Darkfire Kiss

by Deborah Cooke

  If so, she couldn’t really blame him for his conclusions.

  Even if she did want a chance to explain.

  Through the camera viewfinder, she had a good look at him. It gave her a bit of emotional distance, as if the large opalescent dragon were an illusion and not part of her current reality.

  Her dragon was large, larger even than the other dragon, and powerfully muscled. His scales were the color of opals, all mysterious shadings of gold and blues and mauves. Gorgeous. Each scale was tipped with gold, like a piece of jewelry, and his talons were gold. His belly could have been covered with golden chain mail, the scales there overlapping one another in beautiful rhythm.

  Was he Mr. Conscience? Her dragon moved with the same deliberation as the man in Montmorency’s house, as if holding huge power in check. His eyes had the same shimmer of gold around the pupils, although the dragon’s pupils were vertical slits.

  What clinched his identity was that the black and white ring, the swirled one that Mr. Conscience had worn on his finger, was on her dragon’s talon. It was him. His talon was massive compared to his finger, and Melissa wondered how that had worked. Did the ring stretch? It looked solid, like glass, but there was no mistaking that its diameter had changed.

  A lot.

  Then Melissa wondered what else he had in common between the two forms. His dragon form was generously endowed, and once she’d looked, she couldn’t not look. He was impressive, all muscled strength. She couldn’t decide whether he was better looking as a man or a dragon.

  The driver of the Mercedes, the one who was now bleeding black from his wounds, was a seriously flashy dragon. His scales reminded Melissa of an agate chess set she’d bought in Mexico for her brother. There was a swirled pattern on the scales, just like agate, and they were the color of gold and russet, even with a few veins of dark green. His eyes were so dark as to be black, and he seemed more inclined to breathe fire at his opponent. He was slimmer and moved faster, more impulsively. She had a sense he might be younger, like a kid just coming into his chops.

  Melissa got a shot of the flames erupting from his mouth, brilliant against the overcast night sky. She checked it on the camera’s display and knew it was a keeper.

  The pair locked claws again, and Melissa heard a rumble. It sounded like thunder, very close at hand, but there were no storm clouds overhead. She’d heard it at the house, too, and had assumed it was thunder. It couldn’t be.

  Meanwhile, the dragons tumbled end over end, making her dizzy with their combat. A drop of the black blood landed on her sleeve. It burned right through the cloth, leaving a smoking hole. Melissa shook her sleeve, trying to ensure it didn’t burn her skin. Fat snowflakes fell against it and sizzled. The hit just increased her sense of being in a war zone and her disassociation from her circumstances.

  She framed a shot of the opal dragon taking a strike, and the flow of his red blood on his gleaming gold chest. Another keeper.

  Wait. Why was their blood different colors?

  It seemed a bad time to ask.

  Her dragon rallied and raged after the agate dragon, slashing at his opponent’s face. The agate dragon seemed to choke on the fire he’d started to breathe, and his neck made a ferocious crack.

  So, they had bones. Melissa clicked and clicked.

  Even after that, the slimmer dragon didn’t give it up. He launched at Melissa’s defender, who swung his tail and smacked the other dragon down. It was like being in a cloud of pure testosterone, and Melissa was taking pictures as quickly as she could. She was glad she’d invested in a new memory card.

  Another heavy blow and the agate dragon lost the rhythm of his wings. Her dragon cast him aside and he plummeted toward the earth. He looked limp and broken, but Melissa heard that thunder again.

  Her dragon charged after the agate one, breathing fire on his descent. Had they been communicating? They were over the Lincoln Memorial, and the fight was reflected in the pool. The National Mall was deserted, which was probably a good thing.

  Her dragon swooped down and set Melissa on her feet.

  “If you will excuse me,” he said with a slight inclination of his head.

  “Sure,” Melissa said, loving the rich sound of his voice. He had an accent, as well, a more subtle one, but she couldn’t place it, either. He sounded like Mr. Conscience, too, which just confirmed her conclusion.

  As bizarre as it was.

  Her dragon inclined his head slightly, then leapt back into battle, finishing off his opponent with a prolonged thrashing. He seemed to be more vicious now that she wasn’t in his grasp, and she guessed that he had been ensuring her safety.

  There was more black blood and more fire; then the agate one evidently decided he’d had enough. He started to retreat, flying somewhat less gracefully than he had earlier. The opal dragon hovered over the Reflecting Pool, watching him retreat, as if guarding a threshold.

  Or her. Melissa shivered with pleasure at the thought and focused on her camera. The reflections made for a fantastic series of shots.

  Especially when the opal dragon—her defender—fired one last long plume of flame after his opponent. It flared orange against the night, a gorgeous vivid tongue of fire, accented by the falling snow.

  Gorgeous.

  He then began to breathe long and slow, as if exhaling something Melissa couldn’t see. The agate dragon kept flying away, but he sped up, apparently desperate to put distance between them.

  Soon he was lost in the distance, and even the zoom couldn’t catch a good shot of him.

  But she had lots. She checked the memory and was relieved that she hadn’t run out. This was pure gold.

  Melissa glanced up from the camera to find Mr. Conscience on the other side of the pool, watching her. She cursed herself for missing his transformation, even as her heart skipped. His gaze was locked upon her, and she could feel his disapproval across the distance.

  She had a feeling he would have something to say about her taking the pictures.

  She was pretty sure he wouldn’t want souvenir copies.

  In fact, she knew he’d want them destroyed.

  Fat chance. Melissa also had some pretty strong ideas about what she wanted. She had every right to document what she witnessed.

  Her grip tightened on the camera even as she stared back at him. She studied him, liking the fit of his jeans and the span of his shoulders. Dragon or not, he would have caught her eye anyplace, anytime. Her heart skipped a beat at the certainty she’d caught his, as well, and she wondered what he’d say to her.

  How he’d want to negotiate.

  Her mouth went dry at the possibilities.

  Mr. Conscience glanced between her and the Washington Monument, looked unhappy, then turned away. Melissa’s lips parted; then she realized his destination. He strode toward the monument and the sentries posted there, purpose in his every step. They were watching him openly.

  Melissa was curious. Did he intend to try to convince them that they hadn’t seen what they must have seen?

  It didn’t much matter. She had the photographs, which meant she had not only a great story, but the proof of it.

  And she had a chance to ensure that she got to keep those pictures.

  Melissa eased away from the pool, not knowing how closely Mr. Conscience was monitoring her. He didn’t seem to notice, so she backed away more quickly. She could see him talking to the one guard, his intensity palpable even from here. When she reached the shadows, she looked around with care, her heart thumping.

  There was no sign of the dragon working for Montmorency, and she knew Montmorency himself was injured. This might be her only chance to escape from dragons.

  Her gaze clung to the figure of Mr. Conscience, and she hesitated. Didn’t it just figure that he was the most interesting man she’d met in years? She wasn’t sure what to make of the dragon thing, but well, he was easy on the eyes either way. And he was living so definitely in the moment. She liked that he was so alive.

  Th
at was exciting, especially after the places she had been.

  But it wasn’t meant to be.

  Melissa took one last look, regretted again that they hadn’t met under other circumstances, then ran as quickly as she could.

  Chapter 3

  Rafferty knew the woman would run. He told himself not to be surprised that she was gone when he looked back.

  She had to be the kind of person who looked for easy solutions, at least those solutions that were easy on herself.

  And which yielded a profit.

  He had no doubt of what she’d do or try to do with those photographs.

  He also had no doubt he would stop her. He didn’t much care how he did so, or what it took to change her mind.

  Rafferty knew he could have solved his dilemma by beguiling the woman before approaching the guards, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it. Why not? He couldn’t explain his resistance and hadn’t wanted to explore it, not when time was of the essence. Now, away from the distraction of her perfume and her eyes, he had to wonder at his own choice.

  Why did she have this power to confuse him?

  How?

  Rafferty beguiled the two guards, easily convincing them they hadn’t witnessed anything unusual at all. In moments, he was striding away from the monument, feeling their gazes track his movements. They remained puzzled by his presence, but that was fine. He resented the lost time and the trouble of needing to track the woman.

  His senses were more keen in dragon form, but he didn’t dare shift until he was well out of the sight of the guards. No point in undoing what he had achieved.

  Balthasar, Rafferty was certain, had returned to Magnus’s lair. Or maybe he’d retrieved the car first. Rafferty wouldn’t have wanted to be in that Slayer’s scales when Magnus heard he had failed on all accounts.

  He still had to find the woman first.

  Although it felt as if it took ages to walk into the side streets adjacent to the National Mall, it couldn’t have been more than a minute. Impatience chafed at Rafferty, another unfamiliar mood. There was no sign of the woman, but the scent of her perfume drew Rafferty onward.

  It occurred to him that she wasn’t a very experienced thief to leave such a clear sign of her presence. That scent would linger for hours, and it was sufficiently distinctive that it would identify her to anyone with a sharp nose.

  Never mind a Slayer.

  Was it possible that she wasn’t what she seemed?

  Or was that wishful thinking on his part? He didn’t like the idea that he had helped a felon escape the repercussions of her crime. Should he have left her to Magnus? Rafferty couldn’t imagine that any human deserved that fate.

  What was the book Magnus said she’d stolen? Had she stolen it? If so, why had it been worth the risk? Maybe she didn’t understand the danger in such a choice.

  She’d know now, after Balthasar had tried to kill her.

  How many other Slayers were in alliance with Magnus these days?

  Rafferty quickened his pace.

  The woman had known the security codes—did Magnus know her? Maybe they’d been allies but had had a disagreement. If so, she and Rafferty were in the same company—he’d once been friends with Magnus, although those days were long behind them. He knew what it was to be tricked by Magnus. Did he and the woman have something in common?

  He wouldn’t think of the price of learning Magnus’s true nature.

  Instead, he thought about the woman. Just who was she, anyway?

  The scent of her perfume never wavered and never disappeared. She couldn’t have taken public transit or hailed a cab, because it remained consistent. She must have just kept walking. This choice intrigued Rafferty—and told him that her destination couldn’t be far.

  And it wasn’t. He turned onto a cul-de-sac, about a fifteen-minute walk from the National Mall. The scent led into the curved street.

  The street was a dead end, curling back on itself. The outer curve was lined with town houses, built in a Georgian style. Rafferty guessed, however, that their exteriors were stucco, not cut stone. There was no resonance of rock from the buildings.

  Stucco on Styrofoam, then. Why humans persisted in this kind of artifice was a mystery to Rafferty. It was cheaper but not worth the price. He disliked the lack of authenticity.

  Maybe he was just getting old.

  In this moment, though, he felt vigorous and vital. It was because she was close, and Rafferty knew it. He’d fought and he’d won. He’d defended a human, saved her from certain death, and there was a certain part of him that demanded such triumph be celebrated.

  In a very physical way. He surveyed the street, and his pulse increased with the certainty that she was close.

  The front yard of each town house was neatly fenced off and landscaped with formal austerity. The town houses all faced a small green space on the circle in their midst. The green space’s landscaping was in the same flavor as that of the houses. Rafferty saw that there were laneways at intervals, going between the houses to an alley behind. That must be where residents parked their cars.

  It was quiet, strangely still, and the windows facing the street were mostly dark. The snow fell in fat lazy flakes, spinning out of the sky as if time stood still. It was peaceful, even as the pending eclipse nudged at the edge of his awareness.

  The streetlights ensured that anyone who entered the crescent would be visible. Rafferty had no doubt that he was being watched from at least one house, and he fought the sense of walking into a trap.

  He strolled down the street, the snow stirring as he walked, his boots quiet on the pavement.

  Was she watching for him?

  From which house?

  Her scent provoked him, leading him on and promising more than he thought she would deliver. It tantalized him and made his blood pump with unruly desire. Rafferty couldn’t do anything other than follow that trail to her. He thought of sirens, singing their alluring songs and enchanting sailors to shatter their ships on hidden rocks.

  Rafferty recalled her fine bones, the exotic tilt of her eyes, the intelligence and certainty in her gaze. He thought of the way she’d lifted her chin in determination, the way she looked both delicate and world-weary. He thought of how slim she was, and yet she was tall. Statuesque even. Resilient, and feminine. He recalled how she walked, how the hem of her skirt swayed with the grace of every step, and knew he was not nearly as indifferent to her physical charms as would have been ideal.

  He needed to destroy her camera. That was all. He needed nothing else from her, and he would not linger.

  Nevertheless, his blood was pounding and his heart was pumping. Desire surged through his veins. He told himself it was the natural reaction to having fought in dragon form, and that the pending eclipse only strengthened that reaction.

  It sounded perfectly rational, but Rafferty knew something had changed.

  He knew this woman had a mysterious and potent effect upon him.

  A dangerous influence.

  Rafferty wanted to explore it, consequences be damned.

  That alone should have warned him.

  The woman’s perfume led Rafferty to a town house just to the right of the middle, a unit indistinguishable from its fellows. The windows were dark, but he knew she was home. He sensed her presence. Rafferty strode up the walkway and noted the number, in case he ever had to return.

  Eighteen.

  The door was glossy black, a stone urn to the left holding a holly bush carefully trimmed into a perfect globe. The red berries shone in the light from the streetlights, glistening as if they were artificial.

  But the plant was real. He appreciated its authenticity in this street of illusion and touched the berries with a fingertip.

  There was a brass knocker on the door. Rafferty hesitated for a moment, confirming that he was correct about her presence. It was an hour when humans normally slept. He glanced back at the silent street, inhaled, then knocked with conviction.

  To he
r credit, she didn’t play games. She opened the door immediately, her expression wary and her lips tight. He liked that she was direct.

  She was still wearing her coat, although she’d removed the scarf and gloves and unfastened the front buttons. “What do you want?”

  “The camera.”

  She almost smiled. “Forget it,” she said flatly, and made to close the door. Rafferty wedged his boot into the gap and saw the slight flare of her nostrils when she noted the obstruction.

  Then she met his gaze, unafraid.

  Her boldness made him yearn.

  And burn. He didn’t doubt that his gaze brightened, that the hunger she awakened was clear.

  “I’ll scream,” she said softly. “We have a very active residents’ association. I’m sure there are half a dozen people already wondering who you are and why you’re here.”

  Rafferty smiled and braced his hand on the doorframe. He leaned closer, taking a breath of her scent and watching her eyes darken ever so slightly.

  “I’ll shift,” he replied quietly. “Then you’ll have even more to explain.”

  Her eyes widened an increment. “You wouldn’t.”

  Rafferty let his smile broaden. The eclipse was close, close enough that it was easy to let the shimmer slide through his body. He knew he started to shine blue around his perimeter, a sure sign of a pending shift.

  Evidently she also understood what it meant.

  Unfortunately, giving rein to the dragon within only increased his desire to a fever pitch. He wanted her enough to do anything to possess her.

  Where was his temperance on this night?

  “All right.” She spoke tersely and turned back to the foyer. “I’ll get it.”

  He made to step after her, but she held up a hand.

  “Be serious. You’re not coming in.” Her glance was fierce, an interesting fact given that she knew what he was.