Dragon's Kiss (The DragonFate Novels Book 2)

by Deborah Cooke

  Murray nodded and turned back toward the darkness of the bar. “She was here last night. We had a meeting.”

  “About?”

  He slanted a glance over his shoulder. “You can guess.”

  Bree chose not to. Others. That hinted at complications she didn’t need. “Where’d she go afterward?”

  “It was late. I wonder if she went to the circus with the others.”

  That sounded, unfortunately, like something Kara would do. “What circus? Where is it? What time was this?”

  Murray frowned and shook his head. “Hang on. I need a coffee before I get interrogated.” He walked away, disappearing into the darkness.

  He’d made an argument Bree could understand, though. She could do with another cup of joe herself. She followed him, bristling with impatience—not that it was going to make any difference. Murray appeared to be one of those methodical types who couldn’t be rushed.

  Dwarves.

  She couldn’t help taking a good look at Bones as she followed him. It appeared to be a warehouse converted to a restaurant and bar, with a heavy focus on the bar. There was a big dance floor and the place smelled of spilled beer and perspiration. There was a faint odor of cigarette smoke. It would have been essentially the same as hundreds of similar establishments frequented by mortals, if not for one thing.

  There was another scent, one that made the hair prickle on the back of Bree’s neck.

  Magick.

  “What kind of place is this?” she asked, her tone sharp with suspicion.

  Murray yawned and opened a bag of ground coffee behind the bar. He put it in the filter and started the coffeemaker. Bree was surprised that the coffee actually smelled good, given how much of a java snob she tended to be. The magick was throwing her game.

  Where was it coming from? Not from Murray. Bree inhaled but she couldn’t pinpoint the source. Everywhere and nowhere.

  “It’s a bar. It’s a restaurant. It’s a haven.” He spoke wearily then nodded, watching the steam rise with obvious anticipation. “And it’s a cover story.”

  “How much magick do you practice in here? Because if I’d had any idea Bones was that kind of place, I would have insisted that Kara quit months ago...”

  “Magick?” Murray echoed, looking startled. “There’s no magick here.” His expression became insulted. “I run a clean establishment,” he began, drumming one heavy fingertip on the bar.

  “Magick,” Bree insisted, interrupting what was obviously going to be a lecture, and one that wouldn’t change what she knew. “Where is it coming from and why is it here?”

  Murray surveyed the restaurant and she was glad he’d stopped arguing with her. “Wait a minute. They were talking about a book last night...”

  “That’s not what I smell,” Bree said, leaning over the bar to enunciate her words clearly. Murray looked slightly alarmed and it was possible that her true nature was showing in her agitation. “I smell pure unadulterated magick. I smell it seeking. I smell it emanating. It’s pervasive and it’s hunting. What’s it doing here and what does it want?”

  Murray swore softly and looked around. “Not here,” he whispered.

  “Definitely here.” The tattoo on Bree’s forearm began to burn. That was troubling. The tattoo didn’t follow her between forms because it was a charm, but clearly the magick was aware of it anyway. She felt an almost uncontrollable urge to use the charm, but she knew the magick was trying to bend her to its will.

  It wanted a clear target so it could suck the power from her. Bree hated magick even more with that realization—and she’d never been a fan.

  Who was commanding the magick at Bones? It couldn’t be Murray. He looked spooked.

  As he should.

  Bree took a deep breath as he watched her, focusing on the magick. When she concentrated, she could see its distinctive red sparks faintly. They were brighter on the far side of the dance floor.

  “There,” she said, pointing to the back wall. The dance floor was between the bar and that wall, with a table at one end for a DJ. There were lights in the floor and hanging overhead, but the lights were extinguished now and the dance floor was shadowed. The far wall was brick that had been painted a glossy black. Sparks flickered across it in telltale red.

  Bree thought she could even see the silver light of Fae illuminating the mortar in the wall from behind.

  Had the dragon she’d just seen in the street come from Fae? Had he gone there?

  Why would anyone with any sense mess with the Fae? They were a deceptive and self-motivated bunch—and devoid of conscience too—in Bree’s view, but she couldn’t expect anything better from anyone without a soul. She’d suggested previously that all the portals to their realm be sealed forever but had been called an extremist.

  She watched the light brighten, both silver and red, and wondered.

  “That can’t be,” Murray began to protest.

  Bree ignored him and approached the wall with caution, scanning it as she drew closer. The surface of the bricks was uneven, as if they were old, and the paint formed a layer over them. The bricks themselves were probably porous. The entire wall should be faced with steel if it had been a portal at any time. The thick paint had made a coating at least, like a varnish, but it wouldn’t be nearly enough of a barrier if the magick was trying to break through.

  Magick was always trying to break through.

  Magick might have been commanded to break through and find its fellows.

  The closer she got, the more evident it became to Bree that the coating of paint was bulging slightly, stretched toward her by the power of the magick. Would it burst? She ran her hands over the wall, looking for an opening. The magick must be seeking a weak spot. If there was one, the magick would widen it into a hole and then a portal, unless it was sealed in time.

  The wall, unfortunately was enormous. It ran the width of the building and was at least thirty feet tall. Bree sought the gap, feeling that she was working against time.

  “That’s an original wall,” Murray continued, following behind her. “Nineteenth century, original to these warehouses. It’s one place we didn’t have to have the masonry repaired...” He fell silent when silver light flashed under Bree’s palm, illuminating her hand in silhouette. It was quick, so quick it might not have been there at all.

  She heard him swear, so at least he knew enough to recognize the truth when he saw it. Bree moved her hand over the same area again, holding her breath and hoping she’d been wrong, but the light flashed again.

  There was a breach.

  It wasn’t her imagination that the magick targeted the spot. The wall seemed to ripple as the force of magick converged on the spot beneath her hand.

  Murray had paled. “It can’t be. Not here. This is a sanctuary.” She could hear in his voice that he feared otherwise, though.

  “Doesn’t look like it’s a good one,” Bree said then leaned close to the hole, listening. Her tattoo was scorching, drawing her arm to the bit of light, and she wanted to release the charm with every fiber of her being.

  Even though she knew better.

  The magick behind the wall became more insistent and the paint bubbled beneath her hand. Bree halfway thought the skin on her arm would burst into flames. A sudden stabbing beam of red light fired through the hole like a laser and seared her forearm.

  It hurt, which said something about the force of the blow.

  There was a roar from behind the wall, and the brick beneath her hand was shoved toward her. It pushed against the layer of paint, like it was encased in a balloon. Bree braced both hands over it, and watched in horror as the tiny speck of light beneath her hand grew into a tear. The bricks on either side began to tremble, as if the one she held was an epicenter.

  “Help me!” someone cried on the other side of the wall.

  Kara!

  Bree’s sister sounded as if she was in pain. The anguish in her voice tore at Bree’s heart—she had never heard a Valkyrie in agony befo
re and she never wanted to hear it again. She couldn’t imagine what was being done to Kara to hurt her so badly. Their strength and endurance were both legendary with good reason.

  “How can she be there?” Murray whispered, obviously recognizing Kara’s voice. “How did they get her?”

  Bree didn’t care. There was only one thing to do. She ripped the brick free of the wall, then tossed it to Murray. A beam of silver light shone into the bar as if there was a spotlight on the other side. It was so bright that it outshone the red sparks of magick. Murray ducked, covering his eyes with his hands and doubling over to protect himself.

  “Put the brick back when I’m through,” she instructed. “Get it mortared in,” she added. “Preferably by a wizard.”

  “But how will you get out?”

  “Fae is ridden with portals. I’ll find another one. The important thing is that this one be sealed. I’d face this wall with steel as soon as possible if I were you.” She held his gaze until he nodded.

  Then she considered the hole, the size of a single brick. There was no way she’d fit through that space.

  No, there was one way.

  Bree loosed the charm with a whisper of ancient words. Something writhed on the back of her arm and what looked like a tendril of smoke rose from her tattoo. The dark smoke swirled around her, surrounding her, and she shivered as she felt her shape change—but not to her Valkyrie form. Murray shouted and she would have reassured him, but heard herself buzz instead. Her vision was suddenly faceted and the world became enormously large.

  She’d become a bumble bee, just like the other time.

  The tendril of smoke slipped through the hole in the brick wall, glittering as it led the way. Red sparks, black smoke and silver lightning swirled together. Bree took flight and followed the smoke. She’d only just landed on the lip of the brick hole and moved into the gap when Murray slammed the brick back in place behind her. The brick abruptly shoved her through to the other side, and she fell to the ground, a large bee surrounded by a brilliant silver gleam.

  Kara screamed again and Bree tried to fly, but something confined her. The dark tendril had changed and become sticky, like a spider web. She realized that her wings were snared. The more she tried to move, the more tightly she was entangled. She tried to shift back to her human form, and then to her Valkyrie form, but without success.

  A heartbeat later she knew why. Bree was lifted before the familiar face of the Dark Queen herself, who smiled as she surveyed her captive. The ends of the black tendrils were held tightly by the Dark Queen as she watched Bree struggle.

  “How is it that Valkyries always know the perfect gift?” Maeve murmured, then dropped Bree into a glass jar. She stoppered the top, then gave the jar a shake. Bree fought the web with new strength since the glass protected her from the power of the magick.

  But she knew that it didn’t matter whether she freed herself from the web, or even if she managed to change back to her own form. She was the captive of Maeve, the Queen of the Fae, and release would have a price.

  Bree could only hope the price wasn’t Kara’s life—or her own.

  Meanwhile, in Edinburgh, a couple hurried to join the last tour of the castle. Eithne was concerned about this plan, but the prince had been adamant. They’d caught the first flight possible from New York and he’d slept through most of it while she watched over him.

  The journey had reminded her of another, centuries before.

  When awake, his eyes glittered like faceted gems. Even in his human form, there was much of the dragon in his movements and manner that Eithne marveled—and not for the first time—that people didn’t guess his truth. They were respectful yet wary of him, as if they sensed that he could be dangerous. Maybe they sensed his royal status—or his expectation of deference.

  He was as gracious and courtly as ever and Eithne realized how much she’d missed their long slow conversations, never mind playing riddle games with him, while he’d slept in his stone tomb.

  He had no interest in conversation since she’d stirred him. He was consumed with the completion of his quest. As soon as the flight had landed, he’d been invigorated, and she wondered if he would sleep again before the quest was done. She knew he began the hunt for the treasure in the most obvious place, even though she feared he was wrong.

  How could it be in that hoard, the one she’d sealed and hidden?

  How could she have missed it there?

  Eithne knew better than to question the prince’s instincts, and simply facilitated things for him. When he wanted to go to the lair, she knew the tour was their best chance. That it was the last tour of the day was a bonus.

  They slid to the back of the tour group gradually and without discussing the plan aloud. She paused to comment on a detail, and he lingered beside her like an attentive spouse. He said little, but he watched, and she was certain he missed nothing. They’d been in the middle of the little group, then were at the end, as naturally as if they hadn’t engineered it. Then they were trailing behind, apparently so absorbed in the wonders of the castle that no one could fault them for not keeping up. The guide called to hurry them on: Eithne excused herself, they caught up with the end of the party, then gradually fell back again.

  The timing was perfect. The tour group was led around a corner in the dungeons, the guide’s voice echoing against the stone, and Eithne pulled out the old brass key. She hadn’t visited this lair in centuries: the prince had been asleep even then. The castle had been built atop the cavern, and for a long time, Eithne had kept watch, ensuring that humans never found the secret hidden deep below the mount.

  The prince inhaled deeply and a blue light glimmered around the perimeter of his body. His eyes shone with intent as he slid his hands over the hewn rock. There didn’t appear to be an opening and Eithne hoped she could find it again.

  “Here,” the prince murmured, his fingertip on the keyhole.

  Eithne slid the key into the lock. She turned the key and it clicked, just as it always had. The prince moved through the opening so quickly that he might have been a young dragon again. His large hand locked around her wrist and he tugged her after him.

  He seemed to have quickened, his eyes flashing with their old fire. She closed the door behind them, sealing them into the darkness of the stone sanctuary. She shivered as he hurried downward, apparently not needing a light. Eithne put the key away safely, then braced her hands on the walls on either side of the staircase carved out of the rock, feeling her way down as she followed him. The steps were uneven and the darkness was complete, plus the staircase twisted as it descended. She couldn’t hear his footfalls or his breathing any longer but knew she couldn’t catch up to him.

  She wouldn’t hurry because she knew how far she could fall.

  Unlike the prince, Eithne wasn’t able to become a dragon to save herself. Most of the magick she’d possessed had been surrendered centuries before to the twin princes entrusted to her care: she felt the inadequacy of what remained at her command all the time, but particularly now.

  Her heart was thundering in her ears as they descended. This had been a lair of the other brother, Blazion. It smelled of dust and abandonment, but Blazion had been dead for centuries. Eithne still had a sufficiently strong bond to the princes she had guarded with her own life that she felt like a trespasser.

  Blazion’s brother had no such qualms, it was clear.

  She supposed the contents of the lair were Embron’s legacy.

  It felt like a thousand years before the left wall disappeared and Eithne could sense the yawning space on that side. The base of the cavern was close, for the space itself had been only large enough to accommodate Blazion alone. He had liked to count his hoard with rock pressing against his hide, his treasure tucked beneath his belly. There had once been a passageway and a portal large enough for him to fly through, but the mountain had collapsed upon it, sealing the company of would-be thieves inside. Eithne strained her ears for some sound and thought she heard
Embron exhale in frustration.

  Then there was a blue shimmer of light that she recognized all too well. A heartbeat later, a massive black dragon was coiled in the cavern, his eyes glowing gold as he exhaled a plume of dragonfire along the floor. By the light of the flames, Eithne saw the warriors laid to rest on slabs of stone. Seven warriors, although originally there had been eight: eight thieves. It had been fifteen hundred years, give or take. They were motionless, as if sleeping, and their very existence revealed the presence of magick. Eithne say its red glow flicking at intervals around them.

  The eighth had escaped, she remembered. She marveled again that he had laid out his companions with such care, but then, she had always thought he’d searched them for the treasure as he’d done so.

  There was no point in being the one who got away if that meant leaving the prize behind.

  “It is still here,” the prince said, his voice such a low rumble that the very walls vibrated.

  Eithne had been convinced that the treasure of this hoard had gone with the traitor, but Embron’s keen senses could not be denied. She hurried toward the warriors, knowing that the prince was deliberately illuminating the cavern for her. The first warrior’s hands were folded across his chest: she looked and they were empty. There was nothing worthy of consideration in his purse. The second and third were the same. She moved to the fourth just as Embron bent closer, his dragon nostrils flaring as he leaned over that warrior.

  “This one,” he murmured with authority.

  Eithne checked that warrior’s hands, his purse, even inside his boots, without success. Embron murmured a few words and the warrior shimmered before Eithne’s eyes, evidence that a glamour had been dispelled.

  Then she saw a telltale red spark from beneath his folded hands. It came from the pommel of his dagger, a crystal that had been caged in steel and fastened to the hilt. The orb looked clear and small, a rounded rock crystal, but as the prince reached out a talon, the red sparks flashed within it, like caged lightning.

  Magick.

  It seemed to her that the sleeping warriors stirred slightly and Eithne surveyed the weapon. Just a moment before, it had looked old and fashioned without skill. The glint of magick revealed that it was different from those carried by the other warriors, the blade so sharp and bright that it might have come from another realm.