Thorolf averted his gaze, looking discomfited. Fortunately, he wasn’t much of a liar. “Well, it’s not my fault. Orders, you know.”
“I can’t stop you from following me, I can’t stop you from telling Erik what I do, but I don’t have to tell you what I’m thinking,” Rafferty said. When Thorolf didn’t reply, he turned and marched down the stairs, each step falling with force.
This eclipse had really rattled him. He felt out of touch with his usual serenity, more easily roused than was his tendency.
Was there a Pyr having a firestorm somewhere in close proximity? He was sure he could feel the sizzle of a firestorm’s heat.
Were there any Pyr in DC other than the two of them?
No! It couldn’t be!
Rafferty spun again, but Thorolf was keeping a wary distance. “It’s not your firestorm, is it?” Bitterness welled within Rafferty at the prospect.
If Thorolf, who did not care at all for romance or love or long-term relationships, should have a firestorm before Rafferty, then the Great Wyvern truly had no place in Her heart for him, even after all these centuries.
It occurred to him, not for the first time, that perhaps She didn’t. Perhaps he was reaping what he had sown. Perhaps the delay in the arrival of Rafferty’s own firestorm was retribution for what he had done.
“Me?” Thorolf looked as horrified by the prospect as Rafferty. “Wouldn’t I be, like, the first to know?”
“Can’t you feel it?” Rafferty couldn’t keep the anger from his tone. If Thorolf was having a firestorm, it wouldn’t be unreasonable that he, of all Pyr, wouldn’t have a clue. Rafferty had never met a Pyr so disinclined to use his abilities. “Someone in our vicinity is having one.” He switched to old-speak. “Feel it!”
Thorolf stared at Rafferty, then started to chuckle. “Dude, I can’t feel anything except the pounding in my head. That’s no firestorm—that’s plain old beer. Lots of it. With vodka shooters.” He leaned closer, eyes dancing. “If you can feel a firestorm burning, and you and I are the only Pyr in DC, then do the math yourself.”
Rafferty gaped in horror at the other Pyr.
No.
No!
Rafferty pivoted and raced down the stairs, needing to know for certain.
“Whoa, I gotta meet this chick.” Thorolf galloped down the remaining stairs, passing Rafferty as he swung around a corner on the railing. “She must be really something to have thrown your game so much.”
“I am not having a firestorm,” Rafferty insisted hotly. “Not with that woman…”
Thorolf leapt to land at the steel door ahead of Rafferty. He looked back, his expression confident. “Is that so? I didn’t realize we got to pick and choose.”
“We don’t, but it’s, it’s impossible,” Rafferty sputtered.
Thorolf shook his head, his expression pitying. “Maybe we ought to go see her and find out for sure.” He hauled open the door, pushing it wide with his fingertips. “After you.”
“It can’t be her.”
“Hey, if you say so.” But Thorolf grinned.
Rafferty strode into the street, his heart heavy. He couldn’t have a firestorm with a woman who had betrayed him and his kind to the world. No. That was even a greater sign of disapproval from the Great Wyvern.
Could it not be what he deserved?
Suddenly he recalled that blue flicker dancing over Melissa’s skin, and his mouth went dry.
Not darkfire.
Not with her.
The Great Wyvern couldn’t mess with him that much.
But he knew She could.
“So, like, maybe we could score something to eat on the way,” Thorolf said cheerfully. “I’m dying after that flight from New York—not even peanuts! How lame is that?—and I’m guessing there’s going to be some Slayer butt to kick before the end of the day. Whaddaya say? Steak and eggs? Maybe chased with a couple of slices of pie. There has to be a diner someplace….”
“I’m not stopping to eat,” Rafferty said tightly. “Not when there is such a major issue to be resolved.”
“But we need to keep our strength up….”
“You’re welcome to suit yourself.” Rafferty hailed a cab and climbed in the back, feeling the lump of Magnus’s little blue book in his pocket when he sat down.
The book Melissa had stolen.
The one she undoubtedly wanted back.
How badly would she want it?
Either way, it reassured Rafferty to find something with which he could negotiate. Not commenting when Thorolf flung himself into the cab beside him, he simply gave the address to the driver. He ignored the other Pyr’s sigh of forbearance and even the loud rumbling of his stomach.
All Rafferty could think about was the night before. Was it truly possible that this would be his firestorm, and Melissa his destined mate?
Could there truly be darkfire?
Everything certainly was being turned upside down, which wasn’t the most reassuring realization Rafferty could have had. He decided in favor of caution and used the time in the cab to send Donovan a message. He didn’t dare use old-speak, not with Magnus at large, and he didn’t want his words to be audible at all.
He used his phone to send a text message.
Melissa’s phone rang. She picked it up without thinking, her attention fixed on the images she was editing. She was proud of herself for getting such good shots in the midst of the fight. “Hello?”
“Melissa? Doug Cameron here.”
With four words, her former producer had Melissa’s undivided attention. “Doug! It’s great to hear from you.” She spun in her chair, wondering why he’d called.
She hardly dared to hope.
She crossed her fingers.
Doug, being Doug, didn’t beat around the bush. “Those are some images on your blog. Are they real?”
Melissa smiled. “Actually, yes, they are.”
“Do you have more?”
“Well, yes, I….”
Doug interrupted her. “Daylight shots?”
“No. They’re all of the same incident, last night on the mall.”
“Hmm.” Even in that one sound, Doug’s disappointment was clear. “I like the one with the moon in the background. Atmospheric.”
“Thanks.”
“Too bad you didn’t get one with the eclipse.”
There’d been an eclipse the night before? If it had been after the dragon fight, Melissa had missed it for a good reason. “Um, they were gone by then.” Her grip tightened on the phone, her heart sinking that he didn’t immediately say anything more.
Why had he called? Just to ask for more pictures?
“Look, Melissa, this story of yours is striking a chord,” Doug said suddenly, his words falling quickly as they did when he had an agenda. He’d made up his mind about something; Melissa heard it in his voice, and she straightened with interest. “I don’t know if you’re aware how much it’s been picked up.”
“I have an idea,” she admitted. In fact, she’d been tracking her blog hits, track backs, and incoming links with devotion all morning. She knew her images had been slurped and posted to news services all over the world. It was kind of exciting how many people had been taken with it. The story was going viral, and she felt as if she stood at the middle of a maelstrom.
“Of course, the first assumption anyone has is that the images are bogus. It would be great to have more shots, shots that proved that assumption wrong.”
Melissa held her breath. “Yes,” she managed to say.
“I’ll pay you for exclusive rights to daylight images, if you can get them.” Doug named a price that nearly made Melissa drop the phone. “Can you?”
“I think so,” she said.
“Good!”
It was tempting to simply leave it there. Melissa could have used a whack of cash in that moment. She had lots of medical bills to pay, but there was one thing she wanted more than a lump sum payment.
She wanted a chance.
 
; Melissa braced her elbow on her desk and dared to ask for what she wanted. This was what she had done all the time, back in the day—pledged to get a story that she hadn’t been positive she could get. It was exciting. It made her feel alive again. Tingly.
She was even perspiring. Was the thermostat out of whack, or was it just her?
She kept her voice level. “Actually, Doug, I don’t want money.”
“Excuse me?”
“I want a job.” She swallowed the lump in her throat and spoke more clearly. “I want back on camera.”
Doug’s silence wasn’t encouraging. Melissa waited, her heart thumping, and wondered what to say to persuade him. They’d worked computer for years. She shouldn’t have to remind him of her skills, but she would, if necessary. She heard him drumming his fingers and pulled up her résumé on her computer so she wouldn’t miss any salient points in her own defense.
Before she could speak, Doug did. “I suppose you want back on the national news.” His indecision was obvious. “Foreign affairs?”
“That would be ideal. No worries about travel. I’m good to go.”
“What about your husband?”
“What husband?” It was easier to say it now, but Melissa appreciated that Doug responded quickly, covering a potentially awkward moment.
“Right. No houseplants?” Doug asked lightly. It was an old joke between them, and Melissa was glad to hear it. Doug preferred foreign correspondents with no ties. He’d guess that she had no kids, because he’d know her story. Gossip was good for that.
“Not so much as a goldfish,” she said with confidence. “And you know that hot zones don’t trouble me.”
“You were always good in the tight spots,” he mused. “Composed under fire. And you dug deeper than most, no half-researched stories. You were really good, Melissa.”
“Thanks.” His use of the past tense didn’t feed her confidence at all.
But he hadn’t said no yet. She scanned her résumé, picking the best point to make first, choosing which one she’d make last.
Doug cleared his throat. “You know, I haven’t seen you in three years.” He spoke with care, and Melissa knew what he was asking. She was accustomed to having her appearance bluntly discussed—it came with the territory of television news.
“Give me your e-mail address,” she said, her tone decisive. She thanked her lucky stars that she’d not only taken a chance to shower, but that she’d tugged on her favorite cashmere sweater. The deep purple hue was a good one for her. That she’d put on the freshwater pearl earrings her brother and his wife had given her for Christmas was a bonus.
She could thank Mr. Conscience for making her feel good enough to make the effort.
Or the prospect of his return making her want to look her best.
Melissa used her computer’s camera to take a shot of herself, cropped and resized it, and e-mailed it to Doug with a click of the mouse.
“No makeup,” she said into the silence. “That’s as bad as it gets.”
“You look good,” Doug said, his relief clear. “A bit thinner, but good. The camera loves thin, anyway. How are you feeling?”
Melissa ensured that her tone was firm, leaving no room for doubt. “I’m all clear and ready to get back in the game. I just need my chance.”
There was one beat of hesitation before Doug spoke. “Get me the pictures. In the meantime, I’ll talk to some people, see what I can do. You were damn good. I could use more good reporters.”
Doug could make this happen, and Melissa knew it. He had an instinct for news and a talent for timely production that gave him cachet at the network. The ratings of the broadcast he produced were consistently higher than those of any other show. If he argued for her to have a job, she’d probably get one.
“Worst case, the lump sum,” he said, his tone growing warmer with every word. He’d made up his mind. “But I’ll throw my weight behind the job idea.”
There was a solid knock at Melissa’s door, a knock so resolute that she had a pretty good idea who was on her porch. Her heart leapt.
He’d come back.
“So, do we have a deal?” Doug asked.
Melissa was staring at the door. Her mouth went dry as she rose to her feet. There was another knock, a more impatient one. A bead of sweat rose on her upper lip, and she licked it away, tasting salt, just as the third heavy knock fell.
Before she could end the call, wood tore and steel bent. She gasped as her door was kicked into the foyer in pieces. It fell heavily, leaving a cloud of dust.
“You can get the pictures, can’t you?” Doug asked, obviously misunderstanding the reason for her hesitation.
Mr. Conscience had come, just as she’d expected. He stepped over the threshold of Melissa’s house into the debris of the foyer, looking every bit as delicious as he had the night before—an ethics cop with a mission. His gaze flicked over the living room.
And locked on her. His eyes brightened, and he took a step closer, his anger and determination making Melissa’s knees weaken.
“Oh no,” Melissa whispered.
He glared at her, emanating hostility, and all she could think of was the way he had pleasured her the night before. There were better things they could do with all that passion than fight. For the second time in short order, she was glad to be looking her best.
“What do you mean? Can’t you get more dragon pictures?” Doug demanded.
Montmorency’s blue leather book was in her lover’s left hand. Melissa clutched the phone more tightly, anticipating that he wouldn’t give up the book without a fight.
Or a negotiation. He glared at her, although she didn’t know what might have put him in a worse mood in the last five seconds.
“Of course I can,” she said to Doug with new confidence. “Maybe even today.”
“I look forward to it,” Doug said; then he was gone, the dial tone echoing in Melissa’s ear.
Her uninvited guest stared at her, seeming not even to blink, but she already knew that he wasn’t inclined to hurt her. She had to hope that she didn’t change his mind. There was a shadow behind him, another guy with blond dreadlocks, but Melissa didn’t care if he’d brought a friend.
Her business was with him, and that book.
“I was hoping you’d come back,” she said, crossing the living room and stretching out one hand. She spoke with cool composure, as if her heart weren’t thundering in her chest. “Thanks for bringing back the book you took from my coat pocket.”
“How dare you post those pictures?” he said, moving so quickly toward her that Melissa was astounded. One instant he was in the foyer, and the next he was right before her.
“How did you do that?” she demanded.
“How could you do that? How could you betray me and my kind?” he retorted.
“I have no problem betraying Montmorency.”
“But you didn’t! You betrayed me!” He dropped the book and snatched her up by her shoulders, his gaze boring into hers as he held her off the floor and shook her. “Do you have any understanding what you have done? Do you realize what you have put at risk?” His eyes were snapping, and his grip was resolute.
But he didn’t hurt her. He was restraining himself.
“I’ve done what reporters always do,” Melissa retorted, not in the least bit convinced that she was in the right. “We tell the world about news, and if that wasn’t news, I don’t know what is.”
Even as she spoke, she felt a strange heat sliding through her, as if she stood close to a bonfire. No, it was more than a heat against her skin; it was one inside her. It hummed along her veins and warmed her muscles from within. It was a heat that awakened a languorous fire inside her own body. That flame swept through her veins and left her blushing like a schoolgirl.
It was a hungry inferno that reawakened parts of Melissa that he’d caressed the night before.
That tide of heat left her taut. It left her tingling. It made her want him all over again, immediately,
if not sooner. He had his hands on her shoulders, his gaze locked upon hers with a passion other than desire, and all she could think about was doing the wild thing with him all over again. She wanted the weight of his hands on her, the caress of his fingertips across her skin, the strength of him inside her. She wanted to feel his breath mingling with hers.
She wanted to feel vibrantly alive again.
She swallowed and looked at him, tormented by an itch he’d yet to satisfy. His eyes darkened, looking like molten chocolate, and when she licked her lips, he caught his breath. She watched him inhale, knew their thoughts were as one, and wished his friend hadn’t been in her foyer.
Or, to be fair, that her front door could still be closed.
“Do you recognize what you have put in peril?” he demanded, his words softer than they had been.
Why were his hands so hot? It was as if the heat were surging from his body into hers, an electrical current flowing along a conduit. But that made no sense.
Melissa tore her gaze from his and looked down at his hands. He held her in his powerful grip, ensuring that she couldn’t escape but not hurting her. That alone might have been worthy of interest, never mind his intensity, but it was the dancing flicker of blue flames across her skin that confused her. It seemed to emanate from the points where they touched, then slither across her skin before it disappeared.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “What are these flames?”
He looked away, and she knew he could see them, as well.
“How did you make them, and what do they mean?”
“Darkfire!” he whispered, his tone carrying mingled awe and dread.
“What’s darkfire?” she demanded. The way he closed his eyes told her that he knew and that he didn’t intend to share the story.
He put her down, turned away, and strode across the room. He shoved a hand through his hair, his agitation clear, and turned his glare on the view out the window. “It doesn’t matter,” he said tightly. “What matters are those pictures.”
His reaction told her exactly the opposite of his words.
The heat was fading, leaving Melissa inclined to shiver. It had something to do with his touch, something he didn’t want her to know.