by Tessa Adams
Damn it.
How could they do this? How could they pull the rug out from under her? And in a form letter? The grant committee hadn’t even had the guts—or the courtesy—to send someone to talk to her about the mess.
She read the letter again. Donations to the university are down due to the economy . . . forced to discontinue numerous programs of worth . . . She would have bet her last two months’ funding that the football program hadn’t been touched. Or baseball or basketball or rowing. No, even here in the Ivy League, sports were sacrosanct. Untouchable. It was always education and research that took the hits.
She wondered idly how many of her colleagues had received similar letters that morning. Not that it mattered. Unless a miracle came calling, she—and her research into finding a cure for lupus—were SOL. Shit outta luck.
It wasn’t fair.
Life’s not fair, little girl, her stepfather’s voice echoed in her head. The sooner you learn that, the happier you’ll be.
As if she’d needed the lesson. By the time her stepfather had uttered those fateful words, she’d already suffered her share of hard knocks. Her father had walked out on her mother, sister and her, had simply disappeared with a suitcase, three changes of clothes and all the money in their savings account.
By then her mother was sick, dying of a radical strain of lupus that ensured she would spend most of her remaining life in excruciating pain.
And not long after he’d spoken, her sister had fallen sick, as well—and Phoebe hadn’t been able to help her, either. Hadn’t been able to do anything but stand around and watch helplessly as her younger sister died from the same disease, her immune system and body ravaged.
Phoebe had spent her professional life searching for a cure for the damn disease, desperate to save women the medical establishment considered unsalvageable. And she was finally close to unraveling the mysteries of the disease—so damn close that she could almost taste it. Another six months, a year at the outside, and—
And nothing. At least not without funding.
No, life wasn’t fair, and neither were Ivy League universities. After fourteen years as a student and employee of such institutions, the realization wasn’t a shock.
It was, however, one hell of a disappointment.
A loud crash behind her made Phoebe jump, and she whirled to face the back of the lab she’d thought she was utterly alone in. She turned just in time to see her good friend and fellow professor and scientist Libby Blake storm through the door. In her hand was a piece of paper that looked eerily similar to the one Phoebe held in her own.
“You’re not going to believe what I just got!” Libby fumed as she weaved between equipment and lab tables. “They’re discontinuing my grant. Shutting down my whole lab. And for what—”
She broke off as she saw the torn envelope on the table in front of Phoebe. “Oh, shit. You got one, too?”
“Sure did.”
“Those scum-sucking bastards. How many grants are they yanking?” Libby ran a hand through her blond hair, and her blue eyes flashed with a fire that was completely out of place in her ice-cold good looks.
“I don’t know. I haven’t heard from anyone else—”
“I know they’re yanking mine, yours and Margie’s, for sure. Richard gets to keep his, and so does Gavin. I don’t know about the others.”
Phoebe absorbed Libby’s words, tried not to jump to conclusions. A good scientist never formed an opinion until all the evidence was in. But still . . . “Don’t you think it’s strange—”
“Damn right I do. So far, the only funding we know has been pulled has been from female-run labs working on diseases that largely affect women. If that holds true across the board—”
“It won’t. The university’s too smart for that.”
Libby didn’t look convinced as she settled herself at the next lab table. “They’re not firing us—we still get to teach. But without funding, our research is dead in the water. And without research . . .”
Phoebe picked up where Libby had left off. “We’re useless to them.”
“Publish or perish, baby. It’s not a cliché for nothing.”
“We could try to join someone else’s team. Maybe Gavin . . .” Phoebe didn’t finish. After running her own lab for the past four years, the idea of working in someone else’s—as a junior member of a research team—held no appeal. The look on Libby’s face said she felt the same.
Long seconds ticked by as the two women wallowed in disgust. Finally, Phoebe asked, “When was your grant supposed to be renewed?”
“I’ve got seven weeks. How about you?”
“Ten.”
“Nice of them to give us some notice, hmm?”
Phoebe snorted. “Yeah. Right.” In the world of top university research grants, two months was a flash in the pan. Setting up other funding would take months, maybe as much as a year—if there was even funding available. Libby’s and her labs weren’t the first to have funding yanked since the recession had begun, and they wouldn’t be the last. Which meant the pool competing for private donations and grants had gotten a whole lot bigger at a time when the number of companies offering research grants was at an all-time low.
Phoebe reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a Twix bar. If there was ever a time for emergency chocolate, surely this was it.
She ripped open the package and handed one of the two bars to Libby. Then she took a big bite, savoring the blend of chocolate and caramel. She waited for the instant mood boost, but nothing happened.
Good Lord, she was too distraught for chocolate. What was the world coming to?
“What are we going to do?” Libby mused as she studied her half of the candy bar.
“Apply for jobs at the CDC?”
Libby pretended to choke. “Their bureaucracy makes ours look like playtime.”
“Try to find our own funding?”
They both laughed.
“How about hope like hell that something works out?”
The look her friend shot her was anything but impressed. “Yeah, because we’ve spent so much of our lives depending on hope. Give me a break, Phoebs. We need to approach this logically.”
“It’s pretty hard to do that,” Phoebe returned, “when the world around us is so damned illogical.”
“Yeah,” Libby said with a sigh, right before she sank her teeth into her Twix bar. “There is that.”
Dylan tossed back two fingers of the eighteen-year-old Sazerac Rye Marta had gotten him for his birthday, downing it like water and barely noticing the burn as it rushed down his throat in a complex mix of flavors. He stared at the tall, skinny bottle and tried not to think of how much he wanted another drink.
As the image of his sister’s funeral pyre—red-hot and glowing and so very, very final—rose in his mind, he gave up the fight and poured another three fingers.
“Uncle Dylan?” He turned to find Lana staring at him with tear-filled violet eyes so much like her mother’s that it made his brain bleed just to look at her. When her lower lip trembled just a little—as if her ability to hold things together was disintegrating rapidly—he did the only thing he knew to do. He opened his arms. She flew into them, sobbing.
Heart hurting, desperation and guilt churning like violent beasts within him, he held his niece while she cried and tried to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do now. His sister was dead, his second-in-command shattered. And his niece, the person next in line for the throne, was crying inconsolably. He had no idea how to make things better, especially since Marta’s death had left a hole the size of his fist where his heart had been.
He hated the uncertainty, the confusion, the fear that he wasn’t cut out to be king. Unlike his father, who had been born to wear the crown, Dylan couldn’t help struggling under its weight. His father had never hesitated. He’d never been uncertain. Lately, Dylan had a hard time being anything but.
Once, Dylan had been like his father, certain that his way was the right one. But that w
as before he’d watched his brother’s murder, before he’d seen his parents die of broken hearts. No, those times were long gone, and as his world fell apart around him again, he wanted nothing more than to scream for a little help.
A life preserver.
Something, anything, to stop the nightmare—or at least put it on hold for a little while.
But real life didn’t work that way. His entire clan was looking to him for guidance, and he couldn’t let them know that he was suddenly as unsure as they were.
He cradled his niece for a long time, rocking her and murmuring soothing noises that needed no translation. She cried for what seemed like forever. When Lana’s sobs finally gave way to little mewls, he thought he’d be relieved. But the sound strained his already aching conscience to the breaking point.
“Come on, baby.” He lifted her into his arms, and though she was nearly fifty—almost a full-grown dragon—she curled into him like the little girl she used to be.
“Where’s Gabe?” he demanded of Logan, one of his best and strongest sentries, as he carried his exhausted niece through the labyrinth of passageways that made up so much of the cave he called home. It was beautiful, like so many of New Mexico’s underground caverns, and filled with truly exquisite rock formations and speleothems that never failed to take his breath away, even after all these years.
But today he wasn’t thinking of the cave or the magnificent, natural art inside it as he strode toward the guest room he knew Lana liked best. Today, he was trying to figure out how to stop this damn disease, so that no one else had to suffer like his niece and her father were suffering.
“I don’t know.” Logan walked next to him, fading behind only when the passageways got too narrow for more than one person to squeeze through. “But he’s in bad shape, Dylan. I don’t think he can help her much.”
Of course he wasn’t in any shape to help his daughter—Dylan hadn’t even considered suggesting it. The man had just lost his wife, his mate. But he shouldn’t be wandering around the desert alone. He should be there with them, where Dylan could ensure he was safe.
“Find him.”
“Are you sure—”
Dylan pinned the other man with a look that could have melted rock—or at least a stubborn dragon hide—but didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. His wasn’t a monarchy that required his subjects to bow and scrape—particularly not his sentries, who were as close to him as brothers—but at the same time, he didn’t put up with shit when he felt strongly about something. And right now, he felt very strongly that Gabe should be here with them, not out licking his wounds and looking for a fight—or worse—to ease the pain.
“All right, then. I’m on my way.” Logan did a quick about-face, and headed back the way they’d come.
“Take Liam with you. And tell the rest of them to meet me in the war room. I want to talk to everyone.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dylan ignored the sarcasm as he turned the last corner and ended in the room he kept especially for Lana. He’d had it decorated for her years before in pink and turquoise with flashes of silver. It wasn’t much, but right now he could only hope its familiarity would soothe his distraught niece enough for her to get some sleep.
As he went to lay her on the bed, he realized she was already out, that the whimpering noises she was making were purely unconscious. The knowledge wounded him like little else ever had. He couldn’t even help her find peace in sleep.
Covering her with a blanket Marta had knit for her years before, he leaned forward and brushed Lana’s hair back from her face. Then murmured a few words over her. Right away, her breathing became a little easier. A few more words and his incantation caused light to bloom in the corner, illuminating the many precious gems set into the walls.
Only when he was certain that Lana would be okay did Dylan take his leave, rage and helplessness warring within him as he wound his way back through the mazelike halls. Inside, the dragon strained and growled, as desperate to fight this unknown enemy as his human side was.
Too bad he didn’t have a clue where to start.
The fire in his stomach blazed hotter at the thought, had his stride lengthening and his bones aching with the need to shift. He shoved it down. Now wasn’t the time. He needed the cunning of the dragon for what he was about to do—no doubt about it—but he needed the cool, level head of the human, as well.
Because, fuck this. Just fuck this. He had stood around watching his people die of this damn disease for nearly a decade now. One here, one there, until recently the numbers had grown exponentially. The clan’s best healers had been working to dissect it—to figure out what caused the mutations in their cells and to counter it. But so far they’d had no luck.
He didn’t blame them—how could he? They’d never faced anything like this before. After all, dragons didn’t get sick. They didn’t suffer from disease—at least, none like this. The fire inside them kept their blood at such a high temperature that the heat killed every germ that managed to get through the thick barrier of their skin, destroyed every mutation that threatened them.
Until now.
His healers—brilliantly trained doctors, all—were baffled, as was he. As King of Dragonstar, he’d inherited an ability to heal the most deadly injuries. But even his powers hadn’t been able to stand against the disease. Even his powers hadn’t been able to save his baby sister.
The failure was as devastating as it was infuriating.
Lost in thought, he followed the twists and turns of his lair as the passageways grew narrower and deeper. There were a few spots where he had trouble fitting through—sometimes being as tall as he was wasn’t an advantage—but he’d lived in this cave his entire life. After half a millennia, he knew when to duck.
His sentries weren’t going to like what he had to say. And they were going to be pissed if, in the end, he decided to go ahead with the plan that had been coming together in his head from the moment he’d watched his sister’s body start to turn to ash. But enough was enough. This had to stop, and he would do whatever it took to stop it.
His people would be safe.
He entered the giant cavern that served as a meeting room for him and his sentries. A war room, really, as this was where they came to plot their strategy against their enemies.
Today would be no different, though this time their enemy was much too small and tricky to be fought in the traditional manner. But that just meant they would have to be untraditional, have to approach things in a way they never had before.
Everyone was there already—save Logan, Liam and Gabe, whom Dylan hoped would show up soon. He really didn’t want to do this before talking it over with his brother-in-law and best friend. But if he refused to join them, if he was unable to get past his towering grief, then Dylan would have no choice. Something had to be done, and he refused to wait any longer.
As he contemplated his words, he surveyed the room and the men and women who represented the highest ranks of his government. Quinn was perched in his usual spot, on a rock formation against the far wall, despite the comfortable furniture positioned around the clear pool at the center of the cavern. He looked pissed-off and impatient as hell—also usual for the clan’s top healer and highest-ranked sentry.
“I’ve got things to do, Dylan,” he called from across the enormous room. His voice carried easily, the snap of the dragon’s jaw obvious.
“We all do,” Shawn answered. “So chill out, man.”
Dylan suppressed a smile. The rebel and the peacemaker. They made a good pair, helped balance out his council. But he knew where Quinn was coming from—they all did. He’d grown up with Marta, had been her friend since childhood. Losing her was hard on him, and he wanted nothing more than to be back at his lab, attacking the very thing that had killed her.
This time he’d have to wait in line.
Because everything in Dylan told him it wasn’t going to be enough this time.
Glancing around the room, he made sure
to meet the eyes of everyone there. Part of it was the fact that he was the alpha and needed to remind them of his dominance, but at the same time he was checking out his closest friends and most trusted sentries to ensure that they were weathering the recent problems.
With the exception of Quinn—and, obviously, Gabe—his council was hanging tight. Jase and Travis lounged on the long red couch, each holding a glass of what looked like Dylan’s favorite Scotch. Riley, Tyler and Paige were huddled in a close circle on one of the fine Persian rugs that had covered the cavern’s floors for generations. And Callie and Caitlyn, the youngest two sentries, were pacing, energy rolling off them in nearly palpable waves. He could feel their urgency, their need to demand that he tell them what was going on. But they had enough restraint—and enough trust in him—to wait until he was ready to talk.
As he contemplated how to say what he needed to, flashes of Marta as a little girl whipped through his head. Laughing, with her long hair tied up in a ponytail, as he pushed her on a swing. Shifting for the first time, her dragon eyes bright with shock and delight. Dancing in the desert after dark, her skirts twirling as she spun in circle after circle.
Regret was a knot in his throat; sorrow a sharp blade in his gut. With a grimace, Dylan headed for the huge bar carved into the frostwork speleothems in the corner of the room and poured himself a shot.
Marta would never smile at him again, never tease him, never roll her eyes at his escapades even as she rubbed a soothing hand over his back. His sister was truly gone, and it was up to him to ensure that the rest of his clan members didn’t suffer the same losses he had.
Tossing back the shot, he set the glass on the bar and turned to his council. His sentries. And in a voice that he made sure filled the cavern from one end to the other, he said, “I think it’s time to look outside the clan for help with this disease.”
Complete silence met his proclamation, and as he looked in their eyes, he realized that they wouldn’t have been more shocked if he suggested that they shift into dragons in the middle of Santa Fe at rush hour.
“We’ve been trying to find a cure for this thing for nearly a decade and we’ve come up with nothing—no matter how much time, energy and resources we allocate toward it.”
