there was too much work to be done.
There was a flurry of old-speak when they walked into the main room of the house together. He was surprised to find that Peter had returned. Erik, Sloane, and Niall were also back, and Peter’s wife—Diane, Alex had called her—was nursing a coffee in the kitchen. She looked strained and Donovan couldn’t blame her, given the state of the conservatory.
“In the smoke fortress,” Alex agreed. As always, she moved quickly from an emotional response to practical solutions. It was another thing Donovan loved about her. “Shouldn’t you guys breathe some more of that stuff?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Donovan agreed with a smile. “What do you think they’ve been doing all night?”
Alex smiled. “Maybe I should leave dragon matters to dragons and focus on human issues.”
Donovan followed Alex’s gaze to her sister-in-law. Diane was blond, slender, and attractive. He sensed that she was an organizational force and that the wreckage in the conservatory would add a wrinkle to her plans. Peter was in the kitchen, too, but looked so untroubled that he was obviously beguiled.
That plan might need a change.
“Alex!” Diane poured the rest of her coffee down the sink and crossed the kitchen quickly. “Why didn’t you tell us that you intended to use the house?” Her gaze flicked over the Pyr and her voice rose. “Why didn’t you mention that you would be bringing so many guests?”
“I’m sorry, Diane. It happened really quickly.” Alex paused as if hoping that would do. Diane kept glaring at her, and Donovan watched as Alex smiled and continued. Her tone radiated reassurance and calm—she was doing a kind of beguiling of her own. “We’re working together to finish the project Mark and I had started. We’ll be done tomorrow. Then we’ll repair all the damage to the house.”
“I should hope so,” Diane said tightly. “The conservatory is a mess. Do you know how long it took to import those saltillo tiles? I can’t begin to imagine how you ruined them—”
“Let me see if I can repair them,” Rafferty said, interrupting Diane with smooth assurance.
“What do you know about tiles?” Diane snapped.
“Quite a lot,” Rafferty said, speaking with his usual slowness. “The clay used to make ceramics is of the earth.”
Diane stared at him. “What does that mean?”
“Give me until the weekend. Let’s see what I can do.”
Diane muttered something under her breath and returned to the coffeepot. She poured herself another cup and ladled in the sugar with a shaking hand. “I can’t believe this,” she said in a low voice that betrayed her tension. “First the fire at the house, then the damage here. The kids were supposed to go trick-or-treating with their friends tonight. I’ve no idea how we’ll come up with an alternative plan on such short notice. . . .”
“They could go out here,” Peter suggested.
Diane glared at him. “Are you nuts? The neighbors are miles away and we don’t even know them yet.”
“Perhaps the decaffeinated tea would be a better choice,” Oscar said mildly.
“When I want the house to tell me what to drink, I’ll ask,” Diane snapped. She took a gulp of coffee and it was obviously scalding hot. She grimaced as she swallowed it, then put the cup down and pinched the bridge of her nose.
“You worry too much,” Peter said mildly.
She looked at him over her fingers and Donovan knew Diane was going to lose it.
“I think I have good cause to be worried right now.” Diane’s tone was low and tight, as if she was fighting for control. “Both our homes are damaged, you keep talking like some kind of pothead and insisting that everything is fine, Jared says that he’s seen dragons, and Kirsten is crying because I forgot her pink princess dress. Imagine!” Her voice rose an increment. “In the crisis of having the house spontaneously burst into flames and then a rainstorm abruptly extinguish the fire, in the midst of having firemen fill the house with water from the roof down and your bizarre decision to come to the cottage immediately, I forgot the pink princess dress, which apparently was the only thing worth saving in the whole goddamn house!”
Peter started to talk, but Diane interrupted him, her tone vicious. “Do not tell me that everything is fine again. Do not tell me again that this house needs its security system examined in two weeks and do not tell me that you have a burn but don’t need medical attention. Do not tell me that Alex forgot the codes, because Alex never forgets the codes, and do not tell me that the security system malfunctioned, when I can see that the conservatory is completely trashed and that the security system was obviously right on the money.” She poured the second cup of coffee down the drain. “How did you come here the other night and not notice all of this? Or did you decide to lie to me?”
“Diane,” Alex began, but her sister-in-law pointed at her.
“Don’t lie to me. What I want to know is what the hell is really going on here.”
There was a beat of silence in the kitchen. Donovan wondered whether it was possible to explain things succinctly and with a measure of truth. Before he could decide, Rafferty began to hum.
The choice was made.
Diane would be beguiled, too. He caught Alex’s hand in his and squeezed her fingers. The spark that emanated from their interlocked hands was blinding in its brightness. The Pyr collectively caught their breath, and Donovan felt singed to his toes. He was hot, burning up, aching for Alex even though they’d spent the night trying to thwart the firestorm. He felt her pulse accelerate and knew she felt the same way.
Diane stared at the glow, her eyes wide, and Alex briefly tried to pull her hand away. Donovan held fast, knowing that it didn’t matter what Diane saw in this moment before she was beguiled. He slid his thumb across the back of Alex’s hand and knew the moment she understood.
Just the way he’d taught her. Donovan was proud.
Diane stared at Rafferty. When he spoke, his voice was low and melodic. “What you really want is to be reassured,” he said with confidence. “And that is only reasonable.”
“I’m only being reasonable,” Diane insisted, but the stridency was gone from her voice.
“You’re concerned for those you love,” Rafferty said.
“What better time to appreciate what you have, to enjoy the love that surrounds you?” Rafferty’s smile broadened as Diane stared at him. “What better time to celebrate the fact that only material things were damaged in the fire?”
Diane flushed a little and her gaze slanted to Peter. Then she straightened and looked at Rafferty again. “What better time.”
“How romantic to share a master bedroom retreat with the man you love,” Rafferty said. “How romantic to forget the world and its troubles. How convenient to have Alex here to watch the children.”
“How convenient,” Diane repeated, then smiled. She eased closer to Peter.
“How lucky you are,” Rafferty said.
“How lucky we are.” Diane trailed a fingertip down Peter’s arm. He captured her hand and kissed her fingertips.
“Celebrate,” Rafferty whispered with heat, and the pair looked at each other. They seemed to get lost in each other’s eyes and to forget they had a roomful of guests.
Donovan tugged Alex from the kitchen. “Let’s leave him to it,” he murmured, then nodded at Quinn. “We’ve got work to do.”
Alex paused in the conservatory, only just remembering what she’d intended to do. The firestorm was as distracting as ever. “I’ve got to make a phone call. Just to make sure nothing else is going wrong.” She flicked a smile at Donovan. “Not that I’m paranoid or anything.”
“A little paranoia can be a good thing,” he agreed.
Alex retrieved her cell phone from her purse in the living room, trying not to make any noise. Diane and Peter were necking in front of the stainless steel fridge.
“My work here is done,” Rafferty said with a grin, and followed Alex back into the conservatory.
“Whom are you calling?” Donovan asked.
“I want to check with Mr. Sinclair that he’s still coming tomorrow. The last time I called, I could only leave a message.” Alex punched in the number in the conservatory and found Erik right behind her.
“Where is Mr. Sinclair?” His manner was more intense than Alex thought the question deserved.
She shrugged. “Chicago. In his office, probably. That’s where he usually is.” The line connected and Alex smiled at the secretary’s familiar voice. “Hi, Megan. This is Alex Madison. Is Mr. Sinclair available?” The line clicked immediately. It was as if Mr. Sinclair had been waiting for her call.
“Alex! How pleasant to hear from you.” His tone was officious, as if she were a telemarketer selling timeshares.
Alex realized that Erik was watching her, so she answered with confidence. “I just wanted to confirm our meeting. I’ll pick you up at the airport tomorrow, as we planned.”
There was caution in his tone. “I’m not sure we have anything to talk about, Alex.”
Alex’s heart skipped. “What do you mean? We have a meeting scheduled.”
“But after the fire at the lab, you can’t possibly have a running prototype of the Green Machine to show me.”
Relief flooded through Alex. “Oh, but I do! We had a backup of the Green Machine stored off-site, just as you suggested in the summer.”
“And it runs?” He sounded wary.
“Of course! It’s just not as flashy as the newer version, but the technology is the same—”
Mr. Sinclair sighed, interrupting Alex. “I must be honest with you, Alex. I have considerable doubts about this projectand about working with you in future. I’m concerned about Mark’s disappearance and this fire at the lab.”
“We knew all along that there could be industrial espionage,” Alex said, her voice rising.
“Is that what it was?” Mr. Sinclair mused. “Alex, you should know that the authorities contacted me. They are seeking you in connection with the fire at the lab, which they believe to have been deliberately set. They are concerned that Mark may have been killed, because there was blood in his office at the lab. And they told me you left the hospital without authorization just before a transfer to the psychiatric ward could be completed.”
Mr. Sinclair cleared his throat. “I am not certain, Alex, that it is wise to invest my money in a firm solely administered by a woman who apparently blames dragons for her situation.”
“I can explain everything, Mr. Sinclair. . . .”
Mr. Sinclair was brusque and dismissive. “In future, if there is any need to contact me, you can contact my new assistant instead. His name is Boris Vassily and he is well experienced in matters of alternative fuels. Megan will connect you to him now.”
Alex stared at the phone. It couldn’t be.
“What’s wrong?” Erik asked with urgency. Donovan and the others had trailed back into the conservatory to listen, their expressions filled with concern.
Alex had to know the truth before she could answer. There was a click as the call was transferred, a bright comment from Megan, and then a familiar voice slithered out of Alex’s phone.
“Hello, Alex,” Boris said. “Perhaps we could meet to discuss this matter—over dinner, maybe?” He laughed.
Alex broke the connection, shutting the phone with shaking hands. “It’s Boris. He’s beguiled Mr. Sinclair.”
Erik swore. “I knew there was something we were missing.”
“We should go there,” Rafferty began, but Erik interrupted him.
“No. The battle with Boris is mine.” He turned a cold glance upon Alex. “Please tell me everything you know about Mr. Sinclair: where he lives, where he works, where he eats, how much he has invested in Gilchrist Enterprises and when, the nature of your agreement, whatever else you know.”
“That’s easy.” Alex continued to the garage, where she’d left the laptop. She rummaged through the stacks of CDs and chose one. She offered it to Erik. “I kept track of it all in one place so we wouldn’t forget anything. It’s all on here.”
“Northwest from Chicago. It lands just after noon.”
“Meet it,” Erik said with resolve. “With the Green Machine. Mr. Sinclair will be there, no matter what I have to do to ensure it.”
“Don’t take any unnecessary risks,” Rafferty advised.
“There are no longer any risks that are unnecessary. Everything is on the line, Rafferty,” Erik said. “The time for half measures is long past.” His expression turned more grim. “I’ll rid the earth of Boris Vassily if it’s the last thing I do.”
“Yes,” said a woman. They pivoted to see Sophie lounging in the open doorway of one garage bay.
Alex wasn’t the only one surprised to see the Wyvern.
“That’s pretty much how it will shake out,” Sophie said to Erik, holding his gaze steadily.
“I knew it,” Erik said. He took the CD and grabbed his jacket, swinging out of the house without slowing down.
“We should help him,” Rafferty said with concern. “Be his seconds.”
“Your task is here,” Sophie said with authority. “The Wizard has need of you for her battle. The Warrior cannot triumph alone.”
They stared at her and Alex doubted she was the only one deciding which question she should ask first of the Wyvern. Sophie surveyed them all; then she arched a brow. She waved her fingertips at them and smiled as she faded to nothing.
She was gone.
“You’re not the only one who hates when she does that,” Niall said to Rafferty.
Alex had a moment when her determination failed. The car didn’t run yet, she had only a day left, Slayers were targeting her family, and now Mr. Sinclair was having doubts, thanks to Boris. Her optimism faltered, but Donovan stepped into the void.
“Let’s get to it,” he urged the others, then gave Alex a nudge. “So close and yet so far. Don’t worry—if anyone can take Boris out of the picture, it’s Erik. And we already know that Quinn can reshape the head gaskets.” He winked and her heart skipped a beat. He turned to Quinn. “Did you have your Wheaties yet?”
Quinn smiled with slow confidence. “Of course.”
Donovan caught Alex close. “See? We’re closing in on the big finish.” He pressed a kiss to her temple and his touch made Alex feel good. The firestorm simmered and surged, sending heat through Alex that weakened her knees. Its force reminded her that many more things were possible than she might have previously believed.
“Don’t give up yet, gorgeous,” Donovan whispered against her ear.
And she couldn’t. Not when they were all pulling so hard for the Green Machine. Donovan understood her so well, and knew just how to boost her spirits. She liked her sense that they were on the same team. Alex would never have believed that she could have fallen for anyone so fast, but here she was, falling hard.
Had Donovan lost the second scale because of her? As much as Alex liked the idea, she refused to be responsible for him being vulnerable.
“Wait,” she said. The Pyr and Sara turned to look at her. “I have a question. You said that Sigmund attacked Peter and his family.”
Sloane nodded. “Sigmund tried to kidnap the boy, probably to use him as a hostage to get you to stop the Green Machine.”
Alex was horrified at the thought, but it was more important to find a solution. “Well, won’t they try again? They really don’t seem to give up.”
“That’s why we came here,” Niall said. “So we could work together to defend all of you.”
Donovan spoke with resolve. “You know that we can do it.”
“But being without that scale makes you vulnerable,” Alex said, her hand rising to his chest.
Donovan nodded, his mood turning solemn. “Quinn said something about the firestorm forging each Pyr into something stronger,” he began cautiously.
“You mean I can help to heal you somehow?” Alex said. Sara nodded minutely. Alex spoke decisively. “Then we have to do that and we have to do it first, in case we get attacked again.”
Quinn smiled so slowly that Alex knew she’d said exactly the right thing. Then he nodded at Donovan. “It’s like tempering steel. I can make you a scale that will stay in place, but only with Alex’s assistance.”
“How do you know which elements should be supplied by whom?” Alex asked.
Sara smiled. “There’s no should be. Some things just are and you know when they’re right.”
“It’s my job,” Sara agreed cheerfully.
“I can work with the broken scale,” Quinn said. “But it needs a token to empower it.” He looked between the two of them. “The scale needs to be a representation of the four elements in union.”
“Quinn used wrought iron for his scale,” Sara said, “because it represents his element of earth. He forged it with his dragonfire.”
“Fire,” Alex said, nodding as she thought. The other Pyr lounged around the garage, their casual postures belying their obvious interest in the discussion.
“Then you supplied air and water?” Donovan asked Sara.
She smiled and put her hand in Quinn’s. “A tear and a breathy confession.” Quinn’s hand closed possessively over hers.
Alex was thinking. “You’re obviously fire,” she said to Donovan. “All passion and fury.”
“Thanks a lot,” he teased. “I’ll guess that you’re air, with all those brilliant ideas.”
“I’m feeling smarter all of a sudden,” Niall joked.
“Earth,” Rafferty said, pointing at Alex. “Possibly the most pragmatic and practical person I’ve ever met.”
“And determined.” Donovan nodded. “You’d give Rafferty a run for his money on determination.” The Pyr laughed at that and Sloane nudged Rafferty.
“My grandma taught me that giving up accomplishes nothing,” Alex said with pride. “What about water? Is that always about tears?”
“Intuition,” Sloane said. “Understanding and emotions.”
Sara pointed a finger at Donovan. “That’s you and your gut-level trust of people. You also fight well because you respond instinctively.”
“So what do we do?” Alex asked.
“We need a talisman of earth and air from you,” Quinn said to Alex.
Alex smiled. “I know just the thing.” She returned to the living room and retrieved the tissue-wrapped bundle she’d taken from her apartment. The kitchen was empty. She thought she heard the children on the stairs, so hurried back through the conservatory to the garage.
Her grandmother’s jet brooch was still wrapped in the tissue that smelled faintly of talcum powder. It was circular, about three inches in diameter, and carved to represent a swan in flight. The swan had a red eye, which was a single cabochon stone.
“It’s jet,” she said as she showed it to the others. “With a garnet.”
“Warrior colors,” Sara said softly. “Red and black.”
“Jet is a kind of coal.” Rafferty touched the pin. “It sings deeply of the earth.”
“And the swan is in flight,” Niall said.
“Are you sure you want to give me this?” Donovan asked Alex. “It looks like a family piece.”
“It was my grandmother’s. My grandfather gave it to her.” Alex could still see her grandmother, the dark brooch pinned on her jacket. “She always wore it, and insisted on giving it to me at the end. I’m not much for jewelry, but she told me that one day I’d know why it was meant for me.” She smiled at Donovan. “I guess I do.”
Donovan’s gaze brightened as he looked down at her. Alex thought for a moment that he was struck speechless, which would have been a feat. Then he bent and kissed her, the passion of his touch warming her right to her toes.
“Thank you,” Donovan said, his voice thick and his gaze bright. “You know I’ll protect you with everything I’ve got.”
“And soon you’ll have more,” Quinn said, taking the pin from Alex. He tossed it into the air and caught it, turning toward the garage. “Let’s get to work.”
Jared and Kirsten came down to breakfast together. Even though the house was full of people, there was no one in the kitchen. Jared had heard their parents talking in the master bedroom suite, and he’d been reassured to hear their mother laughing.
He and Kirsten faced the fridge together. “No one’s here,” Kirtsten said. “We could have something good for breakfast.”
“Froot Loops!” Jared said.
Kirsten gave him the look that older sisters reserve for younger brothers. “Don’t be a stupidhead.”
“Good morning,” Oscar said smoothly.
Kirsten raised her chin. “Oscar, I’d like two cinnamon buns, please. The kind with icing.”
“I want three of them, please!” Jared said. Kirsten made a snorting pig noise and Jared bumped her arm. “I can eat three. I did it before.”
“I shall check my inventory,” Oscar said, and the children grinned at each other in anticipation.
Their smiles faded when the smart house spoke again.
“I regret that there are only whole-wheat bagels in the freezer,” Oscar said in his usual mild tone.
“He’s lying,” Kirsten hissed.
“He can’t lie. He’s a machine,” Jared replied. “Now who’s being the stupidhead?”
“There are always cinnamon buns in the freezer,” Kirsten insisted. “Because Dad likes them.” She opened the freezer and peered into its depths. There were bagels on the door and a big bag of frozen kernel corn. The other stuff was hard to identify, because it was all in silver packaging, with bar codes for Oscar’s reader. Jared didn’t know the thirteen-digit number for cinnamon buns and he suspected Kirsten didn’t, either.
Jared reached for the bagels. “Must have been the dragons that ate the cinnamon buns.”
Kirsten pulled out the toaster. “What dragons?” The bagels were already sliced—she pried the two frozen halves apart with a butter knife, then put them into the toaster.
“Those guys. They’re dragons.”
Kirsten rolled her eyes. “That’s stupidhead talk.”
“You’re making stuff up again. I’m not going to believe you.” She slanted him a look he knew meant trouble. “Maybe I should tell Mom that you’re making up stories again.”
“Course it’s fair. She’ll probably give me a cinnamon bun.”
Jared considered his sister angrily. He wanted a cinnamon bun, too. “Not if I’m right, she won’t.”
Kirsten sighed. “You’re not right. There’s no such thing as dragons. They’re not real.”
The toaster popped as they argued, and Kirsten buttered the bagels. Jared got the peanut butter from the fridge and she spread that on, too, under his close supervision.
“Are so,” Jared said emphatically when he’d had a bite of bagel. His sister was chewing, which was the best time to argue a point with her. “Come on, I’ll prove it to you.”
Donovan was awed that Alex would contribute her grandmother’s pin to repair his scales, but glad of it. He was anxious to have his missing scales replaced. He would wear Alex’s token with pride and take it as a good sign for their future. Everything felt tentative to him, filled with unexpected promise, yet unpredictable.
Quinn nodded and met his gaze. “Dragonfire,” he agreed. “It’s the only way to do it here.”
“What are you talking about?” Sara demanded.
“We have to shift to do this,” Donovan told Alex, not wanting to startle her. “All of us.” Alex nodded her understanding, swallowed, and held her ground.
He was proud of her again.
Quinn, meanwhile, shimmered around his edges. He inhaled and grew larger, his eyes glittering. In the blink of an eye, Quinn had shifted to a massive sapphire and steel dragon.
Niall followed suit, his amethyst and platinum scales gleaming in the dim light of the garage. Rafferty shifted immediately afterward, his opal and gold scales shining. Donovan felt the power of their collective presence and was glad to have such loyal friends. They would beat the Slayers and save the world, together.
Alex swallowed and took a small step back.
Sloane changed shape then, showing the splendor of his tourmaline scales. They shaded from green to gold to purple and were edged with gold. Delaney shifted next, and Donovanwas glad to see that his copper and emerald scales were already regaining some of their luster.
Alex seemed to be struggling to keep her breathing even. Donovan offered his hand to her. “None of us will hurt you,” he murmured, and she swallowed. She put her hand in his and he could feel her trembling through the heat of the firestorm. “There will be dragonfire, but it’ll be directed at me and at Quinn.”
“Okay,” she said, lifting her chin. “Let’s do it.”
Holding her hand and her gaze, Donovan shifted shape.
No one heard the small boy taunt his sister in the shadows. “See?” Jared whispered. “Now who’s the stupidhead?”
There was no reply. To Jared’s disappointment, his sister had gone, leaving him alone.
She probably knew where the cinnamon buns were.
Jared didn’t care. He hunkered down and watched.
Quinn put out his claw, inviting Alex to give him the jet brooch. She eyed his massive talons for a moment and Donovan felt her fear rise again.
Then she very deliberately put the pin in Quinn’s claw. She forced her hand to linger, letting her thumb graze one of his talons. Once again, she compelled herself to act despite her fear.
Donovan was impressed.
Quinn held the pin with the tips of his talons and exhaled dragonfire at it. Alex jumped, even as Donovan moved to protect her from the flames.
Donovan schooled himself to remember what Quinn had taught him about taking dragonfire, knowing that he’d soon be exposed to another assault of it. What Quinn managed on instinct, Donovan had to prepare himself to endure.
Maybe it would become intuitive in time.
Donovan had given the two scales to Sara—the one that had held the Dragon’s Tooth and the one of his own—she offered them to Quinn. He heated them with his white-hot dragonfire, fusing them together in the right configuration. He worked like a jeweler to join the silver setting of the brooch with the gold of the scale. He was hampered without his tools, but he made deft use of his talons. Quinn’s dexterity and skill impressed Donovan, as always.
Alex watched with equal fascination, sheltered by Donovan from the heat. He offered his talon to her when Quinn was done, coaxing her closer.
She came, her eyes shining with her trust.
And maybe something else.
Quinn lifted the new scale, the jet shining brightly in its new setting. He tested the fit, then heated the back of the makeshift scale with a fiery blast of dragonfire. Donovan barely had time to catch his breath before Quinn pressed the glowing scale against his chest.
“Alex!” Quinn commanded, and she understood. She put the palm of her hand on the jet, replacing Quinn’s claw, and pushed the scale hard against Donovan’s flesh.
The pain was searing. Firestorm and dragonfire burned together to repair his armor. The new scale could have been a brand. It burned deep, sending a stab of pain through Donovan.
Donovan tipped back his head and bellowed as the heat cut straight to his marrow. The fire incinerated his old pains and injuries, even those that had left scars upon his heart. It cauterized the wound of Olivia’s deception. It knit his flesh and burned away the detritus and left the image of Alex seared onto his very soul.
Donovan ached for the mistakes he had made and the grudges he had nursed. He regretted the fate of Delaney and he mourned his own error in trusting Olivia. He had erred but he had learned.
He felt Alex take a tear from his face with a gentle fingertip. It glimmered on her fingertip. It sizzled as she placed it at the root of the new scale. The heat within him burned brighter as the tear ran around the lip of the scale. He felt Alex lean close. She brushed her lips across the jet.
“Be invulnerable, Warrior,” she whispered, the fan of her breath cooling his injury. He looked down and saw her smiling up at him. “We’ve got to kick some Slayer butt.”
Donovan wanted to feel more than the brush of her lips against his skin. He shifted shape again and caught her close, thrilled that she had chosen to help him. The Pyr shifted in unison and applauded. Rafferty shook Quinn’s hand as Donovan kissed Alex, and the others hooted at Quinn’s success.
The white radiance that had shot through his veins had clarified his vision and made obvious to him what he had to do. Donovan was going to win the heart of his mate, no matter what the price.
The first step was to get the Green Machine running.
Chapter 19
The black Lamborghini slipped through the rain-soaked streets of Chicago like a panther on the prowl. The low thrum of its engine echoed the night pulse of the city. Its windshield wipers struck a rhythmic beat, as insistent as the raindrops beading on the hood.
It was more than the rain that gave the driver chills. There was a portent in the wind, the scent of trouble. He wasn’t entirely certain whom he’d meet before morning’s light.
Or what result the night’s adventures would bring.
Nevertheless, it was time.
Erik followed his opponent’s scent to a part of the downtown that was being re-gentrified. He parked in front of a chic new bistro, ignoring the valet and the NO PARKING signs. He got out of the car, leaving its engine idling, just as two men stepped out of the restaurant. The rain fell on the shoulders of his black leather jacket but he stood silent, watching.
The men chatted as they paused under the bistro’s red awning, taking shelter from the onslaught of rain. They fastened their coats and turned up their collars, reviewing the meal they’d enjoyed. The one Erik didn’t know frowned at the Lamborghini, then lifted his gaze in search of a cab. He lit a cigar with care.
The other met Erik’s gaze without surprise. His pale eyes lit with anticipation and he seemed to almost smile.
Erik tossed his challenge coin. The Olaf Tryggvason penny glinted as it flew through the falling rain. Boris snatched it out of the air, stepping out from beneath the awning into the rain to do so. His smile flashed as his hand closed over the coin.
“Took you long enough,” he gloated in old-speak.
“Now,” Erik replied.
He had no interest in small talk, no inclination to be delayed. He pivoted and got back into his car, revving the engine before he pulled away from the bistro. Boris made his excuses to his companion—who looked bewildered by his departure—then hauled open the passenger door.
He got in, smelling of cologne and brandy and wet cashmere, and slammed the door. He stared straight out the windshield, still using old-speak. “The docks,” he said, as if giving directions.
It was his choice and he’d made a good one.
“The docks,” Erik agreed, and squealed the tires as he pulled away from the curb.
It was midnight when Donovan watched Alex turn the key in the ignition of the Green Machine. The engine sputtered, then started. It idled beautifully and when she touched the accelerator with more force, the engine purred like a kitten.
“It works!” she cried, her eyes alight.
The Pyr shouted as one. They cheered and laughed, highfiving each other, triumphant in their success. Donovan was so exhausted that he thought he’d sleep for a week. Quinn looked worn-out and Donovan knew he should summon some more dragonfire for his friend.
Maybe in a few minutes.
“I love stealing the moment,” a man said from the driveway.
Donovan spun to find a stranger standing just beyond the Pyr perimeter mark of smoke. He knew he wasn’t the only one to take the new arrival’s scent and to smell the darkness emanating from him. He was slick and expensively dressed, confident and smooth.
“Jorge,” the blond Slayer said. He grinned at their surprise and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Trick or treat.”
Donovan realized belatedly that it was Halloween.
Rafferty swore and Donovan immediately saw why. Jorge wasn’t alone. He was accompanied by a foe Donovan had never expected to see again.
Magnus.
That Slayer stepped out of the shadows, looking as virile and confident as ever. He hadn’t aged a day since their last exchange and still looked smooth and sleek, the image of a successful man in his fifties.
“Surprised?” Magnus asked, turning to Rafferty. “How hale you look, my old friend.” He chuckled, and Donovan knew Magnus had noticed how tired they all were. The arrival of the Slayers had been perfectly timed to find them at their weakest.
It wasn’t a coincidence.
Delaney started to moan and twitch when Magnus spoke. Sloane put a hand on his shoulder, even as he watched the new arrival. Delaney wasn’t visibly reassured. Donovan understood then that Magnus had been partly responsible for Delaney’s change.
“I was afraid of this,” Rafferty said with concern.
Magnus cocked a finger at Rafferty. “We have unfinished business, you and I. All that hoard, so carefully gathered, lost in one night. I’ve never gotten over the shock.”
“I thought you were dead,” Rafferty said.
“I know you did. But we Slayers are somewhat difficult to kill.” Magnus smiled. “We came, actually, to extend an invitation to the rest of you. We thought you might want to join the winning team, while there’s still time.”
“I’ll never become Slayer,” Quinn said, spitting the words.
“Not a chance,” Donovan agreed with heat.
“Ditto,” said Niall and Sloane in unison.
“It doesn’t matter what you want,” Magnus whispered. “Not if we take you alive.” He whistled then and Delaney started, like a dog called to obey. Delaney’s eyes turned darker again, and he began to fight against Sloane and Niall, to try to regain his freedom.
“Leave him alone!” Donovan roared.
Magnus chuckled. “He’s the least of your worries. Listen.”
There was a low rumble, the sound of shackles falling and heavy doors being thrown back on their hinges to collide with walls. Donovan heard locks tumbling, although he couldn’t see anything. The shadows seemed to be getting darker beyond the driveway, as if the light were being extinguished.
“The earth moans,” Rafferty murmured, clearly as puzzled as Donovan.
“The fire flickers,” Quinn added.
“The wind dies,” Niall said, scanning the sky.
Sara raised her hands to her mouth. “The dark academy is opened,” she whispered, her voice filled with dread.
Donovan caught his breath as the darkness of the forest beyond the drive took on shapes. He saw figures silhouetted there, twisted shapes that seemed to absorb every increment of light.
“Meet part of the team,” Magnus said amiably. He gestured to the approaching shapes. “Maybe you’ll see some familiar faces.”
“My father,” Sloane whispered in shock as one figure stepped out of the shadows. “But not.” He rose to his feet and stared.
The shapes kept coming closer, men with fathomless hollows where their eyes should have been. They were Pyr with no spark of the divine in their hearts.
They were opponents who did not bleed.
“My twin brother,” Niall said as he recognized one. “Or a travesty of what he was.”
“Three of my brothers,” Quinn said grimly. He paled. “Or what the Slayers did to their bodies.”
“My grandfather,” Rafferty murmured, his voice breaking. He turned to Magnus. “What evil is this that you do?”
“In a war, every weapon must be put to use,” Magnus said with a smooth assurance that made Donovan want to injure him.
“Going to hide behind your smoke?” Jorge sneered at the shocked Pyr. “Or are we going to solve this, for once and for all?”
“We can take them,” Rafferty muttered. “We have to.”
Donovan was already pulling on his gloves. “The smoke forms a wall six feet out from the garage doors,” he told Alex. “The barrier runs all the way to the wall adjoining the front door. They cannot cross it. Don’t believe anything they say otherwise.” He gave her a hard look. “All you have to do is stay on this side of it. Promise?”
She smiled a little, her eyes shining with that familiar determination, and he knew there would be no guarantees. “No. I won’t promise because I’ll do whatever I need to do.”
“To protect the Green Machine?”
“That’s not the only thing worth defending,” Alex said. She laid a hand on his chest, right where the new scale still ached. The admiration in her eyes stole his breath away.
“Be careful,” she whispered.
“I always win,” he assured her in a low voice, then smiled. “And now I have more motivation than usual.”
She smiled, just as he’d hoped. “Hotshot.”
“That’s it.” He kissed her, hard and quick, before she could argue, then nodded once at his companions. They looked as resolved as he was. At his nod, the Pyr ran toward their opponents and shifted in unison. They flew through the barrier of their own smoke as the Slayers and their minions shifted, too.
It was the fight Donovan had been waiting for.
Erik parked the car on a darkened pier. It was an industrial space he had rented before, to moor a pyrotechnics barge and set up fireworks for their timed display. On this Halloween, it was dark and deserted, the lake beyond it reflecting the lights of the city. The rain fell on the car in a persistent patter, making the dock look slick and black.
Once again, Erik had the sense that more could happen on this night than he expected. It wasn’t a feeling he liked and he was determined to get this battle behind him as soon as possible.
Boris didn’t share his urgency. The Slayer turned Erik’s penny in his hand, then slanted Erik a smile. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve waited for this.”
“As long as I have, more or less.” Erik wasn’t interested in conversation, even though Boris seemed to be in a thoughtful mood.
“Only one of us will survive,” Boris mused. “Winner take all.”
“Those are the stakes,” Erik agreed curtly. He reached for his door, but Boris suddenly clutched his arm. Erik saw the talons on Boris’s hand—dragon talons on a human hand— then looked at his companion in surprise. He wasn’t accustomed to seeing Pyr or Slayer linger on the mingled state between forms. Boris’s smile gleamed, his teeth more jagged and numerous than they should be in his human form.
“How allied with the humans are you?” he murmured, his words low and persuasive. “How much will you do to let them live?”
If Boris thought Erik would be impressed by his ability to hover between forms, he could think again.
“There’s no one to do your dirty work for you,” Erik said, letting himself shimmer on the cusp of change. “Are you going to have to get your talons dirty, Boris?”
Erik didn’t wait for an answer. He exhaled fire, still in human form, and felt Boris’s shock as the flames licked his skin. The cashmere coat smoldered, then began to burn.
Boris snarled. He lunged for Erik, talons extended. Erik opened his door with one claw, and seized Boris by the throat with the other.
He flew high, shifting as soon as he was out of the car, and carried his opponent far above the city. Boris changed form as well, his urgency evident in his failure to fold away his clothes. The burning cashmere overcoat fell to the wet pavement, followed by Boris’s suit.
Erik was momentarily distracted by this unexpected concession. Were the old stories true? It was said that if a Pyr or Slayer lost his garments while in dragon form, he would be unable to shift back to human form. Erik had always thought it was a myth but was ready to find out.
At Boris’s expense.
Erik pivoted in midair and spewed dragonfire across the falling garments. Boris growled and snapped, trying to stop him, but Erik was undeterred. The coat burned; the suit burned; the silk tie danced as it fell toward the ground and the flames devoured it. The shirt burned, as did the socks and shoes and underwear.
It was all incinerated, a smoking pile of executive wear on the dock. Erik’s penny rolled free and spiraled to a glimmering halt half a dozen feet away from the burning garments.
Boris roared in fury, summoning the strength to slither free of Erik’s grip. Erik guessed that the Slayer believed the old stories were true.
“Wyvern spawn,” Boris raged. “How dare you?”
“All in the interests of investigation,” Erik taunted. “Only one of us will walk away.”
“I bet on it being me,” Boris replied.
They circled each other in assessment—one onyx and pewter, one ruby red and brass—then leapt at each other, locking claws in the time-honored choreography of dragon battle.
They were both old, both strong, both experienced.
And they both had everything to lose.
In Minnesota, the Pyr locked claws with their Slayer opponents and with the captive converts. Rafferty flew directly to his grandfather—or what that old Pyr had become—and searched his gaze for a spark.
“Gone!” Rafferty cried with pain. “They stole his soul!”
“Released it,” Magnus confirmed mildly. “They have all been converted to fighting machines of maximum efficiency.”
“They are abominations!” Rafferty roared. The ghoul attacked him with vicious strength, and Donovan knew the moment that his mentor fought for more than his own defense.
“We have to kill them,” Quinn shouted. “It is the only dignity we can do them.”
“Dismember and burn,” Donovan cried.
He saw Rafferty weep as he fought the Pyr he had loved with all his heart and soul. Magnus attacked Rafferty from behind as he fought, doing his best to set the odds high against his former opponent.
Quinn was set upon his three brothers. Donovan leapt to help. He exhaled dragonfire on his friend and locked claws with the largest of the three. Quinn sparkled with the influx of energy, then swung his tail at his brothers with new force, breathing fire as their scales scorched and burned.
They fought on with fearsome determination.
Niall engaged with his twin and Sloane fought his own father. Donovan knew himself how hard it was to separate memory from the truth of what these Pyr had become, how hard it was to strike a killing blow to something that so closely resembled a loved one.
He feared then that the Pyr might lose.
Donovan fought against Jorge, doing that Slayer injury so quickly that he feared a trick.
Then he heard what he had missed. Delaney yowled and Jorge chuckled. “The darkness isn’t that easily dispelled,” Jorge said. “The charm is planted deep.”
Donovan noticed that Magnus was murmuring a low chant, even as he fought Rafferty.
“Don’t call him back to the darkness!” Donovan shouted, and struck Magnus with his tail.
Rafferty took a blow from his own grandfather, one that sent him tumbling through the air, but Rafferty pivoted and raged back at his opponent.
Magnus didn’t miss a beat of his chant.
Delaney raised his head slowly. His cold gaze fixed on Donovan and once again, the light had been doused to a flicker.
The Slayer shadow was winning because of Magnus’s song.
Donovan targeted Delaney and made to lock claws. Delaney ducked his grip, seizing Donovan’s back claws instead. He snarled and gnawed on Donovan’s leg. Donovan struck Delaney with his tail, then shook off the Slayer’s grip. Donovan wasn’t fighting to kill: he needed to capture Delaney again so that Sloane could heal him.
But Delaney fought as though possessed. He dove at Donovan time and again, biting and tearing. The metal claws Quinn had made for Donovan were lethal, but he used them sparingly. He tried not to cause permanent damage.
Delaney was still in there.
Somewhere.
Donovan had seen the truth in his eyes. The firestorm had brought him back toward the light and Donovan was sure Delaney could be completely healed.
For that, he had to live.
“Look what we will do to all of you,” Jorge gloated, obviously noting Donovan’s dismay. “We can turn you all Slayer, and make you subject to our will. You will fight until the death for a cause you don’t even embrace.”
“Never!” Quinn bellowed, his white-hot dragonfire dispatching one of his brothers. That shadow dragon fell and burned to ash on the pavement. Quinn raged after a second brother, snatching him and casting him against the stainless steel shutters of the house. There was a crash as he hit, and he had time to moan before Quinn hovered above him and breathed dragonfire.
“Window damage in spare bedroom number three,” Oscar said, his voice faint behind the shutters.
“We have to incinerate them,” Sloane shouted.
“We have to let the wind disperse them,” Niall agreed, then grunted as his father slashed his belly open. Niall’s blood flowed, but he fought on.
Quinn’s fallen brother, his scales alight with flames, leapt from the roof with fury and attacked Quinn. The other brother, still uninjured, assailed Quinn from the opposite side.
Meanwhile, Delaney struck with fury and bit deep. Donovan breathed fire at him and struck him hard across the face. Delaney fell back only for a moment. He came after Donovan once more and Donovan hailed blows upon him.
It made no difference. Delaney rose once more, and locked his gaze upon Donovan’s chest. He leapt toward Donovan, claws outstretched, and embedded his talons in Donovan’s chest.
Donovan screamed as much in frustration as in pain. Delaney gouged at Donovan’s chest, as if trying to dig out the gem Quinn had just embedded there. Donovan wouldn’t part with Alex’s talisman that easily. He shredded the former Pyr’s back, ripped him free, and cast him on the ground.
Donovan made to leap after his cousin and trap him, but Magnus struck Donovan from behind. Donovan tumbled, startled, and Delaney leapt skyward after him. Delaney buried one claw in Donovan’s chest, then opened his mouth to bite at Alex’s jet talisman.
He froze, as if confused. That blank gaze was fixed on Donovan’s chest with curious intensity. Donovan saw the flicker of light in his doubt and dared to hope.
“Get it!” Magnus bellowed. “Get the Dragon’s Tooth!”
Donovan knew what the problem was. “The Dragon’s Tooth is gone,” he said to Delaney. “Your quest has failed. You battle for nothing, or for nothing that can be won.”
Delaney shook his head.
“They’ve given you an impossible task, Delaney. Come back, my brother, come back to the light. You felt the firestorm. Surrender to me and be healed.”
Delaney loosed a scream of anguish and had a convulsion. It was as if demons battled within him for supremacy. Donovan almost lost his grip on the writhing snake Delaney had become, but he wasn’t going to lose his brother again.
Donovan locked one rear claw around Delaney’s neck to hold him down. He kept talking to him, kept urging surrender, and gradually the convulsion ended. Delaney shuddered and fell still.
What had happened within him? Which side had won? Donovan didn’t know and he wasn’t going to guess.
What he needed was a shackle, one strong enough to keep a dragon captive. He looked up in time to see Sloane slash at his father so that his wings fell in tatters. The older dragon didn’t bleed, but he tumbled toward the earth.
“Did you have to make work for me?” Sloane muttered, then landed beside the fallen Delaney. “All I need is physical damage to heal along with the psychological.”
“He’s not dead,” Donovan said. “That’s a start.”
The copper and emerald green dragon appeared to be unconscious, which Donovan thought was a blessing. Sloane leaned closer to examine the former Pyr’s injuries. At that same moment, Peter’s son came running out of the garage.
“No!” Jared bellowed, pointing at something behind Donovan and Sloane. “Don’t hurt my dragon!”
“Jared, stop!” Alex shouted, and lunged after the little boy.
When they both crossed the smoke barrier, Donovan’s heart stopped cold.
Erik fought hard early, wanting to secure his early advantage. He didn’t trust Boris as far as he could throw him, and didn’t doubt that the leader of the Slayers had a trick or two in his arsenal.
Boris, after all, seldom engaged in physical work. Erik should be able to overwhelm him, if he came out strong.
They rolled across the sky, claws locked together and tails slashing. Erik landed a blow on Boris’s back with his tail, and simultaneously tore at Boris’s chest with his back claws. He flung Boris across the sky and into an electrical billboard. Sparks flew as part of the display shorted out and smoke rose from the Slayer’s bruised and fallen form.
Boris straightened with a snarl and leapt after Erik, his red feathers streaming like flames. He caught Erik by the wings and hurled him into the darkened window of an office building. The glass cracked noisily and Erik fell, dazed from the blow.
He glanced up to find Boris breathing smoke.
The dragonsmoke unfurled toward Erik and he retreated warily. Smoke sought weakness and multiplied that weakness. But Boris’s smoke did more than that: it tracked Erik. It followed him, pursuing him no matter how he changed course.
Until finally it touched him. Everywhere the dragonsmoke contacted Erik, it burned. It was a brand touched to his flesh, a burning weapon that eased beneath his scales, seeking weakness it could exploit.
Erik couldn’t evade it and he couldn’t outrun it. He heard Boris chuckle even as the Slayer breathed an endless tendril of dragonsmoke. Erik felt the smoke stealing vigor from his body, wearing him down, weakening him with pain. He struggled and twisted, knowing one target it sought.
He had one misshapen scale, one lost scale that had grown back, thick and unnatural. Erik didn’t doubt that the smoke would writhe beneath it. He flew away from the smoke and it followed him with leisurely persistence. It caught him again, winding around his ankle to hold him captive, rising like a cobra before him, stealing the strength with its furtive touch.
Erik looked beyond the smoke to Boris and was shocked. The Slayer became larger and brighter, his eyes shining with triumph as his smoke tormented Erik.
The smoke wasn’t just stealing Erik’s strength: it was giving that vitality to Boris. It was a conduit between the two of them, cheating Erik to fuel Boris. Boris would see Erik sucked dry, a shell of his former self.
Given new strength by the realization, Erik snarled in his turn, pivoted, and dove toward the lake. The smoke pursued him but Erik knew how to lose it. He plunged into the lake’s icy depths, refreshed by the cold and free of the smoke. He looked up to see it gathering on the surface, ready to ensnare him when he emerged. Boris would be larger and stronger yet.
Erik had to make his kill while he could.
Alex snatched up Jared and pivoted immediately to return to the garage.
No luck. Jorge landed in her path. He was beautiful in dragon form, all glittering topaz and gold. His eyes remained the same cold, cold blue. He smiled smugly and Alex wanted to deck him.
“Auntie Alex?” Jared whispered against her throat.
“Just hang on,” she told her nephew. “We’ll get out of this.”
He whimpered and looked back at Sloane. Alex was thinking about the distance to Donovan’s Ducati, parked outside the garage, and wishing she had the keys.
Then Magnus landed between her and the Pyr, effectively sandwiching her between two Slayers. He, too, seemed content to smile at her hungrily and bide his time.
“I love a good dragon fight,” he murmured to Alex as if they were spectators at a sporting event. She bit back a rude reply. Delaney lay injured beside her and Alex didn’t know whether to trust him or not.
Then she saw that the trickle of blood from his wounds was red.
Meanwhile, Sloane had glanced over his shoulder, following Jared’s gesture. A larger and darker version of Sloane approached quickly, his talons extended and his teeth bared. He was a broken and burned version of the Pyr he must have once been, and one bent on slaughter. Sloane roared in pain as his father fell upon him.
Sloane rallied and struck his father hard with his tail. They fought viciously for several moments and Jared cheered for his dragon. The Slayer fell, but Sloane didn’t rush in to make the kill. Instead, he studied the fallen Slayer. Alex saw Sloane’s hesitation—evidently there was enough familiar in the Slayer that Sloane couldn’t strike the final blow.
“Kill him!” Donovan commanded.
Sloane shook his head mutely just as his father rose again. The Slayer breathed slowly, fixed his gaze upon his son, and Alex was sure that the darkness of his eyes became more intense.
“Join us,” he urged with quiet force, and Sloane averted his gaze.
It wasn’t a time for doubts. Donovan attacked the ghoul that had been Sloane’s father before he could say more. He carried the Slayer high above the ground, then used his steel talons to cut off his claws. Jared watched with fascination, but Alex looked away. She’d seen this show before.
Sloane’s father struggled and screamed, but even he must have known that his wings weren’t fit to save him if Donovan let him go. Donovan dismembered Sloane’s father just as he had destroyed his own. He wore the same expression of regret.
When the pieces fell sizzling to the driveway, Sloane turned his dragonfire upon them, committing his father to ash and oblivion. Donovan landed beside him and added his dragonfire to finish the task.
Alex saw that Sloane’s face was wet with tears, and understood that the deed had not been easy for him. The spark of the divine had been extinguished in his father, so there was no choice.
That couldn’t make it any easier to do.
Which was presumably what Magnus and the Slayers were counting on.
When the ash stirred in the wind, Donovan surveyed the scene. Magnus chortled and waited. Donovan had obviously assumed that Alex had returned to the garage, and she knew the moment he discovered he was wrong.
“Shit,” Sloane said.
Donovan looked grim. He scanned the area, checking for allies and casualties. Magnus gave him time to look. Alex saw that Rafferty had fallen—Donovan’s mentor was bleeding and unconscious on the pavement. There was no sign of Rafferty’s grandfather, which she assumed was a bad sign.
Niall was still battling the Slayer that had been his brother, but his brother was winning. Quinn was fighting against two of the Slayers created from his older brothers, one of which was blackened from dragonfire, his exhaustion showing. Sara stood in the shelter of the garage, her gaze fixed on Quinn.
Donovan seemed to note all of this, then eyed Magnus. Alex knew he was assessing the Slayer’s strength. Could he see that Magnus was still missing the same scale he’d been missing all those centuries ago? The light wasn’t good, but Alex didn’t want to shout what she could see.
Too bad humans and their Pyr mates couldn’t exchange a private kind of old-speak. She tightened her grip on Jared, who—for once—didn’t seem to mind being hugged.
Magnus smiled with confidence as he addressed Donovan. “Care to reconsider your choices? We’d love to have you on our team.”
“Never,” Donovan seethed. Alex knew he’d die fighting rather than surrender to evil.
She just wished it didn’t look as if things could end that way.
Delaney felt despair. The darkness had come from nowhere, dragging him back to its depths like a malevolent monster of the deep. A whistle and a chant, both of which he had been taught to remember forever, had undone him.
Despite the power of Donovan’s firestorm, Delaney feared he would never be healed.
He felt the presence of Donovan’s mate close beside him.
He listened to Magnus and Jorge, heard Donovan’s frustration, and understood the situation. He wasn’t going to let Donovan lose what was precious to him.
Delaney didn’t care what price he paid to secure the future of Donovan’s mate. His own future wasn’t worth living, not with this dark stain placed upon his heart, not with this charm that he couldn’t deny. He wouldn’t be a Slayer pawn forever, commanded to injure those he had cared for. He couldn’t imagine a better cause for sacrifice than Donovan’s future.
Little did he know that making that choice was the key to finally erasing the stain laid upon his heart.
”Isn’t this interesting?” Magnus murmured as he locked claws with Donovan. “You saw that my treasure was lost and now I can return the favor.”
“Don’t touch my mate!” Donovan spun in the air, fighting Magnus as they turned together. Their tails entwined and he was startled by Magnus’s great strength.
Jorge snatched up Alex and Jared, when Alex might have run into the garage, laughing as he held them above the ground.
“I don’t have to touch your mate to kill her,” Magnus said with a smile. “Although it might add to the fun.”
Rage filled Donovan, a fury at the crimes of the Slayers and their quest for victory at any price. They would break any taboo or twist any soul to their purpose. They would destroy and devour and never regret a bit of it if their own ends were served. What would be left of the planet if they won? The anger threatened to consume him; then he remembered Alex’s trick.
He deliberately used his anger to fuel his desire for justice. He battled ferociously against Magnus, letting his fury over the Slayers’ treatment of Delaney fill his veins. He cast Magnus against the pavement, heard a bone crack, and watched Magnus take flight again.
They locked claws, spiraling through the air in their struggle for supremacy. Donovan thought about Alex’s ordeal, how Boris and Tyson had let her watch them eat Mark alive. He thought about her nightmares and her fears and the very real chance of her being committed to a mental hospital.
The injustice made him livid.
“More,” whispered the Wyvern in old-speak.
Donovan thought about Magnus manipulating Olivia, about Boris fighting Erik, about Tyson stalking and attacking Alex. He thought about the Slayers attacking Peter and his family, about Boris deceiving Mr. Sinclair, about a thousand acts of unfairness both big and small. He let his heart fill with the darkness that was Slayer; he let himself despise it; then he used it against his opponent.
And with the crescendo of rage, Donovan felt a resonance grow within him. He felt an accord with Gaia, that he was not just a part of the earth or an inhabitant upon it, but that he was her instrument.
The elements of the earth were his weapons of war.
He was the Warrior.
Donovan roared as Gaia fed his triumph. The earth bellowed and shook and heaved. Hail fell from the sky like arrows of ice, the second weapon beneath his command. Rock projectiles took flight and pummeled the dark opponents of the Pyr, the third weapon in Donovan’s arsenal. Magnus shouted with frustration, recognizing that a greater force had joined the fray.
Just when Donovan was sure they’d win, an unknown dragon came over the roof of the house.
“Who’s that?” Alex cried, hoping to distract her captor. Jorge looked but he didn’t loosen his grip.
Pyr and Slayers stared at the new arrival with shock.
He was the color of anthracite, a thousand hues of silver, gray and black, his scales gleaming in the starlight. He seemed primitive compared to the other Pyr, more reptilian.
“He looks like a dinosaur,” Jared whispered.
“Pyrannosaurus rex, maybe,” Alex replied.
“I wonder whether smart women taste better,” Jorge mused. Alex ignored him.
Sara had been right. This was the fighting dragon that had grown out of the Dragon’s Tooth pearl they’d planted. No wonder he looked so old.
“He has no scent,” Sloane murmured. “Which side is he on?”
“We’re always ready for converts,” Jorge said.
“So, you figured out the secret of the Dragon’s Tooth,” Magnus mused, his voice dark. “To think that there were once a hundred such teeth, simply waiting to be put to use. To think we could harvest an entire Slayer army if we simply retrieved them.”
“You mean you lost the other ninety-nine?” Donovan scoffed. “Remind me never to trust you with anything important.”
“I had them all!” Magnus bellowed.
“So, Olivia coaxed the others out of you?” Donovan said. “Did she even know their power?”
“That stupid woman had no idea what she asked of you,” Magnus said, seething at the memory. “Much less what sacrifice she asked of me.” He turned a bright glance on Rafferty.“It was his fault that I lost them all. It was always his fault.”
Out in the driveway, Rafferty lifted his head, his eyes glimmering. Alex was surprised when he began to hum.
So was the new arrival, who turned as if entranced by the music.
“It’s the same song Rafferty sang when we planted the tooth,” Sara murmured from a safe vantage point inside the garage. “I remember it.”
So did the new arrival. Alex held her breath. Would the song infuriate him or persuade him to take the Pyr side?
Erik erupted from the lake like an arrow loosed from a bow. He sliced through the smoke and spiraled upward, targeting Boris.
The startled Slayer took the brunt of Erik’s blow in his chest. The force of impact sent them both spinning through the air.
Erik wasted no time on formalities. He ripped open Boris’s chest and bit the Slayer’s neck. Black blood flowed over ruby red scales as Boris screamed in pain.
Erik thought of Louisa, killed by Slayers.
He thought of the son Louisa had borne him, Sigmund, turned Slayer at Boris’s behest.
He thought of the Wyvern, tortured at Boris’s command.
He thought of the wickedness done by his opponent, and shredded Boris alive. He ripped his scales and tore his flesh, ignored the screams as the blood ran. He ravaged Boris’s body, turning it into a wreckage of its former glory.
When Boris ceased his screaming and struggling, Erik flew high over the city of Chicago. He dropped Boris, then flew beside him, loosing an endless torrent of dragonfire on the Slayer’s body. The brilliant scarlet feathers that trailed behind Boris burned to cinders. The ruby red scales darkened to black. The brass edges of the scales darkened and the leathery wings curled into impotent wisps.
Boris hit the pavement with a resounding thud and moved no more. Erik checked that he’d left no detail unattended. He wanted Boris to remain dead.
Boris had been struck with dragonfire.
He’d fallen to the earth.
The cold wind off the lake touched his broken body.
The rain fell upon his stillness.
All four elements had been accounted for. A dark puddle of blood spread beneath Boris, mingling with the rain and glistening like an oil slick.
Boris had played his last trick. He was dead, or so close to it that the difference was immaterial. Erik hovered, watching his opponent’s fallen form with suspicion.
But Boris didn’t stir.
The wind did. It burst forth suddenly, setting the litter on the dock to whirling. The wind tasted dark and ominous, and Erik turned his attention to it.
Something was wrong. There was an unnatural disturbance in the forces surrounding the earth. The north wind hinted at where the trouble had occurred.
Minnesota.
With one last lingering look, Erik abandoned Boris’s corpse, turned in midair, and streaked north at lightning speed to help his fellows.
Erik didn’t see Boris rouse himself long moments later. He didn’t see Boris slowly drag his burned and battered body across the wet pavement toward the detritus of his clothes.
Erik didn’t see Boris, hatred in his eyes, deliberately pick up the penny in his talons and lock his fist around it.
Erik didn’t see Boris change back to human form, see him bleeding and bruised, wearing only the undershirt he had managed to hide away. He didn’t see Boris lean his forehead on the ground, gathering the last shards of his strength.
Erik certainly didn’t see Boris crawl away.
If Erik had witnessed any of this, he would have been far more worried about the future than he already was.
He had never believed that the legendary Dragon’s Blood Elixir truly existed. Seeing Boris rise from the ashes of destruction and cheat death would have changed Erik’s thinking.
But Erik was gone.
Chapter 20
Nikolas had been enchanted too long.
The world was so different that it bore little resemblance to the one he knew. The earth sang a variation on the song he understood—her tune was more angry than it had once been. The wind carried different scents than the ones he had known. The water in the lake beyond knew nothing of the Mediterranean that he so loved.
But the dragonfire was the same.
He knew it and he recognized his own kind. He knew that even if much had changed, some things had remained constant. He sensed valor in the lapis lazuli and gold dragon to his right, and respected the unknown talisman on that one’s chest.
He sensed evil in the jade and gold dragon to his left and felt the relentless darkness of that one’s selfish heart. He did not understand the shadow dragons, the ones that were neither dead nor alive, but he felt an abhorrence of them.
Then he heard the song that had coaxed him to awaken, a song as old as the earth herself, a song that roused a rhythm in his blood and reminded him that he was again alive. It was a song that awakened his commitment to justice and his pledge to use his abilities for the cause of right.
He had been born to fight, and reborn to fight again.
Nikolas raged after the jade dragon, fighting with vicious fury. The lapis lazuli dragon joined forces with him and they assaulted the jade dragon from both sides. The old dragon did not surrender the fight easily, but battled with surprising vigor.
Meanwhile, the topaz and gold dragon held the woman and child captive. His wings flapped, and Nikolas knew he meant to kidnap the pair and hold them hostage. The woman screamed.
The jade dragon locked claws with the lapis lazuli one, keeping him from going to the woman’s aid. One of the shadow dragons left the sapphire dragon to assail Nikolas and Nikolas met his assault with fury.
How dare they endanger a woman and child?
The fallen dragon, the copper and emerald one, roused himself suddenly in the woman’s defense. He attacked the topaz dragon with unexpected force. The woman squirmed free as the pair fought. They looked like vicious snakes knotted around each other, blood running red and black over their scales.
The woman and child ran back into the shelter where another woman waited. Nikolas was relieved. A dragon battlefield was no place for humans.
Chaos reigned, but Nikolas sensed that it was under the command of one of the Pyr. He surveyed them and identified the lapis lazuli dragon as the source of power. He wore a badge upon his chest, a mark of black and red. He was a veritable fighting machine and Nikolas felt the earth answer his summons. Hail sliced through the sky, rocks flew, and the wind swirled in a maelstrom beneath his command.
He was magnificent, a leader of warriors and one whom Nikolas could respect. He committed himself to the lapis lazuli dragon’s side. They fought together and he followed his leader’s strategy, destroying those who were neither dead nor alive.
The opal dragon sang, changing his tune.
There was a rumble as the earth parted, leaving a chasm across the land. Nikolas instinctively seized the jade dragon when he halted in surprise, then cast him into the abyss. Hail fell down upon him, leaving wounds everywhere it struck. The copper and emerald dragon dispatched the topaz dragon after him.
The lapis lazuli dragon then cast others in the abyss, the others who were neither dead or alive. The shadow dragon fighting the amethyst and platinum dragon screamed and streaked skyward. His opponent landed, breathing heavily, as he watched the shadow dragon go. The shadow dragon Nikolas had fought followed suit, flying high over the trees and fading from sight.
Nikolas wondered where they would go.
And when they would be back.
Three dragons—sapphire and steel, tourmaline and gold, amethyst and platinum—stood on the lip of the chasm and breathed dragonfire into the pit in unison. The sapphire dragon’s fire was white-hot and burned clean. Nikolas lost sight of the jade and topaz dragons in the flames.
When the pit was full of the ash of the dragons who were neither dead nor alive, the opal dragon’s song changed ever so slightly. Its tune made Nikolas nostalgic for past glories. The earth shut with a groan, trapping the fallen within her darkness.
The lapis lazuli dragon landed close before Nikolas, assessing him. “You’re the Dragon’s Tooth,” he said.
“I am but one of many, one of an army enchanted. Old tales have their roots in truth,” Nikolas said, allowing himself a smile. “I have slept long and now I am prepared to fight.”
He held the gaze of the lapis lazuli dragon and by some unspoken agreement, they shifted shape in unison. “What were they? The undead ones?”
“Dead Pyr who had not been exposed to all four elements,” said the man who had been the copper and emerald dragon. He shuddered, as if he knew too much of this. “Pyr who were enslaved by the darkness of the Slayers.” He and the auburn-haired man shook hands and Nikolas saw the physical similarity between them.
“Slayers,” Nikolas had not heard this term before and he repeated it again. “Are they not Pyr?”
“They were Pyr, but now are Slayers bent on destroying mankind,” said the one who had sung to the earth.
“The dark ones,” Nikolas said with a nod. “There was always darkness, but in my time, it had no such name.”
“Donovan Shea,” the auburn-haired Pyr said, offering his hand. “Welcome.”
“You are the Warrior foretold,” Nikolas said, acknowledging a truth that was obvious to him.
Donovan inclined his head in agreement.
“Nikolas of Thebes,” he said, liking the strength of the other warrior’s grip. “And where am I welcomed?”
“The United States of America,” Donovan said. “Two thousand and seven years after the birth of Jesus Christ.”
“Where? Who?” Nikolas asked in confusion. Donovan laughed. “You’ve slept many thousands of years. We’ll help you.”
Nikolas felt relief at this, and a measure of excitement. He watched the dark-haired man who had been the sapphire dragon stride closer. The opal dragon became an older man, one who moved with purpose as befit one who sang to the earth.
“Quinn Tyrrell,” Donovan said. “The Smith. And Rafferty Powell.”
Beyond the men was the shelter protected by dragonsmoke and occupied by the women. One set down a child, who ran toward the Pyr.
“Sloane Forbes,” said the dark-haired man, scooping up the boy with one arm as he offered his hand with the other.
“My dragon,” the boy said.
“Apothecary,” Sloane corrected, then arched a brow as he considered his fellows. “With a good bit of work to do.”
“Niall Talbot,” said the fair man who had been the amethyst and platinum dragon. He had a head wound that obviously concerned Sloane but spared a glance at the sky, as if seeking some sign of his departed opponent.
An onyx and pewter dragon spiraled out of the sky just then, angling his flight to land before them. Nikolas bristled, prepared to defend the Pyr if necessary.
Rafferty shook his head as he noted Nikolas’s response. “Erik Sorensson, leader of the Pyr.” He smiled. “You need fear only the sharpness of his tongue when he is displeased.”
“Oh, I have known many such leaders in my time,” Nikolas acknowledged, and they all chuckled.
“Boris is dead,” Erik said by way of greeting, and a ripple of shock passed through the Pyr.
“Boris Vassily was the leader of the Slayers,” Niall told Nikolas, and he nodded his approval along with the others.
“You’re sure?” Rafferty asked, eyes gleaming.
“Absolutely.” Erik nodded with conviction. “His body was exposed to the four elements.” Erik’s gaze landed on Nikolas and his eyes narrowed. Donovan introduced them, and Erik smiled slightly as they shook hands.
There was nothing, in Nikolas’s experience, better than a battle ended well, and the company of comrades in arms. He was ready to celebrate in the traditional manner, more ready than usual, given that he’d spent several millennia enchanted.
He glanced toward the two women who stepped out of the shelter, unable to decide whether the tall, dark-haired one or the delicate blonde was more attractive. Donovan and Quinn bristled as one, though, and Nikolas knew he would have to look elsewhere for that particular pleasure. These women were claimed.
It was reassuring how few things had changed.
Donovan was raging with desire and impatient with details. He wanted to celebrate victory with Alex. They had a whole night to share before her meeting, and he knew how he wanted to spend it. He wanted to talk to Alex.
He wanted to make love to her.
He wanted to settle the questions that were outstanding between them, the questions about their future together.
He wanted to do it alone.
“Alex should be clear for her meeting tomorrow,” Erik said.
“I’ll be with her,” Donovan said flatly, and Alex leaned against him. He pulled her close against his side, and tapped his toe with impatience to leave.
Sloane considered Delaney. “What happened there? Are you back on our side or not?”
“I don’t know,” the Pyr said with a shake of his head, and Donovan felt sympathy for his brother. “It’s as if the shadow and the light are at war within me. I can’t tell who will win.”
“That whistle of Magnus’s gave the shadow the upper hand,” Alex guessed.
“Never mind his chant,” Sloane added.
“It triggered something I couldn’t fight. How do I get rid of that?” Delaney asked with fear. “Will they always be able to get my attention that easily? How can you all count on me? How can I count on myself?”
“I have the treatise,” Sloane said. “Come with me to my lair and I’ll try to heal you.”
“I don’t think it will be easy,” Delaney said, looking despondent. “I don’t think I’ll ever be right.”
“Nothing worth doing is ever easy,” Donovan said, and when his brother looked at him, he smiled. “Thank you for helping Alex. Even under Magnus’s spell, you proved that I could count on you.” Donovan sensed that Delaney drew strength from his conviction. “Anything you need from me,” he said, “anything, anytime, you just let me know.”
“Thanks.” Delaney straightened. “I want to beat this. I need to beat this.”
“I think you’ve made a good start,” Sloane said. “A selfless choice, like the one you made, is a step away from the darkness.”
“How many were there in the academy?” Erik asked.
Delaney shuddered. “I’m not sure. We were isolated from each other.”
“There could be an army of ghouls,” Rafferty said.
“More even than we battled tonight,” Quinn added grimly.
“How many Pyr have died and not been exposed to all of the elements, over the history of our kind?” Erik uttered the question in all of their thoughts. No one had an answer and no one liked the prospect of meeting more like those they’d defeated.
“I dislike the fact that Magnus has returned,” Rafferty said. “And that he had a minion.”
“We defeated them both,” Sloane said.
Rafferty shook his head. “I have thought Magnus defeated before. He has old knowledge, which was arcane even when I was young. It was even said that he possessed the Dragon’s Blood Elixir—”
“Which does not exist,” Erik interrupted sharply. “Magnus lies about such myths to impress his minions.”
“And he is not one to be satisfied with a single minion. I will wager that he has trained more Slayers.”
The future looked more grim than Donovan would have liked. “It has to be worth something that we’ve fulfilled the prophecy of two firestorms,” he said.
“Something, but not everything.” Erik cleared his throat and nodded at Nikolas. “I can teach you what we know, if you’d like to be my guest in my lair. With any luck, you’ll have lore to share with us. We’re going to need every asset we can find.”
Nikolas frowned. “What about the others?”
“What others?” Erik asked. All of the Pyr looked puzzled.
“There were a hundred of us imprisoned by that curse. Where are the others? If you seek an army, there is an enchanted one that can be awakened.”
The Pyr exchanged glances.
“I would wager that Magnus knows,” Rafferty said.
“And that he won’t tell,” Donovan concluded.
“What about his old hoard?” Sara asked. “He said he had collected them all.”
“I wonder,” Rafferty mused. “Is it lost or hidden?”
“You could ask the earth,” Donovan suggested.
His old mentor nodded. “I can, although one can never predict when she will answer.”
“Were you all Pyr?” Erik asked Nikolas with excitement.
“We all were dragon warriors.”
“But Pyr or Slayer?”
Nikolas shrugged. “There are shadows in the hearts of all men. We did not divide into two camps as you have done. There were those I would trust and those I would not.” Donovan wondered whether he was the only one who heard the echo of Sophie’s prediction in Nikolas’s words.
“Do you think you could tell the difference between teeth, should we find the hoard?” Erik asked.
Nikolas shrugged. “I cannot say. I have never seen these teeth.”
Before Erik could respond to that, a sweet wind began to blow. It swirled over the trees, smelling like sunshine and summertime.
“Look!” Jared shouted from Sloane’s shoulder, and pointed high.
It was the Wyvern. Donovan watched her descend, her white feathers swirling. He was always struck by her delicacy, how she could have been made of spun glass. He felt the usual wonder in her presence, but there was one even more awed.
“A miracle,” Nikolas muttered, and fell to his knees. He bowed his head and touched it to the pavement, his hands spread before him in supplication.
He was the one.
The thought echoed in Sophie’s mind with utter conviction. One glimpse of the new Pyr, with his rugged masculinity and dark good looks, was enough to tell her of his origin.
And his destiny. He alone was old enough to enter the dark academy and survive.
There was something else about him, too, something that made her afraid to look directly at him, something that made her flutter her feathers a little more as she landed.
There was something about him that made Sophie feel shy.
She was afraid that she knew exactly what it was.
Rafferty was intrigued. Sophie shifted shape and strolled toward them, her sheer dress swirling around her ankles. Nikolas didn’t move and she didn’t seem to notice him.
Rafferty didn’t believe that for a minute, but he still didn’t know what was going on.
“Two destined firestorms concluded with success,” he said when Sophie drew near. She nodded, indicating that she already knew as much. “And a Warrior upon our team.”
“One more to go,” Erik said, his exhaustion clear. “Whose will it be, Sophie? Or are you not going to tell us?”
“A prophecy, maybe?” Donovan said with a smile.
“You already know,” Sophie said softly, and looked at Rafferty.
He felt a jolt when her gaze landed on him and knew that the time to tell of his dream had come.
He counted the destined trilogy off with his fingers. “Smith and Seer. Warrior and Wizard.” Rafferty slanted a glance at Erik. “That leaves King and Consort of the high three.”
Sophie nodded approval, her gaze moving between Rafferty and Erik.
Erik’s eyes narrowed. “Assuming you know who is to be King.”
“You lead us,” Rafferty noted. “It will obviously be you.”
“I lead with less success than I could hope,” Erik said. “My mistakes have led us to our current compromised situation.”
“Perhaps your firestorm will transform you,” Sloane suggested.
“But I’ve had my firestorm.” Erik looked grim as Sophie watched him. “And the product of it is the Slayer who provides the learning they use against us.” He dropped his hand onto Rafferty’s shoulder. “It is said that the true King reveals himself when his presence is necessary. That may not be me.”
Rafferty’s heart leapt. His firestorm. Could it be true? Would he be next? He cared less about the fated role of King and leader than he did of having a mate after all these lonely centuries. He looked at the Wyvern, but she simply smiled at him, revealing nothing.
“The eclipse is in February,” he said, recognizing that Erik was letting him take the lead. “Then we will know for certain.”
“Indeed we will,” Sophie said, then turned her turquoise gaze on Jared. The little boy was wide-awake despite the hour.
She smiled at him and touched his cheek. “I am sorry, but you must forget all of this,” she murmured. He looked as if he would argue, but she ran her fingertip across his mouth. “It is for the safety of all of us. Do you not want your dragon to be safe?”
Jared nodded. He surveyed all the Pyr quickly, as if trying to secure them all in his thoughts. He held on tightly to Sloane, who told him not to be afraid.
Then Sophie leaned closer.
“Close your eyes,” she whispered. “And forget.” On his forehead she planted a kiss, one that shimmered silver on his skin.
When it faded, Jared was asleep on Sloane’s shoulder. Sloane passed the little boy to Alex, who carried him into the house, Donovan fast behind her. They looked right with a small boy in their care, although their son would have red hair.
Rafferty watched them go, pride swelling his heart at what his student had become.
“You glimpsed the Warrior in him,” Sophie said beside him.
“I thought so.”
“You believed in him, and that was the key.” She slanted a smile at him. “Remember, Rafferty, the Great Wyvern works in mysterious ways.” She held his gaze as she faded away, disappearing as surely as if she had never been present.
But her last words echoed in Rafferty’s thoughts, tempting him to believe that nothing would proceed as they anticipated.
Too bad he didn’t know whether that was bad or good.
Something had changed in Donovan. Alex could feel the transformation he had undergone. He exuded new power and authority; his eyes were brighter and his manner more intense.
She understood that he had become the Warrior.
What happened to the Wizard after that?
He caught her hand in his, the white heat of the firestorm making her mouth go dry. She wanted him as badly as she had the first time she’d glimpsed him—no, even more than that. She would never have believed it possible that desire could burn with such ferocity, that she could find such pleasure and still be hungry for more.
She’d never imagined that one man, especially a man with Donovan’s powers, could have eliminated her nightmares. But she hadn’t dreamed of dragons the night before.
Donovan had given her that gift. He’d taught her that not all dragons were to be feared, that she wasn’t powerless against him and his fellows. Her heart beat a little faster when she left Jared’s room and found Donovan waiting in the hall.
He glanced up, and their gazes locked. Even at a distance, the man could set her to simmering. They stared at each other for a potent moment; then Donovan came to her side.
He smiled down at her, and his crooked grin and the way his hand caught hers combined to shake her world. He glanced at their interlocked fingers and the glow that emanated from that point. “Still getting hotter,” he said, his eyes gleaming. “The firestorm is relentless.”
“I guess it doesn’t want to be cheated.” Alex ran a fingertip over his tattoo, unable to keep from touching him. Sparks shot from beneath her hand. She thought more about babies and long-term commitments than she ever had before.
Maybe other options were possible, too.
Donovan watched her so carefully that Alex was sure he could read her thoughts. “No,” he said softly. “The firestorm won’t be cheated.”
Alex heard the consideration in his tone and met his gaze. She thought about having Donovan in her life for the duration and liked the concept a lot. She could even wrap her mind around the notion of having his child—a little red-headed boy who would be full of energy and enthusiasm.
Would he have green eyes or brown? Genetics said brown would dominate, but Alex had a feeling that Donovan’s child would favor his father in more ways than one. She imagined the three of them together, and her chest tightened just a bit.
“You look stronger and bigger,” she said, trying to change the subject.
He trailed a finger down her cheek, leaving a trail of fire that stole Alex’s breath. He smiled slowly, looking like trouble and temptation in one tasty package. “That’s your alchemy, Wizard.”
“What happens to the Wizard once the Warrior is transformed?”
Donovan studied her and spoke very softly. “That’s up to the Wizard.”
His slow kiss left her sizzling and breathless; she was trapped against his broad chest and unwilling to be anywhere else. His eyes were glittering when he lifted his head, and their hearts pounded in unison. Alex had to narrow her eyes against the brilliance of the firestorm, its light burning hot and furious between them.
“Don’t we have a triumph to celebrate?” Alex whispered. “In the traditional way?”
Donovan smiled. “It might be a shame to end this,” he mused, playing with the sparks that danced between their fingertips.
“And sating the firestorm is a big commitment,” Alex agreed, her heart leaping. “Babies and dragons, fighting Slayers, saving the world.” She shook her head, pretending to be daunted, but Donovan wasn’t fooled.
He arched a brow. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid?”
Alex met his gaze. “I’m not afraid of anything. Not anymore.”
“No more nightmares?”
“No. Thank you.”
His smile flashed. “The least I could do.”
“What about you? Are you ready to face your dragons?” Alex watched Donovan, noting his stillness, and knew she had his undivided attention. “We could satisfy the firestorm.”
Donovan gave her such an intense look that Alex knew he’d already made his decision. He uttered a single word with such conviction that Alex had no doubt of his feelings. “Yes,” he said with resolve.
She stretched and brushed her lips across his, feeling the leap of his heart beneath her hand. “Let’s celebrate success,” she whispered. “By leaving the condoms on the nightstand tonight.”
“Are you sure?”
Alex fixed Donovan with an intense look of her own. “Yes.”
He didn’t give her a chance to say anything more.
Archibald Forrester was in a bad mood. Not only had he spent the entire week in the hospital, thanks to his emphysema acting up again, but some fool had stolen his car. His body might be healed but he was as mad as hops. The police had found the burned-out wreckage on the outskirts of town, and Archibald couldn’t imagine what the world was coming to.
Worst of all, it was Thursday. He’d finally persuaded Berenice to go to the dance at the Legion with him on Saturday night, but without a car, he wouldn’t be able to pick her up. She would decline to go with him, again, and he’d have to start over his campaign to win her favor. Again.
Archibald wasn’t getting any younger.
His mood hadn’t improved—and his impatience hadn’t mitigated—when the nurse found some reason to avoid taking him downstairs on time.
Archibald wasn’t dead yet, though. He got into the wheelchair the intern had brought and piled all of his documentation and belongings on his lap. The sooner he got out of the hospital, the sooner he could figure out how to get a car by Saturday night.
He’d just wheeled himself into the hall when the nurse called after him.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Forrester,” she said, then grabbed the handles on the wheelchair and pushed him forward with greater speed. He didn’t acknowledge her, but she didn’t seem to mind. “Do you have your charts? Good. I just got caught up talking to your grandson.”
Archibald raised a brow, but said nothing. He wasn’t senile yet, either. His only grandson lived in Atlanta and his wife had delivered triplets less than a month before. Archibald doubted that Roger had made the trip to Minneapolis, and knew that if he had, he wouldn’t have wasted time chatting to nurses when he could have talked to him.
Archibald knew an excuse when he heard one. He folded his arms across his belongings and let himself be pushed toward the elevator in silence.
“Such a charming man,” the nurse said, clinging to her lie. “Here. He brought you a card.”
She handed Archibald an envelope. He fingered it with suspicion. If it really was from his grandson, and if he had really been on this floor of this hospital five minutes ago, wouldn’t he have brought the card to Archibald himself? It was fat, as if it contained more than a card.
Was it a trick? He hated practical jokes, always had. “Go ahead and open it,” the nurse chided as she backed his wheelchair into the elevator. “Get-well cards don’t bite.”
That was true enough. Archibald opened the envelope and pulled out the card. It was attractive, not too fussy, and stuck to the basics. Get well soon was written across the front. No flowers—they had always made him think of funeral homes—but a cartoon of a dog.
He opened the card and something metallic fell to his lap. There was no verse, just a handwritten note.
Mr. Forrester:
Thanks for the use of your car. I’m sorry for the result, and also for the fact that I couldn’t get another taupe one.
Maybe the navy is more “you.”
I told the dealership you’d stop by to do the paperwork for the license plates.
Take care—
D.
P.S. I left something for the insurance in the glove box.
The metal that had fallen to his lap was a pair of keys: Buick keys on a WWII vet key ring. A license plate number was written on a separate hang tag on the key ring, and that tag also had the name of a Buick dealership in town.
Archibald read the note again. He wasn’t illiterate, either. His grandson’s name was Roger, which certainly did not start with a D.
The nurse wheeled him through the exit, into a perfect, sunny fall day. He immediately spied a navy Buick in the short-term parking lot. It was the new model he’d been eying, and the dealer license-plate number matched the one on the tag.
“There,” he said, as if it were truly his car.
The nurse took him right to the driver’s-side door, and he stood beside it, trying not to admire it too openly.
“New car?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“It’s beautiful.” She was pretty, this nurse. She smiled at him, and the sunlight danced in her hair. “I think you look good in navy. It’ll make your eyes look more blue.”
Archibald snorted, pleased although he tried to hide it. “Thank you for your help,” he said.
She shook a playful finger at him. “Let’s not be seeing you again too soon,” she teased. “As charming as you are, I’d rather you were healthy.”
Archibald nodded agreement, and she headed back to the hospital, pushing the wheelchair.
He looked at the car again. It was a fine piece of machinery, painted a metallic navy blue that glistened in the sun. Was this a trick? Some kind of Candid Camera setup? He couldn’t see any cameras, but he wouldn’t make a fool of himself anyway.
He turned the key in the lock and his heart skipped when the door unlocked, then opened with nary a squeak. He got in, savored that new-car smell, and—still skeptical—leaned over to open the glove box.
The receipt for the car was there, and it was marked PAID IN FULL. The paperwork for the license plates was there, with a business card clipped to it for the car salesman. There was an envelope with his name on it, addressed in the same handwriting as the card.
He opened the envelope to find twenty new hundred-dollar bills.
For the insurance.
It seemed that the world was a better place than he’d come to believe.
Archibald exhaled and looked around, seeing the day with new eyes. He didn’t know who had taken his car and wrecked it, but that person had done the right thing and that was good enough by him.
Archibald turned the key in the ignition and liked the sound of the engine. He ran his hand across the brand-new upholstery and couldn’t help but smile.
Wait until Berenice got a look at this.
Alex was locking the Green Machine into a temporary garage late Thursday afternoon when she heard the distinctive roar of a Ducati. She turned and waited, her buoyant mood made even better with the promise of Donovan’s arrival.
He turned the corner and slowed the bike as he approached her, opening the visor on his helmet. He looked long and lean and sexy, his wicked smile doing dangerous things to her pulse. He was James Dean and every other hunk movie star rolled into one package.
And he was smiling at her.
“Hey gorgeous,” he said as he came to a stop. “Going my way?”
It wasn’t a joke. Alex felt gorgeous in his presence, sexy and feminine as she never had before. She was happy when she was with Donovan, too, and she loved how he had helped her.
Having him in her life was worth fighting dragons. “Depends,” she said, sauntering over to the bike. “Where are you going?”
“How was the meeting with Mr. Sinclair?” he asked instead.
“Amazing!” Alex couldn’t hide her enthusiasm. “He’s bringing in a technical consultant tomorrow to go over the Green Machine and he took at least a hundred pictures. He has that team already lined up for a strategic partnership and half of them are coming in for the weekend. Everything is a go!” She flung out her hands, still unable to believe how well it had gone. “We drove all over the place and he talked on the phone the whole time. The man seems to know everybody.”
“So, it’s happening.” Donovan nodded approval.
“It’s happening,” Alex agreed. “I couldn’t have managed it without you and the Pyr. Thanks.” She would have kissed him but he was still wearing his helmet. She laid a hand on his arm instead and he put his hand over hers.
Even without the spark of the firestorm, it was pretty electric.
“So how about us?” he asked.
“Us?” Alex felt her heart skip.
“Us.” Donovan gave her a hard look, one that made Alex’s mouth go dry; then he looked away. “We have an outstanding bet to settle,” he mused. “There was a bottle of champagne riding on who could hold back the longest, and it seems to me that we should confirm who’s buying.”
“It’s not just about sex,” Alex whispered, and Donovan shook his head with force.
“No, it’s not. It’s about celebration.”
“It’s not just about proving that you’re alive, either.”
Donovan pulled off his helmet and got off the bike, then took her hand in his. “The firestorm is about love,” he said, his voice husky. “It’s about finding your destined mate and falling hard enough that you worry about that person before you worry about yourself. It’s about finding strength in your own weakness.” He bent and brushed his lips across her knuckles, launching a wave of desire that nearly took Alex to her knees.
He looked at her, a wicked glint in his green eyes as he put her hand over his chest. She knew he had a new mole there, a mole that marked the contribution of her talisman. She was fiercely proud that she’d been able to offer something to make him safe.
No matter what happened.
“The firestorm has just drawn us to where we needed to be, Alex,” he murmured, his eyes filled with promise. “I love you, and half measures just aren’t going to be good enough.”
Alex couldn’t think straight about what he had said. Not yet. Not when his words were what she most wanted to hear.
“Dragon babies,” she said, liking the sound of it more and more.
“There will be a child, and he’ll be our son. No matter what happens between you and me, I’ll take care of him.”
“I know.”
Donovan frowned down at her hand. “I know you aren’t crazy about dragons, and if being with me is too much for you, I’ll understand. . . .”
He was giving her the choice. Alex was humbled and thrilled.
“I’m not crazy about Slayers,” she corrected. “But I think I’d like to have a good dragon of my very own.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “Just in case.”
His eyes twinkled. “Insurance?”
“Like a dragon’s tooth in the garden, but better.”
Donovan smiled a slow crooked smile that made her pulse go crazy. Alex knew that she’d never get tired of this journey of discovery. “We can’t go to my apartment. It was trashed by the Slayers—”
Donovan put a finger over her lips, his touch making her mouth go dry. Alex felt her heartbeat synchronize with his and watched his eyes darken with desire. “You asked where I was going. I’ve got an appointment to look at real estate tomorrow.”
“Real estate?”
“I’m thinking I need a real lair, not just somewhere to leave my hoard, and that I need it in Minneapolis-St. Paul.”
“Someplace with a dangerous downtown vibe?”
“Someplace with good schools.” He smiled at her. “I’d like you to come along, since I’d like for us to share that lair.”
“I’d like that, too.” Alex leaned closer, knowing it was time for the truth. “I love you, Donovan Shea,” she whispered, her voice low. She saw his grin flash before he kissed her.
“We should keep it legal,” she teased moments later. “Seeing as we’re in a public place.”
“I can fix that,” Donovan said, handing her the second helmet he’d brought. “Just don’t tell me what kind of lingerie you’re wearing.”
“White lace, of course,” she said as she got on the bike, and he groaned. She put her arms around his waist. “I think I might start a collection. For luck.”
“There’s more than luck at work between us,” Donovan said, and revved the bike.
At the sound, Alex had an idea. “What do you think about driving the world’s first and most environmentally friendly motorcycle?” she said, and Donovan laughed.
“I wondered how long it would take you to think of that,” he said. “I’ve already warned the others that you’ll be converting their vehicles. Quinn volunteered his pickup truck to be next.”
“That reminds me,” Alex said, leaning closer as Donovan took a curve. “There’s one more thing we need to make right.”
“What’s that?”
“Three words.”
“Archibald Forrester’s Buick,” they said in unison.
Donovan grinned. “I took care of that this afternoon.”
“What did you do?”
“Made things right. Besides, I think navy will suit Archibald better than taupe.”
Alex laughed and kissed him again. “Thank you. I was worried about him losing his car.”
“We had to fix it, and I needed something to do during your meeting.” His expression turned wicked, and Alex’s heart skipped at the sight. “Because we’ve got other fires to light tonight.”
Alex wasn’t going to argue with that.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
When I first proposed this story, I had Alex’s prototype car use water as fuel. By the time I sat down to write the story, I was beginning to wonder how I would make that sound plausible. But in August 2007, there was a story in the news—what perfect timing!—about a cancer researcher named John Kanzius in Erie, Pennsylvania, who inadvertently discovered that salt water will burn while exposed to radio frequencies. His results have been confirmed and are the focus of research.
So, while Alex is ahead of her time, the Green Machine isn’t that implausible.
Read on for a sneak preview of the next
book in Deborah Cooke’s Dragonfire series
KISS OF FATE
Coming from Signet Eclipse in February 2009
Chicago
February 2008
The Pyr gathered at Erik’s lair for the eclipse.
Erik’s lair was in a warehouse that had been partly converted to lofts. It was large and industrial and in a lousy part of town. Rafferty wondered who would see the high council of dragons on the roof of the building and what they would make of the scene. The idea made him smile.
Rafferty was older than all the others, but he never got bored of the world and its charms. As usual, he was optimistic that this time the firestorm would be his, but he couldn’t resent the good fortune of his fellows.
The Great Wyvern had a plan for each of them; Rafferty believed that with all his heart and soul.
And he would wait his turn.
While he waited, he did his best to facilitate the firestorms of his fellows.
The company stood on the roof, watching the moon slip into the earth’s shadow. It took on the hue of blood, casting the earth in surreal light.
“Quickly,” Erik said with more than his usual impatience. “The full eclipse will last less than half an hour this time.” Rafferty understood Erik’s concern; this was the third of the full eclipses, three in a row before the final battle between Pyr and Slayer. After this eclipse, the die would be cast and the battle for power over the planet’s fate would begin in earnest.
Rafferty wasn’t looking forward to that.
Meanwhile, the Pyr shifted shape in unison. For this eclipse, they were joined by the two most recent human mates, both of whom were pregnant. Quinn, the Smith, was scaled in sapphire and steel; his mate, Sara, the Seer, stood petite and fair at his side. Donovan, the Warrior, took his lapis lazuli and gold dragon form, while his tall and dark-haired mate, Alex, the Wizard, looked on. Theirs were two strong partnerships that had been made at this vortex of change.
This would be the third, if the Pyr could make it work.
Erik turned to an onyx and pewter dragon, while Rafferty became an opal and gold dragon. Sloane and Niall brought Delaney and kept him between them, although Rafferty believed that it was Delaney who was most worried about what might happen.
After all, the spark in Delaney’s eyes was much brighter. Rafferty believed that Sloane’s treatment was working and that the darkness inflicted upon Delaney was steadily diminishing.
Sloane changed form, his tourmaline scales shading from green to purple and back again, each one edged in gold. Niall, meanwhile, became a dragon of amethyst and platinum. Delaney changed to an emerald and copper dragon. Nikolas of Thebes, new to this ceremony, shifted to a dragon of anthracite and iron, then hung back to quietly observe.
Erik murmured the ancient blessing once they were all in dragon form. Rafferty watched Erik spin the Dragon’s Egg, saw the moon’s light touch the round dark stone. Gold lines appeared upon its surface almost immediately, prompting a startled gasp from both Alex and Nikolas. Rafferty watched hungrily as the gold lines triangulated a location.
Would this be his chance? The Dragon’s Egg glistened as Erik leaned closer to read its portent.
“London,” a woman’s voice said from behind them all. Rafferty pivoted to find the Wyvern lounging against the fire escape, still in her human form.
He doubted that he was the only one surprised to find her there. Sophie was wearing a long white skirt that floated around her ankles. Her long blond hair was loose and flowed down her back. She looked like a graceful swan, or perhaps like one that was made of glass.
How did she keep herself from shifting shape under the eclipse’s light?
She smiled as she regarded them, smiled so knowingly that Rafferty wondered if she had heard his thoughts.
She strode closer and crouched down beside the Dragon’s Egg. “Why don’t we ask it to tell us something we don’t know?”
“I do not have your skill, especially as you choose not to share it,” Erik said in old-speak. His irritation was clear, but Sophie’s smile never wavered.
“Listen,” she bade him in old-speak, the single word resonating in Rafferty’s chest. She murmured a chant. It was short and wordless, either a string of sounds or a language forgotten. It sounded old to Rafferty. Potent.
She repeated it, and Erik echoed the sound. She nodded approval and beckoned to him. Erik leaned over the Dragon’s Egg at her urging and the two of them chanted in unison.
Then Sophie blew on the dark globe of stone. The golden lines disappeared immediately, as if lines blown from the sand, and a woman’s face came into view. It was as if she swam to the surface of a lake, her hair streaming back and her eyes closed.
Then she opened her eyes and looked directly at Erik. Even from his position, Rafferty could see that her eyes were a glorious blue. The hair that flowed around her face was wavy and chestnut brown, and billowed as if she were underwater.
When she simply stared at Erik, the Wyvern blew on the Dragon’s Egg again.
“My name is Eileen Grosvenor,” the woman said, her words clearly enunciated. She paused, as if to think. “At least, that’s what they call me this time.”
She lifted a fingertip toward Erik and he lifted a talon, seemingly against his own volition. When his talon was over the Dragon’s Egg, a spark danced between it and the woman’s finger.
He recoiled in shock. “Louisa!”
“Yes,” the woman murmured, as if remembering something she had half forgotten. “Yes, I have been called that, too.”
Erik stared at the Dragon’s Egg in shock and took a step back.
Untroubled by his response, the woman smiled a brilliant smile, one that lit the Dragon’s Egg from within. Then she seemed to take a deep breath, closed her eyes, and disappeared as if sinking to the bottom of a lake. Her hair flowed around and over her before the ends flicked out of sight.
Erik gave a cry and seized the Dragon’s Egg just as the moon peeked out from the earth’s shadow. The stone turned black again, reverting to its usual smooth orb of obsidian stone.
“How can this be?” he demanded of the Wyvern.
Sophie straightened and smiled as the Pyr shifted back to human form around her. She gave Delaney a hard look, then nodded once at Sloane. “You are half done,” she said. “Do not falter.”
By the time Sloane had nodded agreement, Sophie had turned and walked to the lip of the roof. She lifted her arms over her head, laughing as the wind teased her skirts, and leapt.
Rafferty was the first to reach the edge. Even having guessed what he would see, he was still surprised.
Far below a white dragon soared, her feathers flowing behind her. She glinted in the changing light, reflecting and refracting the hue cast by the moon, like a dragon carved of crystal. She ascended and turned a tight curve over the roof, leaving the Pyr staring after her with awe.
She flew straight up, then abruptly disappeared. The sky was clear and there was nowhere for her to be hidden. She had simply vanished, as suddenly as she had appeared.
“I hate when she does that,” Donovan muttered. Rafferty didn’t agree, not this time. No matter how often he saw her, he found that Sophie’s appearance gladdened his heart. He realized what a gift it was to have her among them. He felt as though there was a greater force on their side, on the side of right, and he was touched by her beauty, as well.
He found Nikolas beside him, the other Pyr’s dark eyes wide with astonishment. “She is real, then,” he whispered. “I thought that I had dreamed her presence before.”
“She didn’t stay long enough to be introduced. Her name is Sophie,” Rafferty said. “She is the Wyvern, a prophetess who has skills far beyond our own.”
“I know who she is,” Nikolas murmured, seeking some sign of her presence.
“Her prophecies only count if you understand them,” Quinn noted, and Sara smiled.
Nikolas nodded though, his awe undiminished. “If we do not understand, then we are not worthy of the prophecy,” he said stiffly. “Praise be to the Great Wyvern that such beauty exits.” He put his hand over his heart and bowed his head in an attitude of prayer.
Erik was still staring into the Dragon’s Egg, his features pale. “Louisa,” he whispered, raising his gaze to meet Rafferty’s. “It can’t be true.”
But Rafferty knew that it was, no matter how Erik might wish for it to be otherwise. He decided then that Erik might need his help.
“Stay with me in my lair in London,” he said. “We’ll find your firestorm together.”
In the burn ward of a major hospital, the patient known as John Doe felt the tug of the eclipse, as well.
He awakened, stiff and groggy, his body determined to heed the ancient call. He knew what would happen instants before it did, knew that the sedative would keep him from effectively controlling his primal urges. He tore bandages from his hands and the IV needle from his arm, flinging himself off the bed in the nick of time. No sooner had his bare feet touched the cold linoleum than he shifted shape.
Mercifully, he had arranged for a private room.
With a swing of his mighty tail, he shattered the tinted window. Before the nurses could arrive, he launched himself through the broken glass and took flight over the city. He had not recovered his full strength, but Boris Vassily had learned to make the most of whatever he had.
He whispered to the wind and the sky and listened to the tales they told. He asked one question of the moon and heeded its response. Anger boiled within him as he understood with perfect clarity who would feel the firestorm this time.
There would be no happy ending if Boris had anything to say about it.
And he did. The ruby red and brass dragon he became was less splendid than he had once been. His trailing red plumes were gone, his body as scarred in dragon form as it was in human form. He could not bear to look at himself, for he had once been the jewel of his kind.
He knew where to lay the blame. The Pyr responsible for his scarred self was none other than Erik Sorensson, none other than the Pyr whose firestorm would not proceed without interruption.
The time for recovery was past.
The time for vengeance had arrived.
But there was one small detail to be resolved first. Boris sought the address he knew so well, the address where the payments had gone. He wheeled through the sky toward the luxury condominium, and his nose told him that the plastic surgeon he had retained—the one bribed to overlook any physiological oddities in his anonymous patient—was home.
What a perfect night for a house fire.
Boris landed on the terrace that overlooked Lake Michigan and confronted the good doctor thought the sliding-glass door. The doctor put down his glass of champagne and turned at the sound of Boris’s arrival, alarm and disbelief mingling in his expression.
Boris reared up, letting the doctor see his scars, willing him to make the connection. The surgeon’s eyes widened in horror; he dropped the glass and backed away with his hands held high.
That was when Dr. Nigel Berenstein understood that he would never collect the bonus payment for successful completion of the surgery.
Boris laughed, kicked his way through the sliding-glass door and loosed his dragonfire.
He took great pleasure in the way the plastic surgeon’s skin crackled as it burned, inflicting damage beyond the ability of any human doctor to repair. He let the doctor experience the fullness of the pain, let him see what he had become, then fried the life out of him.
Humans were such a feeble species.
Boris left the apartment ablaze, knowing the fire was his ally in destroying signs of his presence. Pesky details resolved, he turned his attention to a matter of greater import.
He was going to enjoy thwarting Erik’s firestorm.
It would be the credential he needed to ensure that Magnus didn’t steal the leadership of the Slayers.
In a London hotel, Eileen Grosvenor awakened with a start. She sat up and looked around the bedroom, shocked to find it exactly as it should be.
Instead of filled with water. She’d dreamed of swimming underwater, swimming so far underwater that she might have been a fish. It had been wonderful; she’d felt strong and agile, the muscles in her body moving in perfect concert.
There had been light. A warm light, like that cast by a candle. She’d moved directly to it, unable to resist its allure.
She closed her eyes and again saw the face of the man who had been bent over the surface of the water, looking down at her. She remembered raising a finger and seeing him reach out with one hand. She saw again the spark that had leapt between their fingers, illuminating the surface of the water.
There was something in his eyes that melted her heart. A memory of pain, or of some old injury. Eileen had been sure that she could heal him, even though he was beyond the water and she was beneath it.
Maybe it was a portent. Maybe she was finally going to meet a man worth the trouble. She’d certainly know him again if she saw him. She focused on his image, sharpening it in her thoughts. Oh, yes, she’d recognize him anywhere.
Maybe it was just a silly dream, brought on by the stress of being away from home.
The dream made Eileen happy, though, made her feel strong and sexy and optimistic. She had a strange, irrational conviction that she was going to meet the man of her dreams, so to speak.
That didn’t sound like Eileen, the ultimate pragmatist. She scoffed and got out of bed for a drink of water. Eileen was standing in the bathroom, drinking, when she saw in the mirror that her hair was wet.
And there was a piece of water lily tangled in the ends.
But Eileen didn’t swim; she never had. She had a fear of the water, one she’d struggled to overcome because it was without any basis in her history. She certainly didn’t swim in hotel rooms that didn’t have ocean access.
Eileen met her own gaze in the mirror, seeing her surprise and confusion. If her hair was wet, then it couldn’t have been a dream, could it?
What had just happened to her?
And why?
About the Author
Deborah Cooke has always been fascinated by dragons, although she has never understood why they have to be the bad guys. She has an honors degree in history, with a focus on medieval studies, and is an avid reader of medieval vernacular literature, fairy tales, and fantasy novels. Since 1992, Deborah has written more than thirty romance novels under the names Claire Cross and Claire Delacroix.
Deborah makes her home in Canada with her husband. When she isn’t writing, she can be found knitting, sewing, or hunting for vintage patterns. To learn more about the Dragonfire series and Deborah, please visit her Web site at
www.deborahcooke.com and her blog, Alive & Knitting, at
www.delacroix.net/blog.
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