“On a book?” Hot on her heels, bright green spatula now in hand, Amantha appeared in the open doorway. “Or is Attila the Nun breathing down your neck again?”
Elise swallowed a snort of laughter. Attila the Nun? Really? As curator of the rare book and paper conservation department in the National Museum of Scotland, her boss might be exacting—obsessive even—but honestly, Dr. Scott wasn’t all bad. Although…she frowned… Amantha might be on to something with the whole nun thing. In the six months Elise had worked at the Museum, her boss hadn’t gone out once. Not on a single date. Hell, the woman spent so much time in the conservation laboratory, Elise couldn’t be sure she ever went home at all.
Or owned real estate outside the rare book library.
“A new exhibit arrived today,” she said, tossing a tank top onto the twin bed pressed against the back wall of her tiny room. “I unpacked all the boxes to make sure nothing was damaged during transport.”
“Well, you’ve got…” A furrow between her brows, Amantha plucked her phone from her apron pocket. Striped peppermints cartwheeling across the back of her phone case, she glanced at the screen. “Three minutes to change and get out of here. Father Matthew might lock up if you’re not there at ten, like you promised.”
Stripped down to her underwear, Elise wiggled into her designer jeans. Even on sale, she’d spent too much money on the pair, but well…hell. She hadn’t been able to walk past without grabbing them. Elise smiled as she zipped up. So flattering. Super comfortable. Dark denim, perfect for every occasion. Just right for a relaxed meeting with a new client.
God, she hoped it worked out.
She wanted the job. The extra income would be nice, sure, but getting the nod from Father Matthew—and her hands on the antique book collection in St. Giles’s library—meant more than the money. She needed the reference for her resume. A letter of recommendation from the priest would help her land the only fulltime job available in the Book Conservation Department at the Museum. As it stood now, she was one of four interns vying for the position. With her degree in Applied Museum Studies—and a concentration in book conservation—she had a shot. But with less than a year’s experience? She flexed her hands. Less time on the job meant less employable. Elise sighed. The way of the world sucked sometimes.
So did the threat of going home.
Elise blanched at the thought.
Not that she didn’t like Ottawa. It was a nice city, the place she’d grown up, but…ugh. The idea of returning home with her tail tucked between her legs—of proving her father right—rankled. She was independent now. Much better off on her own. She’d fought too hard, for too long, to crawl out from beneath her Dad’s overly critical thumb. No way would she give up her dream of one day becoming the rare book curator in the National Museum of Scotland.
Not for her father. And certainty not for Gus Whittaker…the overbearing asshat.
With a scowl, Elise reached for her favorite V-neck sweater. The magenta cashmere caught on the coil of her low bun before slipping over her head. Gus. Elise crinkled her nose. What kind of a name of was that anyway? A wimpy one. An annoying one. One without an ounce of integrity, just like the man. God. Thinking about the cocky jerk made her want to reach for one of the battle axes in the medieval exhibit.
Gus actually believed he was a shoe-in for the job. He was so sure the head curator would select him for the position, he never stayed late or helped other interns. Not that she wanted him anywhere near her, but well…
Adjusting her sleeves, Elise smoothed the cashmere cuffs. Gus and his arrogance bugged the hell out of her. The rat-faced fink needed his ego smacked down and his butt kicked…and not in that order either.
Elise paused to look up at the ceiling, imploring the God of Payback to descend on Rat-faced Whittaker and deliver what he deserved as she looped a scarf around her neck. “I hope you’re listening.”
Amantha rolled her eyes. “Superstitious much?”
“Just a little,” she said, shrugging. “Never hurts to ask.”
“Well, do it with your feet moving.” Amantha pointed at her with the end of her iPhone. “Get going.”
“Yup.” Slipping into her boots, Elise shoved her arms into her coat and, adjusting the collar, brushed past her friend on the way to the front door. “I’ll call you when I’m done.”
“Good and—oh merde. I almost forgot. Hang on a sec.”
Halfway across the living room, Elise glanced over her shoulder. “What?”
Grabbing a brown paper bag off the top of the fridge, Amantha tossed it to her. “For Father Matthew.”
The bag crinkled as she caught it. “Muffins?”
“Cranberry-apricot. Fresh from the oven.” A sparkle in her dark eyes, Amantha winked at her. “His favorite.”
Gratitude punched through to grip her heart. God love her best friend. No one knew better than Amantha what impressing Father Matthew meant to her. Meeting her friend’s gaze, Elise smiled. “You’re all kinds of awesome.”
“You know it,” she said, grinning from ear-to-ear. “Now, shoo and…bon chance!”
“Luck’s got nothing to do with it,” she said, holding up the bag. “I’m armed with muffins. He doesn’t stand a chance.”
Amantha laughed.
With a wave, Elise snagged her satchel off the couch, tucked the muffins inside, then grabbed the briefcase housing the tools she used to repair rare books. Please Lord, give her the opportunity to use it. That’s all she needed, a chance to show the priest her skills and convince him the church’s library needed someone like her to see to its care. But as she exited the apartment and jogged down the stairs—hard plastic kit banging against the outside of her thigh—doubt poked at her. What if Father Matthew said no? What if he refused to grant her access to the manuscripts in need of repair? What if her plan fell apart, and she didn’t get the reference she needed to impress the panel of Museum curators deciding who got the job?
The questions tightened her throat.
Elise shook her head. No sense worrying about it now. Negativity never got a girl anywhere. She’d made a decision and set her course. Had told Father Matthew she would be there, so…onward and upward. Time to put some skin in the game. The priest was expecting her. Which meant she needed to up the pace. She had a fifteen-minute walk ahead of her, just enough time to reach St. Giles Cathedral, slip through the side door as promised, and meet her soon-to-be client.
Three
Silent as dead humans in a crypt, Cyprus cracked the heavy door open and slipped into the cathedral. A rush of warm air greeted him, brushing the night chill from his skin. The smell of old stone and fresh incense swirled as he stopped inside the vestibule. Conjuring a spell, he gathered the gloom, shadowing his form and, without moving, glanced around. He grimaced. A church. The rogue must be warped—or worse…brilliant—to lead him inside a human holy place.
Shifting further into shadows, he absorbed his surroundings. Solid wall in front of him. Two points of entry—one on his left, another to his right. Instinct turned him toward the double archway. Boot soles skimming over huge granite pavers, he crossed the threshold and mounted a set of shallow steps. Magic throbbed through the quiet, ghosting like invisible fingers across the floor to grab at his ankles. His dragon half stirred, sharpening his senses as he hunted for the rogue’s unique energy signal inside ancient stone walls.
He needed to locate the bastard. Now. Before he fled…
Or killed anyone else.
Muscles tense, ready to fight, Cyprus veered into the side aisle. Rows of thick pillars reached for the vaulted roof as one soaring arch flowed into the next. Fine-tuning his sonar, he surveyed the cavernous space. Nothing yet. No sign of the enemy, but…he swallowed a growl. Had he mentioned how much he hated human churches? The architecture was always so bloody ornate: too many columns, deep alcoves and fancy altarpieces, not enough open spaces. The building was a nightmare to navigate, providing the enemy with multiple points of escape.
&n
bsp; Inhaling through his nose, he filtered the scents, allowing his magic to mine dark corners. He cast his net wide, then gathered the threads and pulled. Intel rose up lobster traps being pulled from the ocean floor. His sonar pinged. The sharp sound echoed inside his head. An answering blip came back and—
Energy whiplashed.
An image of a male formed inside his mind. Right there…playing hide and seek near the front of the church.
His mouth curved. “Gotcha, you bastard.”
Footsteps light, Cyprus moved fast, using the towering pillars for cover as he ran beneath gilded chandeliers and past spectacular stained-glass windows. Reaching the nave, he glanced to his right. Back pressed to the east wall, an organ stood tall, immense silver pipes rising in the gloom. It was a nice piece. Pretty in many ways, magnificent in others. Probably sounded gorgeous when played and—
Cyprus shook his head. No time for daydreaming. Or being tempted by the promise of music. Any other night, he would’ve given in to the urge. Sat down. Let his fingers walk and the piano keys talk. But not tonight. Now needed to be about the rogue using humans for target practice, not his love of all things musical.
Hitting his haunches beside a wooden pew, he took a moment to scout the enemy’s positon. A scraping sound ricocheted off the stone walls. His focus snapped toward the cloth-covered altar at the front of the cathedral.
A thump echoed.
Cyprus’s eyes narrowed. Shite. Not good. The thud sounded a lot like a fist meeting flesh. Or a body hitting the ground.
Swallowing a curse, he spun around the nearest column. Pinned to the top of the pillar, a vertical flag fluttered, reacting to his velocity as he pivoted into the center aisle. Stone dust kicked up. The pungent smell of incense grew stronger. A vicious crack vibrated through the church. Clenching his teeth, Cyprus entered the nave and—
He saw the downed priest first.
On his back, sightless eyes turned toward a set of stained glass windows, the Father lay face-up in front of the main alter. Rising from his crouch, Cyprus dragged his gaze from the human and stepped into the open. No sense checking on the male. Or calling an ambulance. The priest was already dead, his skull cracked, blood pool spreading as his limbs twitched and gray matter oozed onto the stone floor.
Turning his head, Cyprus focused on a row of chairs behind the altar. A faint shimmer disrupted the darkness, helping him pinpoint the rogue trying to hide inside a cloaking spell. Rage simmered through his veins, igniting aggression and his need to maim. He shut down the inclination, refusing to move too soon.
Patience was a virtue for a reason. Avenging the priest’s murder would happen—eventually. A few more minutes of letting the rogue live wouldn’t hurt. It could, however, help him understand what the hell was going on. Something was up. Something big for the male to enter his territory and kill his people…right under his nose. So aye. He needed to know why first and save the violence for second.
Circling right, he left the priest where he lay and stepped farther into the nave. The shimmer expanded, then contracted. Cyprus stared at the male who believed himself undetectable. “Planning tae hide all night?”
A huff echoed through the quiet. An instant later, the rogue uncloaked. Tall with a lean build and shaved head, the bastard smiled, highlighting the blood splatter on his cheek. “About time you caught up with me, pretender. Slowing down in your old age?”
Delivered in a Danish accent, Cyprus let the insults roll right off him. No sense reacting to the idiot. The comments, though, caught his attention. One reference to his age, which meant the rogue considered younger better. A misconception, but…whatever. Let the bastard believe whatever the fuck he wanted. What interested him was the pretender accusation. What the hell did that mean? As the question banged around inside his head, the past came roaring back. Cyprus tensed as unease pulsed through him. What did the rogue know? Had he unearthed the secret he’d kept for over fifty years—from his blood brothers, from his pack-mates, from the Dragonkind world at large?
The idea tightened his chest.
Cyprus breathed through the physical lockdown, refusing to flinch. Or lower his guard. No way would he hand the rogue an advantage. Not here. Not now. Never, in point of fact.
Stalking forward, he herded the rogue toward the side aisle. “Want to tell me why you’re killing humans?”
The rogue shrugged. “Why not? It’s good sport. Humans make the most interesting noises when cornered.”
Good sport. Disgust rolled through him. The arsehole needed his head ripped off. Cyprus bared his teeth. “What the fuck are you doing in my territory?”
“Is it really, pretender?” Red irises rimmed by gold met his. An odd sense of familiarity chimed through him as the Dane raised a brow. Cyprus frowned. Something about the male tweaked his antenna. Seemed familiar somehow and—an image flashed through his mind. Bloody hell, after all these years and…shite. The resemblance couldn’t be denied. In the right light, the bastard looked too much like a warrior he’d once known. “Or did you steal this land from your sire? And mine too?”
“Who are you?”
“Grizgunn…son of Randor, first in command to your sire.”
“I know who your bastard Da was,” Cyprus said, voice so low it registered as a snarl. Goddamn it. Just as he feared, his past sins front and center, on display before God in the middle of a human church. Aggression churned through him. Now he ached to do what he’d done all those years ago—put Grizgunn down the same way he eliminated own his sire. “I hope he’s dead. Nothing but a pile of ash in a shite-hole of a place.”
“Asshole.” Temper showing, Grizgunn flexed his hands and stepped around the last chair, challenging him from ten feet away. “You are not the rightful commander of the Scottish pack. You stole the title the night you murdered your sire. My father was next in line…to be crowned pack leader before you maimed and chased him from the island.”
“Bullshite.”
Well, mostly. Grizgunn wasn’t wrong about his culpability.
Cyprus was responsible for his father’s death. He’d ended his life, executing his sire for a crime so heinous he knew his Da had gone insane. No other explanation existed. Not then. Not now. As much as it killed him to admit, his sire had lost touch with reality and fallen in with the Archguard, orchestrating the ambush and murder of his uncle—commander of the Scottish pack at the time—and cousins, Droztan, Conn and Forge…young males in their prime and his best friends.
The knowledge still pained him. Left an open wound on his heart and a mark on his soul. Time hadn’t help. Knowing he’d done the right thing didn’t either. He still longed for his uncle’s leadership and missed his cousins, carrying the guilt of not realizing what his sire planned until too late.
If only he’d listened to his instincts.
Cyprus had suspected something was wrong with his sire. He’d watched the slow unraveling of his mind for months, but hadn’t understood what it meant. Or how dangerous the secret meetings with Rodin—leader of the Archguard—had become. A strong male, his uncle had chosen a direction for the Scottish pack and stood in Rodin’s way, rallying other pack commanders, opposing the male’s bid to become High Chancellor of Dragonkind.
Hindsight. Cyprus clenched his teeth. What they said was true: it was twenty-twenty. Now more than ever.
If he’d known then what he knew now, he would have done things differently. Brought his sire to stand trial. Exposed the conspiracy concocted by Randor and allowed the pack to decide both warrior’s fates…along with the method of execution. But he hadn’t done that. In his outrage and grief, Cyprus had taken it upon himself to right the wrong. Instead of involving his blood brothers and pack-mates, he chased his sire down. Randor had been in his sights as well. The male had gotten away, slipping through his claws before he delivered the final death blow.
Now, the past reared its ugly head.
Grizgunn appeared to be the face of it.
One he wanted to punch a hole thro
ugh. Hitting the bastard would feel fantastic. Killing him would be even better.
He could have ignored the challenge to his leadership—forgotten about the past and welcomed home a lost member of his pack—if not for the dead bodies outside. The murders, however, sealed Grizgunn’s fate. A warrior who preyed on humans would never be welcome in his territory.
With a snarl, Cyprus fired up mind-speak. “Wallaig—get airborne.”
“St. Giles?”
“Aye. I’m nose-tae-nose with the bastard.” Gaze locked on his target, Cyprus pivoted, each stride a calculation, forcing Grizgunn to react. He stepped around the dead priest. The Dane walked backward, keeping equal distance between them. Smart. Good for Grizgunn, ’cause aye, the second he got his hands on the male, he’d snap his neck. Quick and clean. Brutal with the benefit of a high crunch factor. Merciful too, more than Grizgunn had offered the human priest. “Surround the church. As soon as I make a move, he’s going tae run and—”
“On our way.” Scales rattling, Levin took flight. “Distract him. Keep him talking long enough for us to lock down the area…close all avenues of escape.”
“Will do,” he murmured, keeping the link with his warriors open. The flap of multiple wings echoed inside his head. He closed the gap, forcing the Dane to keep pace. “Any last words, Grizgunn? Make it quick. I’ve run out of patience.”
Pipe organ looming at his back, Grizgunn sneered. “Bastard Scot. You think you’re so smart.”
“Is that right?” he asked, just to be contrary. Well that, and to anger the arsehole glaring at him. Chit-chatting with the Dane might not be pleasant, but it served a purpose. The angrier Grizgunn became, the less attention he would pay to the pack flying in to surround him. “Tell me, whelp…what else do you know about me?”
Fury of Shadows: Dragonfury Series: SCOTLAND #2 Page 2
