by Lisa Oliver
“The receptionist mentioned, when she saw me looking at it, that she didn’t see who put the envelope on the desk. There was no business card, no return address, no company mark on the envelope. Byron wasn’t seeing anyone to my knowledge, but if he had found someone, I wanted to know, so I checked it out.”
“Something doesn’t smell right.” Pulling his gloves out of his pocket, Ice tugged them on, smoothing them over every individual finger so that his grip and sense of touch wasn’t impeded by the soft leather. “If I find out you’re simply wasting my time in a stupid effort to get me to claim my mate, I will not be pleased.”
“If I’d taken him, I’d have bitten him and bonded with him and I wouldn’t have said anything about it to you,” Petrov said with a sneer. “He deserves better than you. I’ll be glad when you leave him alone again once he’s found. That’s why I didn’t want you coming here in the first place, but you tasked me with watching out for him, so I reported what I knew.”
“As a brother should.” There might have been a bit of snark in Ice’s response. But Petrov wasn’t finished.
“Five years you’ve known about him. Five freaking years. Doing your thing and not caring about a gift from the fates at all. Yeah, I wouldn’t wish being your mate on my worst enemy. You should get back on your fancy plane and fly away. Byron won’t wait for you forever – he’ll start dating eventually and when he does, I’ll be cheering him on.” Pushing open his door with more force than was needed, Petrov got out of the car.
Hmm. No deceit. Interesting. I do believe Petrov has developed a soft spot for my dragon. Ice followed at a slower pace, his dragon powers immediately flowing from his body, swiftly checking every life signature within a half a mile radius of where he stood. It was the middle of the night. Most beings were sleeping. Even the doorman Ice could see through the glass reception doors of the building was dozing over his desk.
Ignoring the front of the building for now, Ice kept to the shadows, moving quickly down the side and around the back, noting the positions of fire escapes and emergency exit doors. Small flashing red and blue lights at intervals let Ice know the building had cameras and was likely alarmed. But cameras and alarms were easy to fool, and any lock on a door could be opened with the right persuasion.
There was something else going on too, that Ice couldn’t ignore. Both of his animal spirits were with him – that was normal in any job Ice worked on. But this time, it was more so. It was as if they were both lurking just under his skin, sniffing, cataloguing scents, identifying the source of the night noises, watching for any threat – working together, in other words. Fuck. Maybe Petrov was right. I shouldn’t have come.
But if his dragon had been taken by someone like him, and until Petrov mentioned it, Ice hadn’t really considered it, then Byron’s body would never be found. Call it Ice’s competitive nature, call it sheer bloody mindedness, but Ice was going to get to the bottom of why the dragon was taken, and take great pleasure in killing the person responsible.
“Here,” Petrov hissed; his face half hidden in the shadows. “There are scratches around this door knob.”
“Amateurs.” Ice moved over to his brother, keen to see for himself. The scratches were new, barely visible to a human eye. Ice privately congratulated Petrov on his keen senses, not that he would say the words out loud. Leaning forward, taking care that he didn’t touch the door, Ice sniffed hard, before taking a step back, and surveying the door frame, the windows and fire escape all on the same wall.
“This was to throw off any over zealous police,” Ice said pointing at the scratches. “There are no scratches at all on the lock itself, only the wood around the handle. That is where the package leaver got in.” He pointed his finger up at the fire escape. “You can see from the scuff marks on the top of the door frame, a boot has been up there. His foot likely slipped as he went to jump for the metal railings.”
Taking a long inhale, Ice bent his legs, called on his dragon side and jumped, catching the metal rails of the fire escape easily. Swinging over them, he peered over the edge, allowing himself a smirk for his brother. “Coming up?”
“I’ll be look out,” Petrov grumbled, his wolf showing in his eyes. “Make it quick. The security guard won’t doze forever, and you’ve done nothing about the cameras around here.”
“Go around the front, knock on the door, and tell the security guard who you are, and ask him if anyone suspicious has been hanging around since the police were there.”
“You already know the answer to that.”
“I know.” Sometimes Ice wanted to smack his by-the-rules brother around the ears. “But any movement on the cameras noted in the morning can be explained away by you and your partner looking around the building for clues.” He disappeared from sight before Petrov could think of another excuse not to do something.
The great thing about fire escapes on rich people’s buildings, is that they were barely ever used. Ice didn’t waste his time trying to pick up scents on the lower levels, but as he got closer to the top of the building, he slowed down, crouching over the metal steps looking for the smallest disturbance. Even in the gloom caused by building lights and the dark night, Ice could see clearly, and he had another minor worry about how effectively his two animal sides were cooperating with each other.
Focus, His dragon demanded, and Ice only obeyed because it was what he was telling himself anyway. At the top of the stairs there was a small landing, barely big enough for a person to stand on comfortably.
Smell, the wolf urged, and Ice got down on his knees, bending so his face was an inch from the metal. Moving his head from side to side he sniffed, and then sniffed again. Scent suppressors, his wolf snarled. His animal side was right. On each side of where Ice was sniffing were typical scents associated with the outdoors – the metal, dust, pollen, and diesel fumes. But in two distinct areas, about the size of a large footprint, there were no smells at all.
Standing up again, Ice sniffed around the door handle and found the same lack of scent. Whoever had left the macabre parcel for the dragon was extremely thorough with his application of scent suppressor, extending to his gloves and the soles of his shoes. “We’re not dealing with an ordinary stalker,” Ice muttered to himself, reaching out and grasping the door knob firmly. Within seconds the electronics on the door released, and the light above the handle shone green. “Thank you, dragon.”
The ease with which he got inside a secure facility didn’t usually bother Ice, but as he slipped inside the building, walking silently across to his dragon’s front door, his mind was already flicking through a file of contacts, wondering who had his particular door opening skill set. Unfortunately, there were a lot of them – warlocks used magic, fire mages could usually fritz an electronic lock, and fae, demon and djinns used magic as well. If humans had a clue how easy it was to bypass a security system with magical means, most of them would invest in dogs. Yes, dogs.
Byron’s doorway was in front of him, and Ice tried to imagine how the dragon might have felt when he found the parcel. Petrov said he would have been late getting home that day as he’d been at a business function that evening.
“So, he would have been looking at his door handle, he has a retinal scan for the door – none too shabby, and then he would have bent and picked up the parcel. Or vice versa, it doesn’t matter.”
Ice ignored the welcome mat. The parcel would have been on the floor – there was nowhere else to leave it. The handle for the door was at mid-height, and the retinal scan was in the side of the frame, probably suited to Byron’s height.
“Which means, if this is a message for me,” Ice mused out loud, “It’s going to be on the upper frame of the door.”
At first glance he saw nothing. The frames were metal, made to look as if they were wood, painted white and in pristine condition. Stepping closer, Ice ran his hand up the edge of the frame, where it met the wall. Just past his head height, he felt a disturbance in the frame’s smoothness.
Keeping one finger on it, Ice got his phone out with the other hand, hitting the flashlight app. Holding it up, so it illuminated his finger and the frame, Ice carefully peeled his finger away. His heart plummeted to his boots, as he made out the small etching of a rose bud.
“Fuck.” Snapping a picture, Ice took off out of the building. He needed to get to the elevator where Byron was taken and fast.
Chapter Ten
“What the…?” Byron woke up in a rush, his heart beating fast, and his lungs laboring as if he’d run a marathon. Dancer? Dancer? Byron couldn’t feel him, or rather he could, but the effect was muted. That’s okay, that’s okay. If I’m in my body, then Dancer is free to contact the others. What the hell woke me up?
Everything was as dire as Dancer had described. The glass coffin was barely wide enough to hold Byron’s shoulders and there was only a small amount of room between the ends and his head and feet. The coffin must have been on a table, because he couldn’t see the floor in his peripheral vision, but all he could see when he twisted his neck as far as it would go, was gray paint. He was still dressed, which was a positive, right down to his shoes, but looking up, Byron could see the glass was barely four inches from the end of his nose.
The holes Dancer mentioned were at the head end of the structure; a pattern of tiny holes that appeared drilled out of the glass, indicating the glass itself was at least two inches thick. The only seams were along the edges, and as Byron touched one between the top and side of the coffin, he could feel the smoothness of the join as if the box parts had been fused together with incredible heat.
Can I move all my bits? Byron wiggled his fingers, lifted his hands, moved his feet from side to side, and managed to bend his knees slightly. Trying to roll proved impossible. The coffin was not squared, and Byron’s shoulders were wider than it was high. Sitting up was a definite no. At least I could move if I had the room to do it. There was nothing else to see beyond a bland dark gray ceiling. Raising his head slightly, Byron twisted his neck side to side – more of the same dark gray.
Sniffing didn’t prove helpful. All Byron could smell was himself. Straining his ears, he couldn’t hear anything either except the thud of his own heart and the faint rasp in his lungs.
“Hello!” He yelled. “Is anyone there?”
A loud mocking laughter buffeted his ears, and then just as quickly stopped. Byron frowned and tried again. “Hello. I appear to be stuck. Can anyone…”
Before he’d even finished speaking the laughter started up again and then cut off just as quickly.
Narrowing his eyes, Byron made a fist and thumped the side of the glass. His thump made barely any sound, because the glass was so thick. No laughter that time. Sliding his left foot until it touched the glass side, Byron moved his right foot to join it, tilting his toes to the left. With an awkward half kick, Byron managed to hit the heel of his shoe on the right side of the glass. The resulting thump was louder, and sure enough the laughter started up again. Byron mentally counted – 1… 2… 3… 4… 5… and then the laughter stopped.
It’s a recording, set to react to noise. As a form of mental torture, it was effective. Reaching for his belt, Byron unlatched it, and pulled it away from his pants. The buckle was silver, beautifully etched and inlaid with blue stones that matched his dragon’s scales. Using the buckle end, Byron tapped hard on the lid of the coffin. The same mocking laughter rang out.
There was nothing else in the coffin except him. Byron checked his pants and jacket pockets, but his keys, wallet, business card holder and phone had been taken. What the hell am I meant to do when I want to pee? Or worse? Byron had a mental image of being found, a week or more from now, reeking in his own filth. If he managed to stay alive that long. Water would become a problem before too long, and as if summoned by the thought he felt a tickle in his throat and coughed. More canned laughter.
Well, this is going to get on my nerves pretty damn quick. Byron mentally revised his inevitable outcome to include lying in his own filth with his fingers jammed in his ears. Dancer! He sent out desperately, unwilling to open his mouth again.
I’m here. The dragon sounded tired.
Did you get in touch with the others? Byron crossed his fingers.
I got Dirk. Remember when I told you that time passes differently in the dream realm?
Yes. Byron didn’t like the defeat in his dragon’s tone.
Yep, well it seems we’ve been gone two days, not one, and we’re in Europe somewhere.
Byron really didn’t give a shit where they were. He just wanted to get out. That’s good, isn’t it. We’ve got family all over Europe. Who’s coming to get me out?
Dirk is bringing enforcers with him.
That didn’t make sense. Why would Dirk be flying all the way from New York when he can just order someone from my mother’s household, or even my uncle’s household to get to me quicker?
Your dear sweet money grabbing mother decided your abduction was all the proof she needed to claim your brother as an unfit leader and is threatening a coup.
A coup? Byron rubbed the top of his eyes. She doesn’t have the power, resources, or muscle for a clan takeover. Dirk will kill her if she tries.
It won’t come to that. Her dragon is fading and won’t be for this world much longer. For a mother to fight against her natural born son is against all the rules we hold dear and she intends on challenging him. Her dragon can’t go through with that.
Oh no. Byron’s heart ached for his mother’s animal side.
So… Dancer said slowly. I need you to go to sleep again.
Byron’s heart rate picked up again and he noticed black spots in front of his eyes. I can’t just sleep while my brother deals with my bone-headed mother and then finds the time to come and find me. My body needs food, water, and bathroom facilities.
Dancer’s sigh came across loud and clear. Fine. Let me take over.
I thought you said you couldn’t shift in here – you’d be squashed.
I’m not going to fully shift.
Byron let out a long breath and felt his dragon’s strength infuse his body. His fingers stretched out into long claws, and Dancer used them to scratch against the glass. The mocking laughter went on and on, as Dancer persisted, but his claws didn’t even leave a scratch on the glass surface.
We only have one other option, Dancer said. I’ll try and protect your clothes.
What…? Byron didn’t get a chance to say anything else before the glass coffin was completely filled with flames. He was aware of heat – incredible heat and the black spots before his eyes increased. Byron knew on every logical level possible that his dragon’s flames wouldn’t hurt him, but there was a part of him, still human that was terrified he’d be burned alive.
Kick the bottom edge of this box with your feet, Dancer urged. Kick it. The flames still roaring around them, Byron closed his eyes, wiggled until his feet touched the bottom edge of the coffin and then kicked with all the strength he could muster. It wasn’t easy – he had next to no leg room, and with nothing to grab onto… Push with your hands.
Of course. Reaching back as best he could without dinging his elbows, Byron managed to get his palms on glass, enough to push with. Bracing his body that way meant his kicks had more power behind them, and he could feel Dancer doing his best to lend every bit of strength he could. Sweat was pouring off his brow, soaking his hair, but still Byron kicked, that mocking laughter fueling his desperation.
There was a crack. And then Byron’s foot went further than before. He heard the smash of glass on the floor. We’re through. Dancer, we did it. We’re through.
The flames stopped. The glass under Byron’s fingers was scorching hot, and he could feel the burn coming through his clothing. Ignoring it as best he could, Byron wiggled. Getting out wasn’t going to be easy. But with the smell of scorched clothing and hair increasing, Byron knew he didn’t have a choice. When his feet finally hit the ground, and his head came free, Byron could’ve wept with
relief.
“Oh, my gods.” Collapsing against the wall of the room, Byron had never needed a glass of water so badly. But of course, the moment he spoke, that damn laughter started again. Do you know where that’s coming from?
Give me… a minute. Dancer sounded puffed, and more than a little freaked.
Dancer. Are you okay? Byron made a point of using their mental connection.
Never knew… Claustrophobic...
Oh fuck, then this room isn’t going to make you feel much better.
I’ll be all right. I’ll be all right. I just need a minute. Midnight is talking to me.
Yeah, well it’s a shame we can’t get the vampires to get us out. There were a lot more vampires than there were dragons all over the world. But Byron focused on his breathing, taking stock of the room they were in. Dancer had mentioned a steel door when they’d been in the dream realm, but there was no sign of it. The room was more like a steel crate about ten foot by ten foot. Aside from the glass coffin and the steel piped cradle it was resting on, there was nothing else except a vent in the ceiling.
Someone really didn’t want us to get out of here. The thing Byron couldn’t understand was why? Why pick on him? Dragons were notorious for not paying a ransom in any hostage situation. Asking a dragon to give up even part of his horde was like cutting off a limb. The more Byron thought about it, the more he realized his abductor fully expected him to be dead, by the time he was found. In a damn glass coffin like an alter offering. Which would send a message to who, exactly?
Getting more puzzled by the minute, Byron pushed himself to his feet, taking care not to make any noise. The only obvious place for the laughter that was guaranteed to drive him mad, to come from was in the air vent, and Byron couldn’t reach that. But I have a weapon now, he thought, spying the shards of broken glass. He examined the coffin more closely. It was exquisitely made, and if it hadn’t had been for the fact it was meant to be Byron’s last resting place, he might have been impressed with the workmanship. The rose bud etched in the top of it – something Byron had only just noticed, was also beautifully done, if somewhat perverse, given the coffin was being used as a killing tool.
