Kiss of Fate

  But he made sense. And he confessed his truths to her. And as strange as those truths were, Eileen believed him. Her gut said she should trust him, and trust this electricity between them. Was it some kind of bad luck that as soon as she decided to do so, she’d inadvertently annoyed him?

  Erik got up abruptly as the train pulled into a station. He walked away without saying anything, his expression grim.

  Was he going to leave? Had she made that big a faux pas?

  Eileen craned her neck to watch him stride down the length of the car. She couldn’t help but admire the fit of his jeans and the line of his shoulders beneath his leather jacket. He was wearing a great Aran sweater, knit in charcoal wool with twining cables that she desperately wanted to finger.

  Maybe she wanted to finger what was inside the sweater just as much. Who had made it for him? What was his own romantic experience? He hadn’t even flinched when she mentioned Nigel being married, so couldn’t believe that Erik was.

  He wasn’t lying to her.

  She trusted him.

  She liked the way he could look so focused when something caught his attention, as if there were nothing else important in the world.

  She particularly liked when she had his attention.

  Eileen could imagine that Erik would make love with his concentration on his partner and on her every gesture. She could imagine that it would take hours and hours to make love with Erik. The whole world would fall away, sacrificed to the pursuit of pleasure.

  Sounded good to her.

  She also sensed that lovemaking with Erik would only leave her hungry for more. He’d kissed her once and she wanted more. She couldn’t put the kiss out of her thoughts. She could taste him on her lips, remember the pressure of his mouth against hers and the slow caress of his fingertips in her hair. Eileen sat alone in a slowing train and lusted.

  Destined mates.

  He’d said that with such vehemence. There was no wiggle room, no possibility of misinterpretation—he’d been talking about sex, about their having sex together.

  Nothing more and nothing less.

  And it sounded great. On the one hand, Erik was disconcertingly direct about what he wanted from her. On the other, hadn’t she had enough of pretty stories and lies? He was honest, so honest that he startled her. She was fed up with men—like Nigel and even Joe—who promised happily ever after when they just wanted a little something physical in the short term. It was a relief to have a man be blunt. It was forthright and it was sexy.

  Wasn’t there a saying about being careful what you asked for, in case you got it?

  Eileen watched Erik lean out of the car and scrutinize the platform. The conductor made some comment to him in passing, one that Erik didn’t acknowledge. His expression was preoccupied, even concerned, as he scanned the sky. She watched him, noting the strength of his hands, the way he narrowed his eyes, the tightening of his lips. He looked taut, on guard and vigilant. He looked ready to fight.

  He’d said it was his responsibility to protect her. That sounded good. She thought of Erik defending her the night before, sweeping her behind him before he took down the gold dragon. He was decisive and powerful.

  If a dragon.

  She couldn’t have everything, apparently.

  The whistle blew and the train lurched forward. Erik returned to his seat, looking for all the world like he’d rather be pacing. She felt warmth grow inside her with every step he took closer. By the time he came to sit down, she was ravenous for more than breakfast.

  He avoided her gaze as he took his seat, which surprised Eileen. What had she said? It was common for her to stumble in where angels might fear to tread, to say too much and to offend people, but she still couldn’t think of what the issue might be this time.

  She waited to see if Mr. Direct would tell her.

  The train began to move again, but still he didn’t say anything. He drummed his fingers on his knee and looked grim. Eileen figured she’d minimize her misstep by keeping her mouth shut. She knit. The train began to rock as it reached speed and she adjusted the rhythm of her knitting to that of the train car.

  And she watched Erik through her lashes. Eileen began to think about the little inn where she had stayed the month before, and how the sheer romance of it all had nearly killed her, right after Nigel’s revelation.

  Maybe she could erase that unhappy memory with a better one.

  Tonight. A wild weekend might be the perfect end to a disaster of a research trip.

  Assuming that they started speaking to each other again.

  Eileen had a feeling that Erik could hold his silence longer than she could, and knew she would have to start the conversation again.

  “You should wear colors,” she said more abruptly than she intended.

  “Why?” He didn’t sound insulted, but intrigued.

  “Because gray and black are boring.” She looked up to find him watching her, amusement in his eyes. She smiled. “And you’re not.”

  He seemed to fight a smile, then leaned forward to brace his elbows on his knees. His eyes were cat bright. “Any particular color?”

  Eileen studied him, pretending to think about it. In truth, she already knew. “Red,” she said in a tone that allowed no argument.

  “Red,” he echoed, then sat back, bemused. “I shall have to consider that advice.”

  Eileen blushed and looked down at her knitting, afraid that she had said too much.

  It wouldn’t have been the first time.

  She felt the weight of Erik’s gaze upon her. He might have been touching her, her awareness of his glance was so intense. She felt herself begin to blush—like the teenager she wasn’t—and couldn’t help licking her lips. Her mouth was dry, her nipples were tingling, and she felt as if she had the shivers.

  Hot shivers.

  “Why?” he asked abruptly. Eileen looked up from her knitting in confusion. “Why this story?”

  Eileen blinked. The problem was the story she was chasing? How exactly could that be an issue?

  Then she guessed and felt her mouth fall open. The story could be a problem only if Erik knew something about it.

  The Dragon Lover of Madeley.

  No. Her mind shied away from the obvious connection.

  She stared at Erik and he stared back.

  Eileen routinely taught that stories represented deeper social fears—that the “dragon” was the frightening changes brought by the industrial revolution, for example—but what if there really had been a dragon lover? Erik could have been someone’s dragon lover—or he could have known the dragon lover involved.

  Could the story have a bigger seed of truth in it than she’d thought?

  There were those teeth, after all.

  “I collect a lot of stories.” Eileen thought that sounded more evasive than she meant to be. “I’m a comparative mythologist.”

  “So you said.” He waited, eyes gleaming, seeming to know that it was only half an answer.

  Eileen put down her knitting and launched into a shortened version of her introductory lecture for Comparative Mythology 101. “There are people who think that stories are silly, but I think they’re important. Comparative mythology is a critical part of social history, because the stories people tell one another reveal a great deal about their expectations, living conditions, and view of the world.”

  Erik almost smiled, apparently recognizing her tone. “You teach, then.”

  Eileen felt herself blush one more time. “At the university in Boston.”

  Again Erik started and turned to look out the window. Eileen sensed that he was surprised by her answer. What was wrong with Boston? Was he thinking of a longer-term connection between them, one that would be complicated by the Atlantic Ocean between them? The prospect made her heart thump.

  Eileen decided that she might as well put all of her cards on the table. “I have a term sabbatical this year, and this is the end of my eight weeks of research in England. I go home Sunday.”
/>
  Erik faced her so abruptly that she jumped. “You focus on old stories, then?” She was surprised that he seemed to have missed her reference to her travel plans.

  “No. I wrote my dissertation on recurring elements in urban myths at home. My interest in older stories is new, which was why I needed to come here and establish a grounding for myself.”

  Erik was watching her closely. “I’ll guess there was a reason for this change in your focus. You don’t seem to be whimsical.”

  “Thank you.” Eileen nodded and picked up her needles again. Strangely, she felt more comfortable under his scrutiny, as if some balance had been restored between them. He’d made a decision; she understood that intuitively. She wondered what it was. “It was one particular story that changed everything. The Dragon Lover of Madeley. I don’t know what it is about that story, but as soon as I heard it, I knew I had to find out more. It’s driving me crazy, that story. I can’t push it out of my head. I need to know why.”

  “And have you found out?”

  “No.” Eileen didn’t hide her frustration. “I spent some time in Ironbridge last month, but learned nothing significant.”

  “Maybe you were looking in the wrong places,” Erik said. His silky tone caught at her ear, but Eileen continued.

  “I think the problem is that people have moved away from there, to newer places like Telford, and the story doesn’t have a root anymore. There’s no old gardener whose grandfather told him a story his grandfather had told him—or at least, I don’t know where to find that gardener, if he exists.”

  She frowned at her knitting. “Oral history is such a big part of putting these stories together.” She became aware that she was rambling and looked up, surprised to find Erik watching her with that same intensity. “Does that make sense to you?”

  “It makes perfect sense.” Erik spoke with resolve. He leaned forward, his elbows braced on his knees, and his eyes glittered. “What if I could tell you more about that story?”

  Eileen’s heart leapt, but she wasn’t sure whether it was because of his proximity or his offer. “More, like what?”

  “More, like the truth behind it.”

  Eileen saw the conviction in his eyes.

  Erik did know. This was the lead she’d been waiting for.

  He was the lead she’d been waiting for.

  Careful what you wish for . . .

  “You know the story.” She tried to sound calm but heard her own excitement.

  “You could say that,” he acknowledged.

  Eileen wasn’t interested in half truths. She leaned forward, her knitting forgotten, and their knees bumped. That spark leapt and it singed her skin through her skirt, sending an urgent demand along her veins. “Did you know her? The woman?”

  Erik eyed her steadily and she was disappointed that he didn’t directly answer her. “What if we made a wager?”

  “What kind of a wager?”

  “I can take you to the places it happened. I can show you some of the root of the story.”

  “Will you tell me everything you know of it?”

  He watched her so carefully that Eileen wondered what he wasn’t telling her. “I will tell you as much as I think I should. It is not my story, and I need to respect that.”

  “No.” Eileen grabbed her needles again, prepared to negotiate. “No. I want the whole story, no part measures. The truth.”

  Erik settled back and Eileen stole a glance at him. He looked both bemused and unpredictable. He caught her looking and arched a brow. “What if there’s some of it that I don’t need to tell you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He smiled slowly, his expression so mysterious and sexy that her bones nearly melted. “Why don’t we just wait and see? You’ll have the whole story by the time this is done, I believe, but I also believe that you won’t need me to tell you all of it.”

  He made no sense, yet she trusted him.

  What kind of magic did this man—this Pyr—possess?

  He had confidence in spades; that was for sure. He was utterly convinced of what he was saying and pretty sure that she’d take the deal. She thought of her dreams, of the dream with him in it, and wondered precisely what powers Erik had.

  She shouldn’t have been surprised by how much she wanted to know.

  Eileen had a strange sense that she was making a contract with the devil himself. The idea was both alluring and a bit worrisome. Had Faust felt his heart skip when he agreed to the terms with Mephistopheles? What was the hidden cost to this agreement?

  Her instinct was unshakably in favor of going for it.

  Eileen put down her knitting. “Is this a transaction, then? Do you want something in exchange?”

  “Everyone wants something in exchange, Eileen,” Erik said softly, his gaze colliding with hers. The way he said her name made her shiver. His gaze was hot and she was steaming.

  “Name your price so that we both know the terms.” From his sultry expression, Eileen was sure that she knew what he would say.

  Sex, sex, sex. She was ready to agree.

  But Erik’s gaze dropped to the wooden chest. “That.”

  Eileen looked at her knitting in an attempt to hide her disappointment. It was probably a failed effort, given how closely Erik was watching her. She felt a little flat that he hadn’t demanded a night together as the price of his assistance.

  But she’d asked for the truth, hadn’t she?

  Eileen wasn’t about to tell him that the chest was empty, not unless he asked. His promise might be empty as well.

  “Fine,” she said, hearing irritation in her tone. “Deal.” She offered her hand, prepared to shake on the deal, such as it was.

  “No,” Erik said, his voice dropping low. “We have to seal this agreement another way.”

  He moved to the seat beside her so quickly that she barely saw him move. She looked up, saw the anticipation in his eyes, felt the weight of his arm sliding across her shoulders. He was all heat and intensity, his touch sending waves of desire over her skin. If she’d been standing, her knees would have given out.

  “Deal,” Erik whispered, the deep timbre of his voice sending little earthquakes through her. He touched her chin with one hand, sending a cascade of sparks over her skin, and tipped her face toward his.

  Eileen closed her eyes as his mouth captured hers. This kiss was more demanding, and sent a clear message—one that zinged right to Eileen’s toes—that Erik wanted more from her, after all.

  She slid her hand around his neck and pulled him closer. She slipped her tongue between his teeth, heard him catch his breath, and knew she’d surprised him again. It shouldn’t have been so satisfying to surprise Erik, and she shouldn’t have wanted to do so as badly as she did.

  But she couldn’t resist.

  Chapter 9

  Not far away, Magnus settled back in his car, dissatisfied.

  The large sedan slid through London like a dark serpent, roughly following the course of the train that carried the woman, Erik, and the Dragon’s Teeth. Jorge had found out the destination of the train, but that wasn’t nearly good enough.

  Magnus glared at his two bodyguards, one seated opposite him and the other in the front seat beside Balthasar, not troubling to hide his mood. Jorge ignored him, turning to look out the window instead. Mallory fidgeted, his head bent as he sought the train schedule on his cell phone.

  Balthasar drove, smoothly negotiating traffic, feigning obliviousness. He’d have to have been dead not to sense the toxic atmosphere emanating from the backseat of the big sedan.

  He wasn’t dead.

  Yet.

  Magnus had an inclination to slaughter all three of them, just to take the edge off his frustration. “Why would she take the Dragon’s Teeth to Wolverhampton?” he asked of no one in particular.

  “They could be getting off at an earlier stop,” Mallory said.

  “Such as?”

  “Watford Junction, Milton Keynes Central, Co
ventry, Birmingham International, or Birmingham New Street.” Mallory glanced back, undoubtedly proud of having read the scheduled stops.

  Magnus didn’t give points for literacy.

  Magnus exhaled smoke at his minion, enjoying how Mallory twitched wherever it touched his skin. The dragonsmoke burned—Magnus knew it—but he didn’t breathe enough to make a significant injury.

  Mallory might still be useful.

  “None of which make any more sense than Wolverhampton,” Magnus said in a bored tone. He considered the pair of them, focusing on Jorge’s profile. “How did Erik catch her when you two couldn’t?”

  Jorge shot a glance at Magnus. “It’s the firestorm,” he hissed, as if Magnus were so stupid as to have missed that salient point.

  Magnus moved like quicksilver, his right hand closing around Jorge’s throat. He partly changed shape and pinned Jorge against the headrest with one claw. He had the sharp edge of that talon on Jorge’s windpipe and the younger Slayer didn’t move.

  His blue eyes glittered, though, glittered with a venom that Magnus respected.

  Perhaps Magnus had shared his secret with the wrong apprentice.

  Perhaps Jorge would have been a better choice than Boris.

  For the moment, Magnus was more interested in discipline. He tightened his grip until Jorge’s blood stained his claw. It ran over his talon, dripping black onto Jorge’s shirt and jacket. Jorge eventually dropped his gaze, but it took longer than Magnus had expected.

  He respected that, as well.

  “You will remember whom you address,” he hissed in old-speak.

  “Or what?” Jorge retorted. “You’ll kill me?” His lids rose lazily and he smiled slightly as he met Magnus’s gaze again. He appeared to have forgotten the talon cutting into his flesh. Jorge spoke aloud, his scorn clear. “You’ll just resurrect me as a shadow dragon. Who will be more invincible then?”

  “You know nothing of invincibility!” Magnus scoffed. He laughed as he released the surprised Slayer, then sat back and brushed off his cuffs. “Shadow dragons are slaves.” He spoke with a sneer, then flicked a glance at Jorge. “If that’s your ambition, then I’ve underestimated you. You can go grovel at someone else’s feet.” Magnus lit himself a cigar, inhaling and rolling the smoke around his mouth.