Harmonia's Kiss

  Because of his absence?

  He should never have left them. He should never have hunted vipers. He should never have meddled in events that were not his to influence.

  He could stop now.

  Drake felt Cadmus’ words find a resonance within him, turning his love for his family into something far less fine, but he fought the spell with all his heart and soul.

  And what of now? What need had he of a purpose to his life? He could join Cadmus. He could use his powers for vengeance. He could kill more men than had already died on this day. He could extract a blood toll in honor of Veronica’s loss.

  Then he could claim this entire territory as his own. He could bend it to his will and empower himself.

  All he had to do was raise his voice in the viper’s spell. All he had to do was surrender to the truth that life was harsh and unyielding, that one gained only what one took.

  These were not his impulses and they never had been. Drake gritted his teeth and ignored the summons. He climbed ever deeper into the earth, steeling himself with the memory of women facing adversity.

  Cassandra at the gate.

  Veronica with her hand on her son’s shoulder.

  Both of them with fire in their eyes. Both of them knowing the odds were long and not caring.

  Surely he could do the same.

  Drake didn’t know how far he had traveled or how deep he had delved when he saw a light ahead of him. It was yellow and feeble, and just the sight revolted him.

  He shifted shape, silent and wary, then carried on into the viper’s den. Drake froze at the sight of Cadmus.

  The ancient Pyr had lost his scales. He was pale and soft and bloated, only his eyes gleaming with the coals of that old fire. He looked like the worm he was, pale yellow like a maggot. There was a smell about him, one that revolted Drake more than the sight of him.

  Cadmus smiled and his teeth were gone, his gums blackened. “Finally, my apprentice has arrived,” he said, his voice melodic, even when he ceased his spell.

  “I am no apprentice of yours.”

  “No? Not when we have so much in common?” Cadmus gestured to one side and Drake saw a skeleton in the shadows. The skin was long gone, the dust heavy upon the frame. “Dust,” Cadmus whispered. “After the firestorm, we all age more quickly. When one’s mate is dust, what point is there?”

  “Harmonia,” Drake murmured, tearing his gaze from the site of what she had become. He would remember her in her glory, on her wedding day. He recalled her with gems in her hair and embroidery on her hems, the necklace given by her father gleaming at her throat. He would remember the gods and goddesses themselves reclining on golden couches, celebrating the match. “She was radiant.”

  “She was a curse upon me!” Cadmus retorted.

  “She loved you! She was your destined mate.”

  “She was poison.” Cadmus moved restlessly, and Drake saw the movement was painful for him. “She was her father’s daughter first. Whose viper did I kill? That of Ares himself. And whose daughter did I wed?”

  “That of Ares himself,” Drake admitted.

  “And she wore those gems he had wrought for her, and brought naught but misery into my life.” Cadmus was bitter in his hatred and his eyes burned. “Every child of mine met with misfortune. Every possession we gathered was destroyed. She was no gift but a curse. She was Ares’ vengeance for my killing of his viper.”

  Cadmus eased closer, leaving a line of slime on the floor of the cavern. “And what of you? Is your precious Cassandra not lost to you, stolen by the gods while you slept? Do you imagine that she was faithful? Whose idea was it that you rode to war? Maybe she had a lover…”

  “No!” Drake shouted. He recognized that this too was the viper’s spell, being presented for his benefit. He leapt at the old viper and slashed at his hide. Cadmus, devoid of armor or the ability to defend himself, cried out in pain.

  He still had the weapon of his words, though.

  “Women!” Cadmus whispered. “The natural mates of men and our enemies every time. They enchant us with their wiles and turn us from our true purpose.”

  “No,” Drake insisted, striking another blow upon the bloated old worm. “They remind us of what is important. They show us truth. They and their love turn us from the allure of Ares.” He leaned closer, fighting his reaction to the stench of Cadmus. “Harmonia was the child of Aphrodite, too. That you did not heed her song of love meant that you were the curse in that match.”

  “No!” Cadmus cried. “It was not my fault!”

  Drake struck his old commander again, slicing at that old hide as the blood flowed. He was massive and filled with hatred, unwilling to surrender his grasp upon life, but Drake was determined.

  “No!” Cadmus murmured, dropping his voice to a murmur of old-speak. “Join me. Be my successor. Take what is rightfully yours…”

  Drake had no taste for his spell. He ripped the throat of his foe, then kicked his broken carcass aside. Cadmus’ body cycled between forms, switching from ancient man to old dragon, with increasing speed. Drake watched in horror, even as he caught his breath.

  Then Cadmus finally was still.

  “It is not the right of any man or Pyr to take what is not his own,” he declared, then spat upon the commander he had once respected beyond all others. He felt sick.

  But at the same time, he felt lighter. He was more optimistic. He knew that there was a place for himself and his men in this world.

  He understood that the light of the firestorm could keep a Pyr from turning to the darkness, that Harmonia could have brought Cadmus the balance he had needed.

  If only Cadmus had accepted the truth of her kiss.

  Drake was prepared to take the lesson.

  Veronica, with her clear blue eyes, had given that gift to her husband. Perhaps it was her love that had armored him against the viper’s vile spell. With her spirit, she had pulled Drake back from the darkness, had saved him from succumbing to that old spell. Drake would never forget her gift.

  Drake took no souvenirs of this place, no tokens of battle, no proof of what he had done. He had the only momento he needed.

  The one that was for Veronica.

  V

  Ronnie Maitland was packing her bags.

  She didn’t know what had been in her head when she’d decided to bring Timmy to the Middle East. She didn’t know how she could have imagined that she could learn the truth about Mark’s death when there was no official record, when the government and the military wouldn’t tell her anything. She knew Mark had been involved in covert operations and she knew the risk. He had warned her that it might end this way.

  It had been so much easier to be strong when Mark had e-mailed her regularly.

  But it had been seven and a half weeks, and she had known that it was more than a mission taking longer than it should have done. She knew the truth in her heart, and she had been angry that no one would tell her what had happened.

  Timmy deserved the truth.

  She deserved the truth.

  But she’d been foolish to come here, to leave her family and all that was familiar on a quest that she saw now was doomed to failure. She’d been stupid to trust Drake, too, without having any idea who he was or what his affiliation might be.

  She’d waited a week for Drake to bring her the story she already guessed, but there was no sign of him. Why had she trusted him? No one at the embassy knew him—or if they did, they weren’t admitting it. She shouldn’t have been so gullible.

  She shouldn’t cry, even though everything was going wrong.

  There was something about Drake, though, something about his impassivity or maybe his confidence. Drake had a sense of authority, a resolve about him that made Ronnie believe him. He was like a rock. He was the kind of man who had seen a lot, who understood more than anyone should, yet had not lost his soul.

  He could probably kill a man with his bare hands, yet she’d trust him with her son.

  Maybe that
was proof that she was losing it.

  Drake had been right about one thing—Ronnie should go home. This was no place for her or for Timmy. She packed quickly and recklessly, knowing that she had to return to routine.

  She’d have to wait for news. She’d go home and she’d try to meet more women on the base, even though she’d always stunk at making quick connections with other women. She’d try to carry on for Timmy’s sake. She had to be strong. Mark would expect that of her.

  Plus she had to figure out what she was going to do. She’d have to get a job, find a home, settle them into a new life someplace. It felt wrong to be planning a future without Mark. It felt as if she was betraying his memory, or the power of their love, just by thinking about it. She remembered his insistence before departing on this tour of duty, his demand that she would live life without him. She knew that she had made the promise he had asked of her without ever believing that she would have to keep it.

  Could there be a future without Mark? Ronnie doubted it.

  But she’d promised. It might have been the last promise she’d ever have a chance to make to Mark and she was going to keep it.

  Somehow.

  There was a decisive knock on the door of the hotel room, and Timmy ran to open it before she could stop him. She heard him greet someone and knew she’d missed another opportunity to teach him to be cautious.

  Mark would have known how to get his attention.

  Ronnie felt suddenly overwhelmed. How was she going to raise their son alone?

  Why did she have to?

  “You are foolish,” Drake said, his low voice carrying through the living room of the hotel suite. Ronnie’s heart stopped cold and she stared at the man she’d not really expected to see again.

  He looked exactly the same, and she was relieved that she hadn’t imagined him. His hair was salt and pepper, cut short, and his eyes dark. It was impossible to guess his age. He was tanned and fit, and moved with the economy of an experienced warrior. He was dressed as earlier in khaki but carried no weapons. She had assumed he was in the service, as well, maybe that of another country, but realized this time that his outfit was devoid of insignia.

  Maybe he, like Mark, worked in covert operations.

  Ronnie dared to hope. She’d understood what he meant earlier, that Mark might have been captured and imprisoned, tortured even, that he might not still be the man she remembered, but Ronnie believed in the power of love.

  She’d take Mark any way she could have him. It had to be better than him being gone forever.

  Drake crouched down in the doorway to address Timmy, his gaze so steely that the boy took a step back.

  “It is your duty to defend your mother,” Drake said, his voice stern but not harsh. “A child opens the door to anyone who knocks, but you must be the man of the household. You must think. You must be sure. You must defend your mother and your home. You must not allow peril to cross the threshold unchallenged.”

  He had a strange way of expressing himself, a formal use of language as if English wasn’t his first language. Ronnie wondered where Drake was from.

  Then she swallowed, fearing his meaning. If Timmy had to be the man of the house, did he mean that Mark wasn’t coming home the way he had been when he’d left?

  Or at all?

  Ronnie had said that she wanted the truth.

  But the idea of what he might have come to tell her dropped the bottom out of her world.

  She crossed the room, pasting a smile on her lips and managing by some miracle to speak lightly. “Hello, Drake. I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.”

  He inclined his head slightly as he straightened to consider her. She had the feeling that he was assessing her, deciding how much information she could take. She held his gaze, letting him see her determination to know it all, and saw his minute nod.

  His gaze flicked to Timmy, then back to her, as if they were in league together. Did Drake have children himself? He seemed to have an intuitive understanding of how to deal with Timmy.

  Did he have a wife, one who worried about him?

  Ronnie bet he did.

  “A matter of jurisdiction was resolved today,” he said quietly.

  She didn’t understand him immediately, but caught her breath at the intensity of his gaze.

  He’d found Mark.

  Ronnie guessed that the resolution hadn’t been so easy, but her heart began to pound with the certainty of what he had come to tell her.

  “What’s jurisdiction?” Timmy demanded, looking between the two of them in confusion.

  Ronnie put her hand on his head and ruffled his hair. She fought the sense that it would just be the two of them from now on. She still didn’t know for sure. There was still hope.

  Even if Drake’s unflinching gaze made her stomach twist in knots.

  “Go watch TV for a minute,” she said, her words coming thick.

  “But…”

  “Do as your mother instructs you,” Drake said, his quiet words as inflexible as iron.

  Timmy went.

  Ronnie wondered how Drake had circumvented military protocol, how he had ensured that this matter of jurisdiction—as he had called it—was resolved. She wondered who he was and who he worked for, but guessed that he would never tell her.

  Drake watched Timmy throw himself on the couch and Ronnie saw something flicker in his eyes. She added another guess––that he had a family, too. She’d bet that he’d do anything to defend them.

  No wonder she liked him.

  No wonder she responded to him so intuitively.

  Then he turned to her, as composed and impassive as ever.

  “I am sorry,” Drake said softly as he handed her an envelope. There was something in it, something thin, and Ronnie had a terrible sense that she knew what it was. “The embassy will undoubtedly contact you to make the arrangements.”

  Ronnie fingered the envelope, but didn’t open it. Drake watched her nervous fingers, then he ducked his head in farewell and turned to leave.

  “Thank you, Drake,” she said, feeling that it was inadequate and knowing that her voice sounded high. She clutched the envelope as if it was the only anchor in her world.

  Drake glanced over his shoulder, looking so world-weary that she wondered how often he had made a similar visit. His gaze seemed haunted, and she regretted that she had unwittingly sent him on a path that had brought him pain.

  “A deed done correctly requires no thanks,” he said.

  Ronnie swallowed. “That’s not true. Thank you.”

  He almost smiled, one corner of his mouth moving just slightly, and Ronnie once again felt that connection with him.

  On impulse, she reached up and kissed Drake’s cheek. He was shaved smooth, so smooth that his cheek felt leathery beneath her lips, and she sensed the raw power in him.

  She froze and stared, astonished by what she had done. She wasn’t usually so impetuous, but there was something about this man, something that made her believe he’d walked in danger just to keep his promise to her. She held his gaze, wondering how he’d respond to her impulsive gesture. Her heart was pounding and her mouth was dry.

  She watched his throat work soundlessly for a moment. He lifted one hand to the place where her lips had been and seemed overwhelmed.

  By a chaste kiss.

  Then Drake blinked. “I wish the tidings had been better.”

  There was kindness in his tone, a kindness that left tears forming behind her eyes. She still was keenly aware of Drake, though, of the strength of his hands, of the utter stillness of him, of his gaze upon her.

  Not missing a thing.

  “Time is said to heal,” he whispered, but there was no conviction in his tone.

  Ronnie looked up at that. What had he lost? Maybe he understood more of what she was feeling than she’d thought. “Will I see you again?”

  Drake held her gaze for a minute that stretched through infinity. Just when she thought he might say something, he abruptly
pivoted and left.

  There was her answer. And really, what would be the point? Ronnie knew Drake wouldn’t tell her what he’d found—which really told her everything she needed to know.

  She shut the door and leaned her back against it, her heart leaping as she considered the envelope. She took a deep breath and opened it.

  Just as she had feared, there was a photograph inside.

  It was the shot of the three of them taken the previous Christmas, the one Mark had taken right before he’d told her that he was taking another tour of duty. She and Timmy were laughing and Mark was pointing at the camera, his mouth open as the timer finally went off. The lights of the tree glittered white behind them and the torn foil wrapping paper was scattered around their knees. She was holding her son and her husband close, both of them within reach.

  It was the photo that Mark had said he’d carry right against his heart.

  It was the photo he had said they would have to pry out of his cold, dead hands.

  That was how she knew.

  Ronnie caught her breath and pressed the photograph between her hands. She tried to be strong, but failed. She raised her hands to her mouth and cried.

  Even though her worst nightmare had come true, Ronnie was fiercely glad that she knew Mark’s fate. It was kinder to be sure that he would never return than to be waiting for the sound of his tread on the front step forever.

  It still wasn’t easy, and she wept as if her heart was breaking.

  Because it had.

  VI

  Ronnie didn’t see Drake stride into the courtyard of her hotel. She didn’t see him spit at the pavement, as if he would rid himself of the distasteful flavor of a task that had needed to be done. She didn’t know that he could hear her weeping, much less that the sound tore at his heart. She didn’t see him summon his men with a flick of his wrist or hear him inform them of their destination in old-speak.

  She certainly didn’t see the entire company leap into the night sky, shift shape to powerful dragons and fly westward in pairs.