“Jorge didn’t look like a nice guy.”
“He is completely immoral, even among Slayers.”
Rafferty could almost hear the gears of Melissa’s mind turning before she spoke. “He’s not blond in his human form, is he? Kind of an iceman look? Pale eyes, brush cut, super buff? Like a homicidal Viking?”
Rafferty was startled. “How do you know this?”
She nodded matter-of-factly. “I was watching Montmorency in the Middle East. He was suspected of being an arms dealer, a big one, but no one could ever get anything on him. It drove me crazy.”
“It was a story you intended to get,” Rafferty said.
“It was a truth I wanted more than any other.”
“To ensure justice,” Rafferty guessed.
Melissa nodded with that familiar resolve, and he felt some satisfaction at understanding her. “I tried. But the thing is, Montmorency had this bodyguard, who was scary-mercenary. Blond. I called him the Homicidal Viking.”
“That would be Jorge.”
“The phrase started out as a joke, but one day I was trailing Montmorency to a meeting. It ended fast, and I saw the blond guy take out the man he’d met. He was rumored to have cheated Montmorency.” She swallowed. “This Jorge pulled a knife on the guy, right in the market, slit him from gullet to groin. And then he looked around with those cold blue eyes, as if daring anyone to challenge him. Every witness melted away, and Montmorency was long gone.” She shivered, and Rafferty was amazed that she had lived in such an environment by choice.
“And yet you watched?”
“He didn’t see me. I made sure of that.”
Rafferty wasn’t as certain as Melissa. She hadn’t known then about the heightened senses of Pyr and Slayers. His gut tightened at the prospect of Jorge’s hunting her.
“That was the day I knew I had to nail Montmorency.”
Rafferty said nothing.
Melissa clearly thought his silence was a condemnation, because she continued with resolve. “Listen, evil happens in the dark. It happens in the corners, when no one is looking, when no one is brave enough to look. And that’s how it spreads, by all of us collectively pretending we don’t see it.”
“You think people should have challenged him?”
“If everyone had turned on him, he wouldn’t have had a chance. He couldn’t have single-handedly killed everyone. If I’d had a camera, I would have shown the evidence right then and there.”
“Are you so sure he couldn’t have killed everyone in the marketplace?” Rafferty asked softly. “Now that you know his abilities?”
Melissa frowned. “Okay. If he’d been a man, he couldn’t have taken out everyone, no matter how homicidal he was.” She tapped on his chest. “My point is that people are cynical about journalism, viewing it as a kind of ambulance chasing. But what news does, what news can do, is shine a light on evil. News can show it, can spread the word about it, can empower justice systems, and fuel public outrage. News makes change.”
“So, we’re back to justice.”
“You’d better believe it.” Melissa’s voice was hard, filled with conviction. “And being part of that process, being key to it, is worth any price. If I had the evidence against Montmorency and I took it public, it wouldn’t matter what he did to me or what he said. Justice would prevail because of the record I had made.”
Rafferty was awed, both by the vigor of her argument and her impassioned sense of justice. “You’re an idealist,” he said, amazed by the realization.
“No. Idealists are dreamers. I’m a realist.” She grinned up at him. “I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty, not if it makes the world a better place.”
“You’re not afraid to break the law.”
She grimaced. “I had a hard time with that one—still do.” Her lashes closed. “If I hadn’t seen Daphne in the morgue, I don’t think I could have done it.”
“Why? I don’t understand the connection.”
She looked up, her gaze filled with vulnerability. “Because I asked her, years ago, to get evidence against Montmorency. She died because she tried to do what I asked of her. I owe her for that.”
“You owe her justice.”
“If not a whole lot more.”
Rafferty felt relieved to understand his mate’s motivation. “So you’re not afraid to die, if you get a story that stops evil in its tracks.”
Her smile was brilliant. “Guilty as charged. Now you know the secret of my life.” She cast a glance over him, her eyes dancing with unexpected mischief. “And I’m thinking I know yours.”
Rafferty eyed the distance ahead, fighting his inclination to be charmed by his mate. It occurred to him that she might be trying to manipulate him to get her story on the Pyr. The leaping blue flames of darkfire didn’t do much to clarify his thinking. He said nothing, admitted nothing more, and kept flying.
He was well aware that she was watching him avidly.
He thought she might have fallen asleep, when she finally spoke again. “So, where exactly is it that we’re going?”
“My lair. It is the only place we’ll be safe.”
“Safe being a relative term.” That thread of humor was in her tone again, a hint of how she dealt with stressful situations.
“You don’t like not being in control.”
“Not one bit,” she admitted easily. “My house is trashed. I don’t have my cell phone. I’ve lost my chance at a job. A dragon is carrying me across the ocean to points unknown. Bad dragons apparently abound, and there’s something weird going on called darkfire. The combination of all of the above is not really working for me.”
“Knowing your destination won’t change much.”
“What can I say? I like information. Maybe knowledge is power.” She laughed, then sobered. “Or maybe I really, really hate uncertainty.”
Rafferty fought against an answering smile. “You must know by now that I won’t injure you.”
“I know that. You’re pledged to the defense of your mate.” She repeated his words with care, quoting him perfectly. “Which brings up another uncertainty. What does this mate business mean?”
“What do you think it means?”
“Don’t be coy. If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking,” she replied, an edge to her tone. Then she sighed. “Okay, look. We don’t need to fight. I’m already involved here. We’re in this together, whatever it is. You, me, and the firestorm against the bad dragons, however many there are. I have that much, so I guess I’ll have to go with it. How long will this flight take?”
“Hours,” Rafferty admitted.
She surveyed their surroundings, her expression telling him all he needed to know. It was less than hospitable this far out to sea, especially with the snow falling heavily against them. In every direction, there were only dark skies, dark seas, or snow.
She nestled closer to him, curling into his embrace, and Rafferty felt a warm glow in the vicinity of his heart. It wasn’t entirely due to the firestorm. No, he was giving shelter to a human, to his mate, protecting her from these particular elements. It was a step back to where he belonged, and it felt good.
“You know, in my biz, in the field, you catch your z’s when you can. It’s not as if I can actually do anything useful right now, anyway. You have any problem with my grabbing a few right now?”
“None whatsoever,” Rafferty said, liking that she was such a practical and pragmatic person. She might have cried. She might have complained. Instead, she demanded information, and she made her peace with what he told her. Rafferty admired her resilience. “In fact, it would be preferable to me.”
“How so?”
“I expect that when you sleep, the darkfire flames will ebb slightly.”
“And it’ll be easier for you to concentrate,” she concluded. “It is distracting, isn’t it? I can’t remember when I’ve thought so obsessively about sex before.”
Rafferty found himself smiling. “It’s the firestorm.”
“I don
’t know,” she said lightly. “It could be you. You’ll be hard to forget, you know.”
Rafferty’s gut tightened. He had never anticipated that his destined mate would be interested in forgetting him—but then, Melissa had seen him at his worst. He couldn’t find it within himself to argue for the side of permanence.
She sighed. “And there’s that mate stuff. Let’s save that for tomorrow, shall we? I’m approaching information overload right now.”
“That’s fair.”
She eyed him closely, and he wondered how much of his thinking she discerned. He already knew she was more observant than most. “So, I’ll leave you to the navigation, then.”
“Sleep well, Melissa.”
She watched him, but Rafferty avoided her gaze studiously. He attended to the wind and the pull of the earth’s magnetic field, charting his course and remaining alert to any possible observers. He was using his favored route, the one less likely to be used by commercial airlines. It was longer and lower, but he just wanted something to be easy for a few hours.
As if she understood as much, Melissa fell asleep, curled against his chest. He could feel the moment that sleep claimed her, and her inquisitive mind finally slipped into rest.
The flames of the darkfire did abate somewhat, letting him think more clearly than he had in hours. He could think about strategy, as well as sex.
All Rafferty had to do was seduce his mate, satisfy the firestorm, ensure the defense of the Sleeper when he awakened, destroy Magnus, and get the world of the Pyr back to normal.
Or as normal as it could be after these events.
It wasn’t going to be easy.
He was looking forward to the reassurance of home.
Chapter 9
Melissa awakened in a comfortable bed. It was such an unexpected difference from the warm embrace of an opal and gold dragon that she sat up abruptly and looked around. The sheet fell away, cool air touching her bare skin, and she realized she was naked.
She blushed, imagining who had undressed her, then took stock of her surroundings.
Melissa was in an old house, on an upper floor. She could hear the distant hum and honk of traffic, and the steady pounding of rain on the roof. Rain tinkled against the panes of the window, too, sounding icy and cold. There was a damp chill in the air, and it was light outside the windows.
Was it morning or afternoon?
The room was cozy, if not as cozy as a dragon’s embrace. The floor was hardwood, the planks wide and the wood stained dark. The floor was worn and not entirely level, and Melissa found its visible history reassuring in a way. The walls were painted a honeyed beige, which was both warm and bright. She could see by the uneven surface that they were plaster.
There was a crown molding, probably also plaster, around the perimeter of the high ceiling, and a simple brass chandelier hung from the middle of the ceiling. Its shades were art glass. Melissa stretched to look at the shadings of mauve and amber and blue in their swirled surface. Their beauty had no competition, the white ceiling showing them to advantage.
The rest of the room was the same, furnished with minimal clutter. The furniture itself was so well crafted and solid that it needed no ornamentation—the grain of the wood and the rich patina were enough. The bed had a headboard in arts and crafts style, solid quarter sawn oak that reminded Melissa of the mission style furniture her brother loved so much. The house he and his wife shared in California was filled with it, and Melissa always found its clean lines attractive.
There was a quilt on the bed, pieced of brilliant cotton paisley prints. Melissa found the words Liberty of London carefully framed in more than one piece. Its colors echoed the mauve and gold of the art glass and gave the room a coherence that she liked a lot. The rug on the floor was hooked by hand, cut from wool in various shades of purple and blue. At a glance, it looked to be all one color, but closer inspection revealed myriad hues mingled together.
Melissa thought of William Morris’s injunction to have nothing in one’s home that was not beautiful or useful. She’d bet Rafferty had that stitched on a sampler somewhere.
She had no trouble believing she was in Rafferty’s house. Even this one room had an integrity, a solidity and warmth, that she already associated with him. There were no blue flames, and she felt only a distant tingle of heat.
Had Rafferty abandoned her?
Melissa couldn’t hear anything beyond the rain and the traffic, but she didn’t feel alone, either. She went to the door, and the heat of the firestorm increased slightly. She watched in fascination as the blue-green flames danced around the hand she placed on the door. They seemed mercurial, there and not there, more fluid than fire usually was.
That desire filled her again, her thoughts turning to the pleasure she and Rafferty had shared. She had a sudden and vivid idea of how best to spend a rainy morning in his company.
He had called her “mate,” after all. Melissa grimaced, well aware that if his expectation of a partner was as basic as it sounded, she wouldn’t be able to deliver.
Literally.
Maybe she’d just go with the moment and worry about the implications (and her limitations) later.
The light flared around her hand, as if to endorse the notion, and Melissa caught her breath at the way her knees weakened. A particularly bright flame dropped from her hand to the floor. She snatched at it, fearing the carpet would burn. Instead, the flame rolled through the gap beneath the door and disappeared.
Melissa opened the door in time to see the cluster of flame slip and skip across a foyer, then slide down the stairs.
In pursuit of Rafferty.
Or maybe guiding her to him.
Either way, he was here.
Melissa’s heart leapt, and she knew she had to go to him. She used the compact cream and black bathroom adjacent to her room, admiring the antique wall tiles even as she hurried. She really liked his house. It was authentic and original in a way she found appealing.
But then Rafferty couldn’t be mistaken for anyone other than who he was. His confidence was very sexy. He was proud of his Pyr nature, sure of his objectives. He’d implied that he was more than a thousand years old, which she supposed gave someone time to refine likes and dislikes. She tugged on the fluffy white robe hanging on the back of the door, then set out to find her host.
It was easy. She lifted her hand in front of her and watched for the blue flames. They flared and leapt; then the tips of the flames bent toward the top of the stairs. Melissa descended the stairs, her bare feet sinking into the thick Persian runner, her other hand trailing down the carved wooden banister.
Melissa studied Rafferty’s home, wanting to know every detail about him that could be discerned from his residence. She had no doubt that everything had been chosen with deliberation.
There was a magnificent newel post at the end of the banister, one that looked as if it had been carved out of the trunk of an ancient tree. It certainly seemed rooted to the foyer, which had the same dark wood floors and thick carpets. The colors of choice here were red and gold, a deep oxblood red and a gold that approached bronze.
There was an old fireplace in the foyer, with a tiled surround in that same red and gold, and with an elaborate metal grate. A fire burned low there, casting a welcome heat into the foyer. It burned a little higher and hotter as she passed, as if the flames there were responding to the blue heat that danced from her fingertips.
The front door was solid and substantial, at least three feet wide, with stained glass sidelights and a transom. Melissa noted that the glass had been sandwiched between sheets of modern glass, probably to protect it and to provide better security. The lock on the door had been refitted with a modern lock, one that was set into the antique brass of the original.
Melissa smiled. It made sense to her that Rafferty would do sensitive restoration and modernization. He would be the kind of person to respect the past but look to the future.
He wasn’t afraid to experience the mome
nt fully. She could take a lesson from that.
Rafferty’s house felt like a haven. Melissa wasn’t sure she’d ever want to leave it.
She couldn’t help but compare this to her own home, which was infinitely forgettable. She’d made her town house easy to leave, by conscious choice, so that she could answer the call of her profession and go wherever was necessary without a backward glance. It had never held the same promise as the house she and Zach had bought together, and when that had been sold, she hadn’t wanted to invest emotionally in bricks and mortar.
She’d done the same with relationships since her marriage had ended, never investing the increment that would make another person a cornerstone of her life. She’d always been sure that was the sensible choice. Now, in Rafferty’s home, Melissa realized she had denied herself a kind of solace and comfort that would have been very welcome in recent years.
No wonder she had gone to her brother’s house to convalesce. Her town house hadn’t been much more personal or welcoming than the hospital. Even then, she’d stayed in California for only a week, telling herself she didn’t want to impose.
No. She’d been afraid of not ever being able to leave, of being drawn in so tightly that she’d want only to stay.
Cool as a cucumber her brother called her.
Ice queen Zach had called her.
Chicken shit was what Melissa decided to call herself. Was she ever going to invest in herself? In a personal relationship she wanted? In living instead of simply marking time—or working all the time?
Maybe the moment to change was right now.
Melissa stood in the central foyer and held up her hand for directions. The flames indicated that Rafferty was at the rear of the house, in the room directly beneath the bedroom where she had awakened. That heavy wood door was closed, but the hungry lick of the blue flames when she touched the doorknob told her all she needed to know.
Not just about Rafferty, but about herself and her choices.
It was time to live in the moment.
It was time to want something more than survival.