“Pretty much.”
“There are things about the past that you don’t miss.” Quinn mused. “I don’t miss medieval sanitary facilities, for example.”
Donovan tried to play along with the conversational diversion. “Rats. There’s a species I’m happy to live without.”
“Not many Ducatis in the Renaissance,” Quinn teased.
Donovan laughed. “Although a beautiful horse is almost as good. There was one stallion I had, just as black as coal. There was something a bit wild about him. I remember Delaney riding him—” He stopped, unable to continue because of the lump in his throat.
The past was showing an annoying tendency not to stay put. “Dental care is better,” Quinn said, offering a way past a painful memory.
Donovan felt obliged to reply in kind. “Wine is better.”
“Central heating.”
“Air-conditioning.” Donovan nodded. “Spa bathrooms. Hotels.”
“Towels.”
This time Donovan didn’t reply. He was too busy staring. Sara and Alex were at the cash desk at the front of the store and Alex had changed clothes in the fitting room.
She was stunning. She wore black leather pants that clung like a second skin, emphasizing the length of her legs. They and the black boots with stiletto heels made her look as fast and wild as the racehorse he’d been remembering. She’d bought a white poet’s blouse that was full, cut low, sheer, and edged with miles of lace. White lace. She was poetry in motion, her choices edgy yet elegant. Donovan’s eyes nearly fell out of his head.
“Fuss,” Quinn commented under his breath.
“Got it in one,” Donovan muttered in shock. His objection to the firestorm, which he’d been sure was so logical, now seemed as substantial as a house of cards.
He wanted Alex with a force that stunned him.
Alex turned to glance his way and even at a distance, the sight of her stopped his heart. Her dark eyes were outlined and her lashes darkened, making her eyes look more exotic and mysterious. She wore red lipstick and had a candy red leather jacket slung over her shoulder. Gold hoop earrings brushed against her cheek.
She smiled slowly, maybe sensing his appreciation, and the firestorm kicked it up a notch.
What was he going to do?
Before he could decide, he and Quinn had company.
“How nice,” drawled a familiar voice.
Donovan and Quinn spun. Boris Vassily stood a dozen feet away in his human form, his hands shoved into his pockets. He was as pale and predatory as always and Donovan didn’t trust him one bit. The stocky man behind him was the Slayer Donovan had fought the previous night.
“Tyson,” he muttered in old-speak to Quinn.
“Caught his scent,” Quinn agreed.
“Shopping with the ladies,” sneered Tyson. “How bourgeois.”
“Unmanly,” Boris agreed, and smiled coldly.
“When did you last have some, Boris?” Donovan taunted.
Boris’s eyes flashed as he glanced toward the store where Alex and Sara were. His smile became colder. “I like the women of the Pyr well enough not to need one of my own. I can’t decide, though, whether I prefer a pregnant mate to a mate in firestorm.” He turned to Tyson. “You?”
“Tough call,” Tyson said, frowning. “Maybe we should do a blind taste test. There’s one of each available, after all.”
The two Slayers took a step forward. Donovan could feel that Quinn was within a hair of shifting shape in defense of his mate.
In a crowded mall. There was no amount of beguiling that could fix that sight.
He had to do something, Erik’s edict be damned.
Donovan tossed his challenge coin at Tyson.
The credit card faked in the name of Meredith Maloney was approved time and again without a quibble, which meant that no one was on to her yet. Alex smiled at the clerk as she took the pen to sign, acting as if she’d expected nothing different.
Sara picked up her purchases from the cash desk, then halted beside Alex. “Slayers,” she hissed, catching her breath.
Alex glanced at the smaller woman with confusion. Sara was staring into the mall, watching Donovan and Quinn talk to two other men. Alex could feel the hostility of the exchange even from this distance.
“How do you know?” she asked.
“The fair one is Boris Vassily, leader of the Slayers.” Sara spoke quickly, betraying her own nervousness. “I don’t know the other one, but they’re together.”
“You know Boris?”
Sara shivered and swallowed. “He beguiled and kidnapped me last summer.” She watched the exchange intently. “Quinn will rip him apart, given half a chance. I hope that’s not what they’re counting on.” She scanned the mall, probably seeking other dragon men of her acquaintance.
Alex felt Plan B coming on. Two Slayers were confronted by Donovan and Quinn. A third Slayer was burned to cinders. This could be all of the bad dragons, present and/or accounted for.
Even better, the effect of the firestorm was diminished with distance. She was aware of Donovan waiting in the mall, but his presence wasn’t as distracting as it had been. More distance might diminish the effect even more.
Enough that she could work.
Enough that Slayers couldn’t find her.
This might be her only chance.
“Should we stay here, then?” she asked, pretending to be less decisive than she was.
Sara scanned the store, as if she expected Slayers to leap out of the racks of jeans and sweaters. “Let’s just keep shopping for a minute or two,” she suggested. “And watch.”
“We should separate,” Alex suggested, “so it’s less obvious that we’re together.”
“Good idea,” Sara said, and Alex felt a twinge of guilt for tricking someone who had only been nice to her.
But the Green Machine was more important than a tiny bit of deception. Alex headed for the back of the store as if browsing, making steady progress toward the employees’ entrance she’d seen beyond the fitting rooms.
She could get a taxi and get to her apartment while the Pyr kept the Slayers busy. That would be one more predictable stop behind her. She’d be one step closer to refuge.
Sara was looking out the front of the store. Alex seized her moment and lunged toward the employees’ entrance. She was through the door and on the sidewalk in a heartbeat, looking for a cab.
On the way, Alex pulled the new cell phone out of her Ziploc and called Mr. Sinclair. He wasn’t in, so she left a message, confirming that she’d pick him up Thursday.
Alex and the Green Machine would be ready.
Tyson caught Donovan’s coin instinctively.
Then he opened his hand, as if surprised by what he had done. The four shape shifters stared at the silver dollar on his palm. They all knew that the blood duel of Donovan’s challenge had been accepted.
And that only one dragon would survive the fight.
“Fool,” Quinn chided in old-speak.
Donovan said nothing. He was right and he knew it. He had no doubt that he’d win.
“Idiot,” Boris said to Tyson. “You should have let it fall.”
Tyson’s gaze rose slowly to meet Donovan’s.
“I killed Everett,” Donovan lied, feeling Quinn’s disapproval of this claim. Quinn, like Rafferty, preferred full truths. Donovan found use in partial stories—especially when he was protecting Quinn, Sara, and Rafferty from a fight none of them needed. “We have unfinished business, you and I.”
Tyson smiled and closed his hand over the coin before he pocketed it. “You’re right.” He glanced around, smiling at the milling shoppers. “But not here. Not now.”
“When?” Donovan tried to sound casual, even though he wanted to fight immediately. “Where?”
“I’ll let you know.” Tyson smiled, then nudged Boris.
“That’s not how it’s done,” Quinn protested.
“Rules are for fools,” Boris said, his cold smile proving that h
e had overheard Quinn’s old-speak.
The two Slayers turned and sauntered away. They disappeared into the crowd, two men with their hands shoved in their pockets. They looked for all the world as if they were killing time while waiting on their wives.
“That was stupid,” Quinn told Donovan. “Now he can call you out anytime. He can surprise you, or wait for you to be alone.”
“Would you rather he challenged you?”
Quinn got a stubborn look. “He could take Alex, the way he took Sara. She could be hurt.”
“You have obligations now, Quinn.”
“So do you!”
“You have more. What about Sara? You can’t just undertake a blood duel whenever it suits you.”
“What about Sara?” Quinn would have lunged for the clothing store, but Sara was only a dozen feet away and closing fast. His relief was tangible.
“Are they gone?” she asked in an undertone.
“For now,” Quinn said grimly. He took her parcels, still shimmering on the cusp of change. Donovan averted his gaze, knowing very well how Quinn would prefer to reassure himself of his mate’s safety.
There was no sign of a leggy brunette in a red leather jacket. Donovan suddenly had a bad feeling. “Where’s Alex?”
Sara glanced back. “I called to her. She suggested we separate and she headed for the back of the store. . . .”
Donovan didn’t listen to any more. He raced into the store, not really surprised to find no sign of his mate. He understood now why she’d gotten up in the middle of the night—she’d been planning to run again and his presence had stopped her.
He barged into the fitting-room area, stirring the clerk.
“Sir! You cannot be here.” The older woman stood up and tried to block his path. “It’s not allowed—”
“A woman, dark hair, red jacket, leather pants.” Donovan interrupted her impatiently. “Did she come through here?”
The woman pinched her lips together as if she’d lie and Donovan let his fury slide into his eyes.
The clerk took a step back as she paled. She swallowed. “She left by the back door.” She pointed and Donovan didn’t wait for more information.
Donovan ran toward the back door, ignoring the chatter of women behind him. He flung it open, finding himself at a delivery dock. The fire door swung closed behind him just as he spied Alex. She was far down the sidewalk, just stepping into a cab.
She was alone.
Slayers hadn’t gotten her.
Yet.
Alex glanced back as she got into the cab as if she sensed his presence. She hesitated for a moment when she saw Donovan.
Then she swung into the cab, pulling the door behind her. She leaned forward to talk to the driver and the cab made a U-turn.
Where was she going?
Donovan knew it would be logical. He liked that she wasn’t afraid, but he didn’t want her to pay for it.
He knew she would be in danger.
He had to follow her.
It had to be some cruel trick of fate that Alex had left the mall at the farthest possible point from where he had parked his bike. He pivoted to retrieve it and ran into Quinn.
“She’s made for you,” his friend muttered as he saw what had happened.
“Don’t even go there,” Donovan said. He had to get to his bike.
Now.
A cab appeared on the road and Donovan hailed it. He was in the front passenger seat, urging the driver to hit the gas before the door was closed. Sara and Quinn leapt into the backseat.
“You aren’t going after her alone,” Quinn said.
“Watch me.”
“But where did she go?” Sara asked.
“There,” he told the cab driver, directing him to the parked Ducati. “Down that lane, almost at the end. Hurry!”
Donovan thought of Erik’s theory. Where would Alex have stored backups? At the lab, at her home . . .
He tugged out his cell phone and called directory assistance. He asked for the listing for A. Madison, then slapped the phone shut after the voice-automated system replied.
“She’s going to her home,” Sara guessed.
“For her backup files,” Quinn agreed.
Sara’s lips tightened. “And whatever happened at the lab can happen at her apartment, too.”
Donovan didn’t wait for their answer. He chucked a twenty at Quinn as he leapt out of the cab. He got on his bike and peeled out of the parking lot before the cab driver even pulled away.
He just hoped he could get to Alex before the Slayers did.
Sigmund Guthrie ordered another beer. He was sitting at the end of the bar that was across the street from Alex Madison’s apartment building. He’d been a regular in that bar for the past three weeks. He’d had every lunch special three times. He’d tried every beer they had on tap and knew all the staff by name.
He didn’t even like beer.
He preferred tea, but he liked being alive. When Boris Vassily gave you a job, you did that job or died trying. If not, Boris would make sure you had enough time to regret your failure before he finished you off. Given that Sigmund had supplied Boris with all the ways to make a dragon suffer, Sigmund respected what Boris could do.
Or could have done, as it were. Boris tended to keep his talons clean and let his accomplices do the nasty jobs.
So, Sigmund sat in the pub and sipped another glass of Coors. The excuse of a meal they called pasta primavera sat in his gut like a rock, but Sigmund didn’t complain.
He watched the building across the street.
To his surprise, Alex did what Boris had said she would do.
She came home, alone.
If he’d had only his vision to rely upon, Sigmund wouldn’t have recognized her. She was dressed in a different—more provocative—style than when he’d seen her last. But he had caught her scent, and any scent once caught is never forgotten by Pyr or Slayer.
Her disguise was worthless.
Which meant she had no idea whom she was up against.
Sigmund made a show of checking his watch, then settled his bill as if he were late for an appointment.
“Finally gotta go somewhere other than the john, huh?” the bartender teased.
Sigmund gave him a look instead of an answer and neglected to tip. Alex had gone into the apartment building by the time he got to the sidewalk, but he knew she’d be back.
Boris had said she would retrieve her backup copies and her notes, in order to replicate her research. Boris had said that there might be a second prototype for the Green Machine and that Alex would lead them straight to it. Boris had said to follow her until Sigmund was sure, then to destroy everything so that the research could never be replicated.
But Alex wasn’t coming back. The intensity of her scent revealed that she hadn’t left. What was she doing?
Sigmund moved toward the apartment building to check.
Alex was getting used to a life of derring-do.
It was frightening, but exciting, too. This was completely different from the humdrum routine that her working life had taken on in the past few years. She’d become accustomed to having every adrenaline rush associated with progress on the Green Machine.
Getting a charge from real life was a sensation she’d forgotten.
If Donovan and the Pyr could be considered real life.
Now, she was going to become a criminal. Sort of. Alex had pulled on her new red gloves in the cab and plopped a pair of big sunglasses on her nose. She was pretty sure no one would recognize sensible Alex Madison as she was dressed now.
Dressing flamboyantly was the best disguise of all. People looked at her pants or her breasts and never glanced at her face. Even if they remembered her clothes, they wouldn’t be able to describe her features.
She was incognito. She could do anything. Maybe she should have released her inner biker chick years ago.
But this was no game—the Slayers played for keeps. How quickly could they come after her? Al
ex didn’t know, but she had to anticipate challenges and danger. Her heart skipped a beat and she was keenly aware of Donovan’s absence.
He hadn’t been happy to see her getting into the cab, that was for sure. Alex hadn’t needed mind-reading abilities to pick that up. But it was better this way.
Even if she found that hard to believe herself.
She paid for the cab, then, heart pounding, strode to the entrance of her own building.
Would she have to use her key to get through the security door?
No. There was a guy entering just in front of her—the movie fiend from the fourth floor. Alex always saw him in the rental store and had thought about starting a conversation once or twice. He held the security door open for her like a gentleman.
Or an idiot. The point of a security door was that each person who entered was supposed to unlock it with his or her own key.
Normally, Alex would have told him off but on this day, she thanked him. He ogled her pants as they waited for the elevator. She was glad she’d never bothered to talk to him before.
On the other hand, the movie guy had never even noticed her in the past. Donovan—it was impossible to avoid the comparison—had been attracted to her, even when she was wearing a backless hospital gown. He was a man who could look past the surface. That kind of man was rare.
As rare as dragon dudes?
When the elevator came and the movie guy let her precede him—probably so he could check the view—Alex pushed the button for the sixth floor. The doors closed behind them and she saw that he was carrying a copy of The Saint.
Val Kilmer. She could respect the choice.
When the movie guy got off at the fourth floor, he paused in the corridor as if he would ask Alex something but wasn’t sure of the words. Alex pushed the button for the doors to close. It was surprisingly easy to be rude while in disguise.
Then she pushed the button for the eleventh floor. That wasn’t her floor, either, but she wasn’t sure whether the elevator had any kind of recording mechanism for when it went where.
She doubted it, given the age of the building, but she was going to be extra careful. Just like a spy.
Matt Damon in The Bourne Conspiracy. Uh-huh.
The corridor on eleven was quiet. A television could be heard faintly in an apartment to the left. Not wanting to take a chance of being spotted through a peephole, Alex strode to the right.