But eclipses had become increasingly more treacherous for the Pyr. It seemed that they were all more sensitive, or maybe that the dragons hidden within each of them were more stirred by an eclipse’s shadow.
Rafferty would have to ask Sloane whether his impressions were correct.
There would be a firestorm linked to this one, one presaged by the total eclipse. That much was certain, as was the fact that Magnus would try to use the energy of the firestorm to his own advantage.
Rafferty had to go.
He glanced back at his lover, sleeping on the couch. She was all golden perfection, her lips parted as she slept, her lashes like dark feathers on her cheeks. Her hair was short and wavy, fine like that of a baby. There was one mark on her stomach, an incision healed over, but the scar didn’t make her less ideal in his eyes.
Rafferty wished he could have lingered. He wished he could have learned more about her, discovered the root of her extraordinary confidence, unfurled her secrets, defined the line of her moral code.
Hungry for details of her, he surveyed the living room of the town house but found no clue to her nature. It had no more character than his hotel room. Did she deliberately hide her nature from sight? Or did she—unlike Rafferty—have no need for a home and a haven? He wanted to know more about her with a ferocity that astounded him.
But his presence here was a lure for Magnus.
Rafferty dressed in haste, the dragon roaring for another taste of her. His lust had never been so strong, even beneath the light of an eclipse. On one level, he marveled at the change.
On another, he simply wanted.
He crossed the room, unable to leave without one last caress of her silken skin. He slid his fingertips across her breast and her nipple tightened immediately, as if it had already learned his touch. He smiled at his own whimsy, then stared at the blue light that danced over her body.
That light appeared to emanate from his fingertips, to spark at the point of contact, then dance over her body in a flash of electric blue. It slid, more like liquid than flame, and Rafferty blinked in confusion.
It was gone.
If it had ever been. Was Rafferty seeing things that weren’t there? Who ever heard of a liquid blue flame? He was tired. He must have imagined it. His fingers hovered an inch above her skin as he hesitated.
An old portent echoed in his thoughts, but it was one that had no credence. He was twelve hundred years old. There had never been darkfire in that time.
There never would be darkfire.
Even if darkfire was said to burn with a strange blue flame.
Besides, darkfire was a kind of firestorm, and Rafferty felt no tingle of heat, no sizzle in his veins beyond the one she had already lit. He made to reach for her one more time, to check, then knew he couldn’t possibly have seen what he’d thought he’d seen.
No. It couldn’t be darkfire.
He was wasting time by considering pure folly. Myth. Superstition. Nonsense.
Rafferty stepped away, tucked the blue leather-bound book into his jacket, and turned away from his ardent lover. He glanced back at the threshold of her doorway, drinking in one last glimpse of her. He paused, thinking about that light.
Impossible.
Rafferty turned and strode into the night, shuddering at the sense of the eclipse. He left the cul-de-sac, aware that her neighbors could be watchful, and didn’t shift until he found an alley connected to the street beyond.
“I have your book,” he taunted in old-speak, broadcasting the message to Magnus. “Come get it—alone.”
“In your dreams,” Magnus snarled, his old-speak carrying from everywhere and nowhere.
Rafferty smiled, his thoughts flooded with memories of what he and the woman had done together. “My dreams are otherwise occupied,” he replied, knowing that she’d have command of them for a while.
Maybe when this business with Magnus was resolved, he’d seek her out.
Assuming that he was triumphant. It wouldn’t pay to be too confident too soon. Magnus had tricked Rafferty before.
But not this time.
Not this time.
Chapter 4
Melissa rolled over and stretched, feeling as languid as a cat in the sun. The rosy light of morning came through the window blinds in stripes, light alternating with shadow. She felt good, remarkably good, and couldn’t remember when she’d last awakened with a smile like this one.
It was amazing what a few orgasms could do for a woman’s perspective.
Great sex was the cure for insomnia; that was for sure.
She listened and was disappointed to find herself alone. She knew she shouldn’t truly be surprised. Although Melissa wasn’t much for one-nighters, she’d heard enough about them from friends and coworkers. Only those men committed to the duration—or those giving that possibility due consideration—stayed for breakfast.
She told herself not to be disappointed in Mr. Conscience. She wasn’t entirely convinced, but got a robe from the bathroom and made a pot of coffee for herself. As the coffee perked, filling the town house with its delicious smell, she opened the top right drawer in the antique desk she used for the computer.
It had a false bottom, one she’d discovered while cleaning a century of muck from the wood.
And nestled in that hidden niche was the other memory chip for her camera.
The one with the dragon pictures.
It was too bad she’d had to sacrifice her old chip, the one filled with pictures of her brother’s kids and their last vacation together. The best of those pictures had already been copied and sent to California, at least.
Melissa had guessed Mr. Conscience would come after the photographs of him in dragon form, and she’d known he wouldn’t leave without them. She hadn’t had long to hide them, and exchanging the chips had been her only chance.
It had worked.
When she had a hot cup of coffee, she started to import the files to her computer. She put a watermark—a copyright symbol followed by her name, Melissa Smith—across the middle of each one. Then she started to compose them on her blog, queuing up a series of draft posts that she could schedule to appear hourly throughout the day. The whole world would know about the dragons by midafternoon, and she didn’t doubt the images would cause a sensation.
And probably a controversy. She’d be accused of doctoring them, which would only lead to more hits and more publicity.
The increased traffic to her blog would mean that more people would be watching it when she broke the real story, the story of Montmorency and his crimes.
It was exactly what Daphne would have wanted. A big finish and public denunciation of Montmorency. There would be an inquiry and charges laid and lots of drama of the kind that made for good journalism. Melissa might even get that real job again and that second chance.
Funny how it didn’t feel like the right thing to do. Melissa kept the posts private, considering her options. Showing the dragons to the world was certainly not what Mr. Conscience wanted.
Was it really fair to reveal his secret?
He’d defended her, after all. And he’d been a heck of a lover. He’d treated her with courtesy. The idea of repaying that with the public revelation of his true nature made Melissa uneasy. There were those ethics again, whispering in her thoughts.
The right thing to do would be to destroy the pictures.
Even if they were the truth. She had a right to her own experience of witnessing the dragon fight, but sharing that with the world might have repercussions for Mr. Conscience.
On the other hand, was Melissa really the first to know that these dragons existed? How many people had seen them fight the night before? They hadn’t been that far from a busy street when the one working for Montmorency had trashed her car. The honor guard at the monument must have seen the fight. She was sure she’d seen them staring, and she couldn’t imagine that Mr. Conscience could have said anything to change their memory of the truth. If they’d had cameras, they w
ould have snapped shots, as well.
They could steal her story.
Lots of people could reveal the same story as Melissa.
But still. It just seemed wrong.
She had to be sure.
Melissa drained her cup of coffee and got up to check Montmorency’s book. Her coat was still on the floor where she’d tossed it the night before. She should be sure that she had something before she made such a choice. What if Montmorency’s book didn’t include the information that Daphne had insisted it did? Melissa knew already that the girl could—and would—lie to defend her own interests.
She checked the left pocket of her coat, but it was empty.
She checked the right pocket.
It was empty, as well.
Melissa’s eyes widened. She patted down the coat and shook it out. No book. Had she removed it from her pocket? She didn’t think so. The camera was on the table in the foyer, just where she’d left it. Her other clothes were scattered across the floor. She went through them like a whirlwind, her dismay growing with every second. There was no sign of the book.
It couldn’t have disappeared!
Her gaze fell on the spot where Mr. Conscience had left his clothes so carefully folded. She knew then, she knew with utter conviction what had happened to the book.
He’d taken it.
He’d stolen it.
That settled everything. That she could take a huge risk and end up with nothing at all was a familiar tune, and one she’d never dance to again.
Furious, Melissa tossed her discarded shirt back onto the floor and strode back to the computer. She didn’t know his name. She didn’t know where to find him, or even where to begin a search. She wasn’t going back to Montmorency to ask directions.
No, she’d bring Mr. Conscience straight to her.
She set her lips as she posted the first set of dragon pictures to her blog. She queued up the other posts, scheduling them for hourly postings.
She doubted it would take him long.
She was ready.
The old-speak shook Rafferty out of a sound sleep. It wound into his ear, slid through his brain, and rang in his thoughts with all the subtlety of a cobra’s strike.
“Who is Melissa Smith?” Erik demanded, his question a low, hostile hiss that had Rafferty immediately on his feet.
Rafferty was naked in his hotel suite, his gaze darting from one side to the other as he sought Erik. He’d been sleeping deeply, more deeply than was his tendency, and was rattled by both that and the interruption. His heart pounded, even though he knew Erik likely wasn’t very close. The leader of the Pyr could cast his old-speak much farther than anyone Rafferty knew.
Melissa Smith?
Rafferty had a funny feeling he knew who that might be. Melissa Smith might have green eyes with an exotic tilt to the outer corners, golden skin and a penchant for wearing seductive perfume.
The very perfume that still clung to his own skin.
But how did Erik know her name when Rafferty didn’t? He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know, given the force of Erik’s anger.
This wasn’t going to be pretty.
“I might know,” Rafferty replied with his customary caution, a caution that might have served him well the night before. “Why?”
“You might know,” Erik echoed, his disgust clear. “Perhaps you might know how she has pictures of you and Balthasar?”
Rafferty’s eyes widened. “She doesn’t.” He clearly remembered destroying the memory chip from her camera.
“Think again,” Erik snarled. Rafferty’s cell phone chirped that it had received a text message, and Rafferty had a good idea what it was.
A hot link.
To Melissa Smith’s blog, which exhibited a picture of Rafferty in dragon form.
He sat down hard, scrolling down the blog and blinking in astonishment at the number of images.
On one hand, he was impressed. The colors were rich, and the images captured the action of the fight beautifully. They were well-framed shots, each one in perfect focus. Melissa knew what she was doing with a camera.
Melissa.
On the other hand, he understood why Erik was so angry. The Pyr weren’t supposed to reveal themselves to humans, beyond a select complicit few, and when accidents happened, it was incumbent upon the individual Pyr to beguile the humans into dismissing their own observations—or forgetting them. He’d done that to the honor guard on the mall. It was true he hadn’t beguiled her, and he felt a stab of guilt at the oversight.
He had been somewhat distracted.
But how had Melissa done this? Rafferty had destroyed the chip.
Unless it had been the wrong one.
Rafferty felt sick. He realized suddenly why she had surrendered it to him as easily as she had. It had been the wrong chip.
He reviewed the images, horrified by what he had inadvertently done.
Rafferty didn’t bother to apologize to the leader of the Pyr. Apologies were just words; that would be Erik’s reply, and it was true.
What Rafferty had to do was repair his mistake.
Somehow.
“I’ll fix it,” he said to Erik, who snorted in disdain and didn’t reply.
Melissa. Her name was Melissa.
Rafferty was going to see his temptress again.
Rafferty suspected, however, that this exchange would not end so amiably as the one the night before. He showered and dressed in haste, trying to think of an acceptable solution—one that he could demand and she might accept. He was pulling on his jacket just as there was a knock at the door. Rafferty sensed the presence of another Pyr, checked the arrival’s scent, and knew who stood there before he opened the door.
“Hey, dude!”
Thorolf was grinning from ear to ear as he removed his aviator sunglasses. He was dressed with his usual outlaw flair, his black leather jacket ornamented with crests from motorcycle companies and his jeans both worn and torn. He wore a bright blue T-shirt emblazoned with the name of an obscure band, and the color made his eyes look more vivid. He was an imposing figure, given his height and obvious fitness, even without his many tattoos visible. Thorolf evidently had decided to have his long dark blond hair woven into dreadlocks since Rafferty had last seen him.
He looked hungover, which wasn’t a surprise early in the day. It seemed to Rafferty that Thorolf spent most mornings regretting his indulgences of the night before, and most nights repeating those indulgences. Thorolf had no restraint in enjoying earthy passions, and Rafferty had little doubt of how the other Pyr had spent the night of the eclipse. He didn’t want to hear the details, given that they had probably indulged in similar activity.
Rafferty was usually kind about the other Pyr’s weaknesses, but on this day, irritated with his own failures, Rafferty didn’t feel kind. He didn’t want to have anything in common with Thorolf.
In fact, he was insulted by Thorolf’s presence and didn’t bother to hide it. “What are you doing here?”
“Come to save you from yourself, or something like that.” Thorolf shrugged and grinned, amiable as ever.
“I can take care of this on my own.”
“Hey, no offense.” Thorolf held up his hands. “Erik told me to get my butt here pronto and help you out, and I’m here. He’s not someone I want to piss off.” Thorolf’s grin widened. “Kind of a treat that someone else is in his bad books, that’s for sure. Never would have guessed you’d steal the honors from me.”
Rafferty pushed past the other Pyr, more annoyed than he’d been in as long as he could remember.
Help him. Ha. No, Thorolf had been sent to ensure Rafferty didn’t screw up again. To spy on him. Even though he could respect that he had made several mistakes in rapid succession and that Erik was justified in his concern, the decision to monitor his activities still infuriated Rafferty.
That his guard was Thorolf was just salt in the wound.
Thorolf was easygoing, old, but undeveloped in his abilities. He was a
good fighter, had an impressive appetite, and was often the one who earned Erik’s anger—usually for his irresponsibility.
Any other Pyr would have been more tactful and more welcome.
Any other Pyr might have had useful ideas to contribute.
Thorolf fell into step beside a disgruntled Rafferty, apparently unconcerned that he wasn’t particularly welcome. If nothing else, he wasn’t the sensitive sort.
Rafferty poked at the elevator button, annoyed that it always took so long in this hotel. He was feeling volatile and edgy, as unlike his usual self as was possible. There could have been a thousand needles beneath his skin, irking and irritating him.
It didn’t help that he couldn’t think of a solution to the issue of the images being public.
“So, she must be really hot, huh?” Thorolf asked with undisguised interest. “I mean, for you to forget yourself like this, va va va voom.” He chuckled and dug his elbow into Rafferty’s side.
“Leave it,” Rafferty said tightly. Thorolf blinked at his bluntness. Rafferty ignored the other Pyr’s surprise and jabbed at the button for the elevator again. He lost patience and headed for the stairs.
“Hold it. Didn’t you get any?”
“I don’t want to talk about it!”
“No need to take your frustration out on me,” Thorolf said, loping down the stairs behind Rafferty. “That’s incredible. I mean, usually the women are all over you. What did you say to her?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“But really, if you struck out…”
“Leave it!” Rafferty roared.
“Touchy, touchy,” Thorolf said with a low whistle. “She has got your number.” At Rafferty’s warning glance, he held up his hands. “Okay, okay. Consider it left. What’s the plan for the pics?”
“I don’t know. And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Why not? I’m on the make-it-right team today.” Thorolf began to whistle, clearly proud of his changed status.
Rafferty pivoted so quickly that Thorolf almost ran into him. “Aren’t you supposed to tell Erik every single thing I intend to do?”