Fury of Fire (Dragonfury Series #1)

by Coreene Callahan

  A knot the size of Seattle settled on her chest and pressed down. Myst breathed through it and withdrew, putting the distance she needed between them.

  Time for some fresh air.

  She could what-if herself to death later. Right now, the garden looked like the perfect escape. She could lose herself among the tall trees and flowering shrubs for a while to think and plan…and snoop.

  Bastian’s home was enormous. A timber-framed monster with more square footage, locked doors, and coded entries than she could cover in one evening. But memorizing the layout was less important than finding transportation. She needed a car to get the heck out of Dodge.

  And where did most people keep their vehicles?

  In a garage.

  Daimler—bless him—had already let drop that the garage wasn’t attached to the house. So plan A included getting outside. The garden was the perfect cover for some covert snooping. Too bad she didn’t have any training in that department. A little Navy SEAL would go a long way right now.

  But much as she liked to call him one, Bastian wasn’t an idiot. She’d seen him speak to Daimler when he left the kitchen. Ever since then, the little elf had gone household commando on her. Out of sight, he dogged her every move, watching like a hawk and—

  Surprise, surprise. She wasn’t alone.

  Myst pivoted toward the butler’s pantry. The scraping, almost imperceptible sound came again. Jeez. Daimler wasn’t any better at the covert thing than she was. Bless his heart, though, for trying.

  “Daimler?”

  With a joyful hop, the butler burst through the swinging door, leaping into the kitchen. An icing-covered spatula in his hand, he waved it above his head, circling the thing with flourish. “Yes, my…Myst? How may I be of assistance?”

  Fighting a smile, Myst stared at him. Good God. The guy was agile…and funnier than any episode of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. Thank goodness for Daimler. He was better than a hit of Prozac for the doom and gloom department.

  “You can stop following me around, you know. I’m not going anywhere.” At least, not tonight. In three days, however? Watch out. By then, her plan would be rock solid, and she’d have the keys to the fastest vehicle in Bastian’s garage.

  “Oh, I’m not—”

  “Save it, Daimler.”

  The spatula drooping, he went from joyful to crestfallen. “It was not my intention to invade your privacy, my lady.”

  “I know.”

  “Master Bastian is concerned…this being your first night at Black Diamond. He wanted to stay, but duty called him away from you.”

  He wanted to stay…with her.

  Six words. Alone, they were nothing special. Together? They almost sent her over the edge. As it was, she was barely hanging on to her don’t-fall-for-him rule. But every time she turned around, Bastian was doing something she liked. Something thoughtful and nice. Which just burned her butt. Why couldn’t he get with the program and act like an axe murderer or something? It would’ve made her life a whole lot easier if she actually wanted to get away from him.

  Right. Escape. That’s what she should be thinking about.

  Taking a moment, Myst reshuffled her deck—the one labeled priorities—and got back in the game. Time to sit down at the table and play a round of What’s Bastian Up To? with the hand he’d dealt her.

  And Daimler was the perfect foil. Too honest for his own good, the elf would tell her what she needed to know with a few well-placed, seemingly innocent questions.

  “The house is beautiful,” she said, tone casual with just the right amount of curiosity thrown in for good measure. “And huge. How many square feet?”

  “Oh, goodness me.” With a twirl, Daimler retreated toward the pantry.

  Myst blinked as he spun like a top and, bumping the door with his butt, disappeared into the room beyond. As the door closed with a swoosh behind him, she sighed. Great. She was worse at the covert thing than she thought. Somehow, she’d tipped him off. Now, she wouldn’t get her questions answered and—

  The elf barreled back into the kitchen, a cake stand complete with cake in one hand, a glass bowl filled with white icing in the other. “Including the underground lair?”

  She nodded and, stepping up to the island, slid onto the high-back chair closest to where Daimler was setting up shop.

  “Hmm…” Armed with the spatula, he iced the sides of the cake. Myst’s mouth started to water. Man, that smelled good…carrot cake and sugary icing. The junk food of champions. “Twenty-three thousand square feet…give or take.”

  Holy crap. The place was much bigger than she thought and…

  God, that cake was driving her crazy. Reaching out, Myst rescued a drop of icing about to fall from the edge of the bowl. As she brought it to her mouth and sucked the sugar from her fingertip, she hummed. Daimler was awesome…one of the finer rarities on Earth. “Not including the garage?”

  Daimler’s gold tooth flashed as he chuckled. “Would you like a piece?”

  Uh-huh. The guy was in full deflection mode, turning the conversation around on her. Myst wasn’t daunted. Two could play that game. “God, yes. I’m dying for something sweet.”

  “I knew you had a sweet tooth,” he murmured, looking pleased.

  Turning toward the bank of cupboards, he flipped one open. A white plate made an appearance as he drew a drawer open. Utensils and plate in hand, he returned to the kitchen island. He cut a generous slice, slathered it with more icing than was legal before setting the entire sugar-high down in front of her.

  She took her first bite and moaned around the mouthful. “You are a culinary wizard.”

  He smiled. “And you are a very curious female.”

  Busted.

  Swallowing her second bite, Myst covered her tracks. “Don’t you think I should be? I have a life outside of all this, Daimler. One Bastian took from me. How will I learn about you…about them…if I don’t ask questions? If I’m going to live here—be happy here—I need to understand certain things…like how they operate, what’s off-limits, what’s not…don’t you think?”

  “Master Bastian warned me you are very clever.”

  “Oh, come on. Tell me a little bit about the house…about them. What can it hurt?”

  “Not a thing.” Spatula working double time, Daimler kept his focus on his work, making pretty swirls on the cake-top. “As long as you ask the male who is now responsible for you, my lady.”

  “Excuse me?” She stilled, a bite of carrot cake halfway to her mouth. The male responsible for her. That didn’t sound good. In fact, it sounded a lot like a master-slave mockup. One practiced in, oh, say…the flipping twelfth century. Well, fat chance. No way she would allow that. If Bastian went medieval and treated her like a second-class citizen, scales or no scales, she would skin him alive. “You mind explaining that?”

  Smart guy that he was, Daimler backpedaled, dropping the blame in his boss’s lap like a hot potato. “Master Bastian’s orders. If you wish to know something, you are to ask him.”

  Uh-huh, and Master Bastian could go to hell. “Well, he’s not here to answer any of my questions now, is he?”

  “I am sorry.” His gaze on the cake, the tips of Daimler’s pointy ears turned bright red. “I know the hours he is away from you will be taxing, but there are many activities to occupy your time. The game room holds many things of interest, and as our guest you may—”

  “Guest, my foot.”

  “But, my lady, if only—”

  “Forget it. You aren’t going to convince me, Daimler.” White-knuckling her fork, Myst locked eyes with the elf. Daimler was her best chance of uncovering Bastian’s plans. God knew Bastian would never tell her. He was too quick…too smart to show his hand before he played it. “What is he up to? Why am I really here?”

  “I do not know what you mean, my lady.”

  “Yes, you do.” Silver clinking against expensive china, her fork collided with the edge of her plate. “Don’t you think I have a righ
t to know…to decide for myself?”

  “You must ask Master Bastian these questions, Myst,” he said, his tone so quiet she barely heard him. With a sigh, his gaze returned to hers. Myst shivered, seeing the terrible sorrow in his eyes. “Please, my lady. It is not my place to tell you.”

  His sadness spooked her. Warned her. Made her want to run.

  Dear God, what did Bastian intend to do to her? Panic closed her throat as an awful thought crossed her mind. She wasn’t getting out of Black Diamond…ever. Not unless she made it happen. And promise or no promise, she needed to do it now…before Bastian got his gorgeous self back home. Before his charming, fast-talking ways made her agree to some other stupidity.

  He could do it, too…make her want to stay with him. Convince her to give up everything she’d worked so hard to accomplish. And she knew exactly how he’d do it.

  Gregor.

  He’d use the baby to manipulate her into agreeing to more time…just enough to snare her, making it impossible for her to get away.

  Myst shook her head. She couldn’t let that happen. Couldn’t give Bastian the chance to sucker her in. Once he got hold of her, she knew he’d chew her up and spit her out.

  Guaranteed.

  Regardless of his seeming concern and affection, she wasn’t one of his kind. That had come across loud and clear while she argued with him about Gregor’s name. Which made her disposable, didn’t it? A plaything with the added bonus of an expiration date when he got tired of having her around.

  Holy crap. She needed to leave. Right now.

  Feigning a calmness she didn’t feel, Myst pushed her plate away. The French doors stood on the other side of the archway, less than thirty feet away. Once she crossed into the garden’s narrow footpaths, the thick foliage would provide all the camouflage she needed to double back along the side of the house. The garage had to be out front, close to the driveway.

  The second she found it—and a car—she’d head for the city. Seattle would hide her. At least, for a little while. Long enough to figure out what to do, where to go…how to live so Bastian would never find her.

  She glanced at Daimler. “Thank you for the cake.”

  “Of course.”

  Her footwear clipped her heels, the flip-flop sounding loud in the silence as Myst slipped off her chair. Stepping away from the island, she gestured to the playpen, vise-like pressure squeezing around her heart. “Would you mind watching him for a while? I need some fresh air.”

  “Are you all right, my lady?” Daimler leaned toward her, concern on the planes of his elfish face. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Myst!” The deep voice boomed, echoing like canon fire up the corridor.

  The thunderous crack made her jump. Her kneecap collided with the corner of the steel chair leg. With a curse, Myst rubbed her knee, but she was already moving. She knew that tone. Had worked too many shifts in the ER to not recognize the urgency…the frantic desperation of whoever was shouting.

  Something had gone wrong.

  Just as she rounded the counter, Venom sprinted into the kitchen. Putting the brakes on, he slid to a stop in front of her. “He needs you.”

  “Who?”

  “Bastian.” Breathing hard, he stared at her, the irises of his ruby-red eyes growing smoky and intense. “He’s injured. It’s bad. Will you come and—”

  “Where is he?”

  “Rikar’s bringing him.”

  “To the clinic?”

  “Yeah. They’re almost here, but you should know—”

  “Later.” Adrenaline hit Myst like jet fuel. Kicking off her flip-flips, she rocketed past Venom, entering the corridor at a dead run, her mind working in one direction. Bastian was hurt. He needed her. “Venom…move it! I need to set up triage. Show me how to get down there.”

  She heard the huge guy shift a second before she saw him. Moving like an organized hurricane, Venom hit his stride, long legs working overtime as he passed her in the double-wide hallway. Myst upped her pace, pumping her arms, bare feet keeping time with the thundering echoes of his footfalls.

  Rounding a corner, she skidded to a halt behind him. This couldn’t be right. There was nothing but wall-to-wall paneling, a dead end that—

  Fancy wainscoting retreated into the sidewall, revealing a set of shiny elevator doors. The stainless steel sliders opened. Venom stepped inside the steel box. Right behind him, Myst watched as he hit the down button with the side of his fist. Smooth and silent, the elevator descended, giving her a moment to breathe…and think.

  God, what had Daimler baked into that carrot cake? Drugs?

  Yeah, that would explain her dramatic about-face.

  Two minutes ago, she’d been scared senseless, ready to run, to leave Bastian behind forever. And now? She wished the elevator would hurry the hell up. She needed to get her hands on him and make sure he was all right.

  No doubt about it. She was officially AWOL, her priorities on the wrong side of the proverbial fence.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Standing behind the one-way glass, Angela watched Jennifer Lopez’s look-alike pace on the other side. Interrogation Room One could do that to a person. Cramped and stuffy, the dingy space felt more like a coffin than a room, but…

  That was the point.

  Interrogation 101…drive suspects crazy. Make them want to spill their guts before a single question got asked.

  So far, the tried and true seemed to be working. Her suspect was antsy. The problem? Angela didn’t know if Tania Solares deserved her stay in Homicide’s little patch of heaven. She should probably feel guilty about that…about putting the brunette in the hot seat and leaving her there to stew. And she would. Later. And only if she cleared Ms. Solares of any wrongdoing.

  But right now? She was a person of interest in a homicide investigation. One who’d called in sick, ignored the messages on her cell phone, and been in the wind all day.

  The behavior upped the voltage on Angela’s suspicion meter. What had Myst Munroe’s BFF been doing? Helping her friend get out of town?

  The kicker, though? The thing that absolutely floored her? After combing the city for Solares and coming up empty, their quarry had walked into the SPD precinct about—Angela checked her watch—oh, about half an hour ago.

  “Are they out of their flipping minds?” Solares muttered.

  Probably, Angela thought as she glanced at her notes on Solares. The stats read like a rap sheet without the criminal element: twenty-eight years old, lived alone, a landscape architect with a shoe fetish.

  Okay, so she’d made up the shoe thing, but…really. It didn’t take a brainiac to figure it out. Solares was more than just fashion forward. The brunette was a force of nature. A one-woman wrecking crew in her pinstriped pencil skirt, button-down top, and black stiletto boots.

  Gucci, most likely.

  Angela stole another look at the gorgeous footwear. Yeah, definitely. That leather looked butter soft.

  So did Mac. At least, in the head.

  She caught a glimpse of her partner’s expression from the corner of her eye. No doubt about it. His killer instinct was nowhere near killer at the moment.

  Angela stifled a snort. The guy was practically drooling. Had been since the gorgeous Ms. Solares walked her curvaceous body into their less-than-elegant office. Under normal circumstances, Angela would’ve found his reaction to the brunette funny.

  Not today.

  Right now, she wanted answers, not a testosterone-induced stupor. She didn’t have time to screw around. Four women were dead. A baby was missing. And with their prime suspect still at large? Yeah, Mac needed to get with the program. Because, like it or not, the BFF would be talking to them. Dishing all she knew on the mysterious Myst Munroe.

  Snapping the leather-bound notepad closed, Angela headed for the door. She bumped Mac on the way out, brushing his shoulder with hers. “You gonna keep it together in there, Irish? Or am I doing this alone?”

  “I’m good.” A sheepish loo
k on his face, he followed her out the door. “You’re leading, though.”

  Her mouth tipped up at the corners. Yeah, like there’d been any doubt of that. With his trademark cool-guy demeanor out of commission, Mac was more liability than asset in the interview process. Still, she wanted him with her. Mac’s skill at picking up cues—interpreting subtle shifts in body language—made psychic ability look like child’s play.

  Cranking the knob, Angela pushed the door wide and stepped into IR one. Stale air peppered with the smell of spearmint greeted her as Solares spun on three-inch heels. A grim look on her face, the brunette plopped her Versace handbag on the scarred tabletop. Snapping her gum, she drilled Angela with her dark brown eyes.

  “What’s going on?”

  “You’re a hard woman to find, Ms. Solares.” Angela met the brunette’s gaze head-on, giving as good as she got. “Where’ve you been all day?”

  “Around.” Solares crossed her arms over her chest.

  Hmm…and wasn’t her body language interesting? Defensive and nervous. Maybe even a little guilt-laden.

  Good.

  Uncomfortable was exactly how Angela wanted her.

  Hard-ass wasn’t really her style. Mac always handled the rough-edged interviews, but that didn’t mean Angela wasn’t good at it. Putting the thumb screws to a suspect was part of the job. As necessary a weapon as the Glock holstered at the small of her back.

  “Detective Keen, Homicide.” Brushing the bottom edge of her leather coat aside, she flashed the badge clipped to her belt before tipping her chin in Mac’s direction. “My partner, Detective MacCord.”

  Solares frowned. “Homicide?”

  Walking toward the table set in the center of the room, Angela paused beside a plastic chair. She glanced at the monstrous handbag now crowding her interview real estate. The big-ticket item suited the woman. Solares was high profile and higher maintenance. Normally, not a problem for Angela. This one, though, was whipcord smart. Intelligent in the way a knife was sharp. And as Solares’s eyes cut to where she stood, Angela felt the sting.