Kiss of Fury

  “A strange treasure for my hoard,” Magnus muttered. “A trophy of the most uncommon kind. You fought well, Rafferty, but you never were a match for me.”

  There was only the barest glimmer in Rafferty’s eyes to warn Alex before Magnus was struck suddenly from behind. The view jolted as Magnus’s head was snapped suddenly to the left; then he tumbled through the air.

  Magnus fell, crashing into the pile of his hoard. The coins spilled like so many loose stones, sparkling as they slid toward the lake.

  A resplendent Donovan hovered overhead, then dove to attack again. Alex’s bones vibrated with Magnus’s bellow of rage and her heart leapt as he jumped into the air. He attacked Donovan, but Rafferty assailed him from behind. The pair of good dragons fought from either side, slashing at the Slayer with their claws and pummeling him with their tails.

  Magnus seethed against them, striking and clawing and thrashing, slowing steadily all the while. As Magnus weakened, Rafferty began to hum. His was a low chant, unfamiliar yet curiously stirring. It was like a military march, insistent and rousing.

  The rock of the cavern floor began to move, undulating in response to Rafferty’s chant. Stone and earth danced to his tune. His voice became louder, his song working an ancient magic.

  Meanwhile, Donovan breathed a fearsome stream of fire upon Magnus, backing him into the stone walls of the cavern.Magnus screamed and writhed in pain; then Donovan exhaled smoke to add to his torment. Magnus landed so heavily that the walls shook even more.

  Rafferty sang more loudly and the high stone ceiling of the cave began to fall in chunks. The rock floor rippled and split, and Alex could hear the rumble of an angry earth.

  “Mercy!” Magnus screamed. “I beg you for mercy.”

  Donovan paused and looked to the older Pyr for guidance.

  Rafferty halted his song, his expression amused. “Would you have spared either of us such mercy?” he asked quietly. “Would you have given either of us a chance to live?”

  “Take my hoard!”

  “It is not enough,” Rafferty said. “Mere wealth is not enough. Even the Dragon’s Tooth will not suffice now. You must die, Magnus.”

  “No!” Magnus roared.

  Rafferty’s song became more strident. Rock and stone and soil responded; the cave began to collapse. Rock continued to fall in a ceaseless torrent, and the view across the cavern was obscured. The stairs that Donovan had descended groaned, then slid into the cavern in a jumble of stone.

  Alex knew that Magnus wasn’t dead, for she could see the view through the slits of his eyes. She bit her lip, fearing the Slayer’s intent. She heard Donovan’s heavy breathing, heard Rafferty cease his song.

  “He has cared for another,” Rafferty counseled, his breath labored, “though her name is not important now. There will be a damaged scale that shows the truth, and there is his weakness. Hurry! I cannot halt what I have begun.”

  With that, Alex knew what dragons were afraid of: love made them vulnerable, because caring for someone meant the dragon in question gained a flaw in his armor.

  Donovan landed beside the fallen Slayer and quickly surveyed him. Magnus meanwhile studied Donovan. From such close proximity, Alex was amazed again by the brilliant shine of Donovan’s scales. They didn’t look as metallic as they did now, but their lapis lazuli color was vivid. Magnus’s gaze locked upon a broken scale on Donovan’s chest.

  Alex understood that Donovan had cared for someone.

  Who?

  The Slayer struck as suddenly as a cobra.

  He sank his teeth into Donovan’s vulnerable spot, using the last of his strength to injure his opponent. Donovan roared and ripped Magnus away, casting him aside. He dug his own claws into Magnus’s chest, ripping the flesh where one scale had fallen away. He ravaged and tore the Slayer, leaving nothing to chance. Magnus’s dark blood steadily stained the gold of his hoard.

  “How badly do you desire the Dragon’s Tooth?” Magnus whispered, his words low and angry. Donovan froze. “How much do you think she will surrender in exchange?”

  Magnus plunged one claw into the gleaming abundance of his hoard, whispering a chant under his breath. When he pulled out his claw, a magnificent, jagged pearl was hooked on one talon. It was so luminescent that it could have been made of moonlight. Its shape was more like a small mountain range than a typical pearl.

  Alex reached into her pocket and pulled out the pearl that had been embedded in Donovan’s chest. It was the same gem; she was sure of it.

  It had been mounted to cover the space where he’d been missing a scale. She eyed him, wondering.

  She glanced up at the screen in time to see Donovan’s eyes light with desire. Magnus chuckled as the younger Pyr snatched at the gem. “Still Olivia’s pawn, are you?” Magnus rasped. Donovan jolted at the sound of the woman’s name and Alex knew who had caused him to lose the scale.

  “Fetch her prize then,” Magnus snarled, and flung the pearl.

  The Dragon’s Tooth glittered as it sailed through the darkness, then splashed into the lake. It glimmered, then disappeared.

  Only when Donovan dove into the lake did Magnus’s vision dim.

  “It will not save you, even if you retrieve it,” Magnus muttered, and no one heard but Alex. “Only I know the truth of the Dragon’s Tooth, and that secret dies with me.”

  Magnus chuckled one last time as Rafferty shouted a warning. Rocks fell with increasing speed, the cavern turning to chaos and darkness. Donovan was still in the lake.

  And the screen faded to black.

  Obviously Donovan had lived, but Alex wanted to know how he and Rafferty had survived. Alex waited for the lesson to continue. The television might as well have been turned off.

  Nothing happened.

  Donovan continued to sleep. He could have been in a coma.

  Alex realized this was the part where she was supposed to know what to do. Except she didn’t. She pushed herself to her feet and paced, not liking that she had only half the story.

  Did they ever figure out what Magnus had known about the Dragon’s Tooth? Donovan’s fascination with it had something to do with this Olivia, the woman responsible for his losing a scale. Did Donovan not want the firestorm because he still loved Olivia? And what was Alex supposed to do about any of this?

  The excerpt had created more questions than it had answered. Alex remembered that Sara had made a similar comment about the Wyvern, and that didn’t improve her mood.

  Alex paced. She knew she wouldn’t sleep anytime soon. It was after midnight, but she was wide-awake.

  She should work.

  She was not going down to the boathouse alone in the dark to check her prototype.

  She could have loaded up Peter’s computer with the programsand data on her backup disks, but she felt too twitchy to concentrate. She could make saltwater solution, but she wasn’t inclined. She looked down at Donovan, watching the firelight caress his features.

  What kind of a man could kill his father with no regrets? Was Donovan just hiding his emotional response? Alex didn’t think so. He was the kind of person who wore his heart on his sleeve, even if he did talk a good show.

  She remembered how he had spat on his father’s ashes. She recalled Donovan’s bitterness when he had referred to himself as his father’s son. There was no love lost there.

  From what Alex had seen, Donovan was strong, principled, and loyal to his friends. His team, as he called it.

  His father clearly wasn’t in that company and never had been.

  Maybe it was smarter to wonder what kind of father didn’t deserve the respect of a man like Donovan.

  The kind of father whose legacy persuaded a man that he shouldn’t become a father himself. The answer came to Alex with such perfect clarity that she recognized the truth in it.

  That was part of the reason why Donovan didn’t want a firestorm and why he didn’t want to father a child. He was afraid that he was too much like his father. He wasn’t going to risk the well
-being of a child on that chance.

  Alex could respect that.

  In fact, she admired the nobility of the impulse. The scary truth was that she liked Donovan, despite his ability to become a dragon. She thought he was incredibly sexy. She admired him and she wanted him.

  The other part of the puzzle was obviously this mysterious Olivia, a woman he’d cared for centuries ago and whose affection had left him vulnerable. Dragons were afraid of loving, because it put holes in their armor.

  Alex could understand that, too. She watched Donovan sleep and tried to figure out what she was supposed to do.

  Maybe he was in a coma.

  Maybe if all this fairy-tale stuff was really true, there was an obvious way to wake him up. He wasn’t exactly a princess in a glass coffin—why didn’t princes ever fall into an endless slumber?—but there was something unnatural about his state.

  Maybe he was enchanted.

  Maybe the spark of the firestorm could give him a jump start, much like starting a stalled car. Like redirecting the energy.

  Maybe it couldn’t hurt to find out.

  Alex dropped to her knees. Donovan was so still that he barely seemed to be breathing. When she watched carefully, Alex could see the rise and fall of his chest.

  He hadn’t aged very much since that scene she’d witnessed. She wondered when it had happened. The lace collars had looked Elizabethan, which would have been around 1600. Four hundred years or so, then, give or take. She had a sense that he was bigger and stronger, more muscled and a more skillful fighter. So he’d learned something—that was good. But other than the lack of a beard, he looked just the same.

  How long did the Pyr live?

  Did they often check out like this, and sleep off a few decades? Or centuries? Did the firestorm work when the dragon was asleep?

  Alex put her fingertips against Donovan’s throat. A spark lit between them but it was small, a flicker of its former self. It was like starting a fire with wet kindling. She instinctively put her whole hand against Donovan’s throat.

  The spark flickered, lighting and then dying, but as Alex kept her hand in place, it gained power. It became brighter and brighter, until it surpassed the brilliance she had already seen. The flame was so bright that Alex couldn’t look straight at the point of contact. She was lighting an inferno and she didn’t care.

  She could feel the heat of the firestorm melting her reservations,kindling her desire, becoming force enough to illuminate the room. Donovan’s pulse beat with increasing power beneath her palm and Alex felt their heartbeats synchronize.

  She caught her breath at the surge of strength that rolled through her when their pulses matched pace. Their breathing was in rhythm, she noted then, the room hot enough to make her sweat. The fire even burned brighter on the hearth, the flames leaping higher in sympathy even though she hadn’t changed the setting.

  There was only one thing Alex wanted.

  And he was right in front of her.

  She leaned forward and liked the press of her breasts against Donovan’s chest. She studied him from close range, noting the sweep of his russet lashes, the firm shape of his lips, the stubble on his chin. The firelight glinted on his gold ear stud, and he looked both disreputable and breathtakingly sexy.

  Her own pirate rogue.

  It was time to taste the firestorm.

  Alex touched her lips to Donovan’s mouth. The jolt of electricity between them startled her and made her shiver, but it didn’t stop her.

  If she was going to awaken Donovan with a kiss, she would make sure it was a kiss worth waking up for.

  In the darkness of the night, a lost dragon felt the heat of his brother’s firestorm. The flame that kindled between Alex and Donovan sent a pang of yearning through him. The light shone within him, sang to the last shard of his own spark, lit the corners of forgotten memory.

  He remembered Donovan.

  He remembered companionship.

  He remembered loyalty and affection.

  He remembered the warmth that had once burned within his heart. The firestorm found the tiny spark that Donovan had awakened and urged it to burn higher and brighter.

  Until the lost dragon could see his way through the darkness that surrounded him.

  He changed course, ignoring the call of the shadows, flying directly to Peter’s rural retreat. Denying the summons of the dark powers left him weak; defying the command of those who had twisted him took more strength than he had.

  The firestorm gave him strength. When he thought only of it, his determination grew, his strength multiplied. He was still weak, still less than once he had been. The shadow had eaten at him and devoured much of his will.

  It took so long to draw near to the firestorm.

  Finally, he fell exhausted against the exterior of the house in relief and shifted shape. He was slick with sweat, trembling and weak, but he was close.

  Maybe close enough.

  Delaney flattened his palms against the shutters, leaned his cheek against the steel, closed his eyes and savored the heat of Donovan’s firestorm.

  The firestorm reminded him of who he really was.

  Delaney understood instinctively that Donovan—and the affection the two Pyr shared—could summon him back to the land of the living. The Slayers, in their dark academy, had failed to destroy Delaney completely.

  He had the will to heal and the firestorm had the power. Would it be enough? Delaney could only hope.

  Needing to get closer to the healing fire, he began to dig.

  Donovan’s dark dreams were suddenly pierced with radiant light. The glow was golden and warm, welcoming and invigorating. It sent a sizzle through his veins, an invitation that was impossible to refuse. The firestorm summoned him back from his nightmares.

  He felt a woman’s hand against his throat, felt her breasts against his chest, tasted her lips upon his, and knew it was Alex.

  Alex. The woman stirred him as no one else ever had. Her disregard for the rules when there was a greater good to defend, her intellect, and her humor combined with her physical attributes to make her irresistible. Firestorm or not, she was a feast he wanted to sample.

  Donovan reached for Alex and surrendered to sensation. He wasn’t interested in the mission of the Pyr or the future of Alex’s invention or the location of Slayers.

  Pleasure was the only item on his agenda.

  Lots of it.

  Now.

  Donovan pushed his fingers into Alex’s hair, curving his hand around the back of her neck and pulling her closer. Her kiss lit an inferno within him, fueling his desire to a fever pitch. He didn’t have to open his eyes to remember the silky dark swing of her hair, the mischief in her eyes, the curve of her lips right before she laughed.

  He loved her audacity. He loved her zest for life, her conviction that all obstacles could be overcome. He loved how her lips set when she wasn’t taking no for an answer.

  He wanted her. The firestorm destroyed every other thought he might have had, leaving him burning for Alex and only Alex. He groaned and pulled her closer. He felt her smile briefly; then she slid her tongue between his teeth. Her hands were in his hair, then framing his face as if she feared he might squirm away.

  There was no chance of that.

  He caught her around the waist and pulled her on top of him. Her butt was firm and round, still encased in those leather pants. She rolled her hips against him and he thought he would explode.

  “You wake up as if you mean business,” she teased, her words a tickle against his ear. He felt her lips slide across his earlobe and shivered when she exhaled.

  “I do.” Donovan opened his eyes to find Alex smiling down at him. He remembered her idea about cheating the firestorm and liked it even more than he had before. Her cheeks were flushed and the light from the fireplace beside them touched her skin with gold.

  He rolled her beneath him and caught her mouth beneath his own, claiming her with a kiss.

  Then Alex’s fingers
were in his hair and his hands were unfastening her shirt. He broke their kiss to glance down at her bra and nearly lost control at the sight of the lace edging against her tanned skin.

  “You do like it,” she said with satisfaction. He liked that she had thought about his reaction. “I was thinking that maybe a biker chick should go with black. . . .”

  “If you’re a biker chick, you’re one that challenges expectation,” he growled, and slid his fingers into the cup. Alex arched and gasped as he toyed with her nipple. She was beautifully disheveled, writhing on the carpet beneath his caress. He liked that she didn’t play games, that she wasn’t afraid to show her pleasure or tell him what she wanted.

  He watched her, his own need building to a fever pitch, then flicked the front bra clasp open with his thumb. He swallowed as he gazed at her breasts, then bent his head.

  He flicked his tongue across her nipples, teasing them to taut peaks. His hand, meanwhile, slid down, his palm easing over the smooth heat of her belly. He unfastened her pants and slipped his hand down the front of them. Something trembled deep inside him as he fingered the lace edging of her panties.

  “Lace,” he whispered with reverence, breaking his kiss to steal a glance at temptation. She was every bit as gorgeous as he’d anticipated; the way those white whorls contrasted with her dark pubic hair was enough to send him to the moon.

  Alex shoved her leather pants down, making her desire clear. She kicked them off and the firelight danced over her long legs as she cast off her bra. She was naked except for her panties, the firelight making her look like a siren.

  The welcome in her eyes was the only invitation he needed. He caught her close and kissed her again, loving how she wound her legs around his thighs as they rolled across the sheepskin rug.

  This place was almost, but not quite, as good as his own lair.

  “You, too,” she urged, tugging at the hem of his T-shirt. He pulled it over his head and threw it aside. He caught his breath when her skin touched his, the point of contact sending waves of fire through him.