by Jaime Rush
Dragon? Was that some kind of code? She played it two more times but still couldn’t make sense of it. She searched through the call log. First he’d taken a call from Brom. A short while later, Mon had called her and then Cyntag. Cyntag had called back shortly before she’d arrived. He’d tracked Mon down, all right.
If she couldn’t go to the police, she had to take matters into her own hands. Someone had to pay for Mon’s murder. She couldn’t ask Brom, but she needed to find out who this Cyntag was.
She redialed the number. If he answered, she’d pretend to be someone investigating Mon’s death.
A woman with a sultry radio voice answered. “Dragon Arts. How may I help you?”
“Dragon Arts?” That word again.
“We’re a mixed martial arts studio, with classes in self-defense, cane, jujitsu, and tai chi. I can give you our website address if you want the whole skinny.”
“Sure.” The woman rattled it off; then Ruby asked, “Does a Cyntag Valeron work there?”
“You could say that, sugar. He owns the studio.”
Oh, great. He was probably in top shape and could whip someone’s butt without breaking a sweat. But he had access to more powerful weapons than that, like supernatural orbs.
That’s all right. I’m going to find out more about you, Cyntag Valeron. And somehow, some way, I’m going to make you pay.
Purcell stepped into the captain’s office without knocking. The man bid the person on the phone goodbye and stood. The Dragon bristled at his territory being invaded without diplomacy, especially by a Deuce.
Purcell kept his singed palms out of sight. “Do you remember me? It’s been fifteen years since the last time I was in your office.”
Recognition clicked in the embers of the man’s eyes. “Yes, I believe you were identified as Mr. Smith. What can I do for you?” His words were clipped.
“You sent one of your best Vegas on that assignment for me.”
The man’s expression shut down. “The yacht.”
“Are you sure he completed the assignment?”
“The man and woman were not a big deal, but executing a child troubled him. That assignment ruined him. He quit.”
“Quit? After how many years on the force?”
“He was a Ward.”
An orphan pledged to the Guard. “You’re sure he killed her?” The child named Ruby.
“Yes.”
Purcell reached into his mind, just a little. Not enough for the man to notice. He seemed to be telling the truth. He was also angry over losing his Vega. The Guard tapped Crescent orphanages for their most promising Wards, mentoring them and luring them into service. Perhaps this man was the Vega’s mentor. “What was his name? I want to talk to him.”
“We never give out the names of our employees.” The captain’s mouth tightened with a hint of smugness. “I’m sure you understand, Mr. Smith.”
Purcell reached again, probing for the name now. Sin. Similar to the name he’d overheard in the conversation between Brom and Moncrief. He knew of a Cyntag, an old Dragon with a fearsome reputation who had served in the Guard many years ago. “Is his name Cyntag?”
People usually gave away their answer when you took them by surprise. The captain shuttered his expression but not fast enough. “As I said—”
Purcell raised his hand. “I understand. I had reason to suspect that perhaps he hadn’t done his job. But you assure me he did, so I shall consider the matter closed.”
His hand was on the doorknob when the captain’s voice stopped him. “Why was it necessary to kill a girl?”
“If we were trying to make it look like an accident, she would have been a witness to the fact that it wasn’t.”
The captain gave a quick nod of understanding. “But why would it matter now? If she was alive, what could she do?”
“Loose ends, that’s all.”
What could she do, a girl who had no powers? She could ruin everything, according to Brom’s vision. Brom had referred to a granddaughter named Ruby who was destined to save thousands of Crescents. Purcell would not wait another eleven years to accomplish his goal.
His phone rang when he stepped out to the parking lot. His son, who was monitoring the scry orb he’d planted at Moncrief’s property. “Yes?”
“The girl who showed up at Moncrief’s returned, and you won’t believe this—she is a Crescent. A Dragon. So she’s probably Justin’s daughter after all. I suspect Moncrief used a masking spell, which is why we couldn’t tell yesterday.”
Purcell stroked his trimmed beard. “You are, as always, late with your revelations. I’m sure she’s Ruby. You are continuing to monitor the scry orb?”
Darren’s silence spoke the anger that the boy didn’t have the guts to express. Finally he said, “Of course. She’s driving to an area populated with Dragons. Wait. She’s pausing in front of a martial arts studio, staring at it like she wants to incinerate the place. The sign says Dragon Arts.”
“Keep watching.” Purcell disconnected, then made a call that garnered the name of the proprietor. No surprise that it was Cyntag Valeron.
Chapter 3
Ruby sat in her truck across the street from Dragon Arts. She’d changed clothes and done a quick cleanup at home. Even taking that bit of time had stretched her tight. She’d wanted to drive right over and tear out Cyntag’s throat.
Those kind of thoughts usually disturbed her, hinting at a primitive violence that reared its head when someone wronged or threatened her. It throbbed inside her, curling her fingers into fists.
Get it under control. This is one bad dude. All I’m doing right now is finding out how bad.
The logical part of her brain added, A bad dude who possibly has control of bizarre and deadly weapons while you have a gun. Hullo?
But what else can I do, let him just get away with killing Mon and never know why? No way in hell.
Without that envelope, she had nothing but Cyntag’s name and the schizophrenic thoughts bouncing around in her head.
According to their website, he was teaching a class starting in—she glanced at the clock—one minute. While he was otherwise occupied, she’d snoop and be long gone before his class was over. She had no idea how much Cyntag knew about her. Because she usually wore her hair in a braid, she left it loose and frizzy. Not a big disguise but, at a glance, different enough. She had no intention of him seeing her, but best to be prepared. Which included her gun, the metal cool against the small of her back. She’d found it useful when she started going off-site to look at people’s stuff. In a city like Miami, no way was she walking into someone’s garage alone and unarmed.
Warm air washed over her neck, and in the corner of her eye, something shimmered next to her. She jerked to the side but saw nothing. All her hairs sprung to attention. It had felt like a breath.
Her mystery rash, which only broke out on the right side of her stomach, burned something fierce. Doctors couldn’t figure it out, and she’d tried every kind of medication to no avail. Stress always triggered it.
She stepped into the mid-September heat and humidity. The buildings in this area were old but in good repair. She spotted a Spanish/Portuguese restaurant across the way, and most of the signage was in Spanish with English subtitles. She generally felt like a foreigner in Miami, often one of the few Anglo people at any given location.
She caught sight of her reflection as she approached the glass door: cargo pants, black T sporting the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ asterisk logo, and black work boots that protected her feet if something heavy fell on them. The bandage on her forehead, that had to go.
Dragon Arts was first class, with a comfortable waiting area, natural wood floors, and halogen lights in frosted glass cones. A woman about her age, framed by a tattered pirate’s flag on the wall behind her, sharpened pencils at a tall reception desk.
Her dark pink lipstick and short, white hair popped against her raven skin. “May I help you, sugar?” The small gold plaque on the desk identified
her as Glesenda.
“I wanted to check the place out, see what classes you offered.”
She handed Ruby a slick brochure, studying her eyes. “And not listed are…” She did a double take, her eyebrows furrowing. “Well, you can see the listing for yourself.”
Well, okay then. Ruby devoured the flier, looking for one thing: a picture of the owner. No deal, same as their website. An Internet search gleaned several articles mentioning Cyntag’s name in conjunction with either his studio or some competition a student had participated in, but nothing on Twitter, Facebook, or any other social networks.
Ruby caught Glesenda’s eye. “I understand Cyntag Valeron teaches Cane Fighting Level One?” Whatever that was.
Glesenda nodded toward one of the large glass windows. “He’s teaching in the Sapphire Room right now.”
Ruby wanted to run over and finally put a face to her uncle’s murderer. Her breath left her with every step toward the window. A class of ten men of various ages stood in formation as they watched two men spar at the far side of the room. One sported a shaved head, was in his fifties, and weighed about two-fifty. The other—holy Jesus in Heaven. She sucked in air and tried to pull herself together. He was whip-muscular, wearing loose white pants with a tight black sash at his waist, his ripped torso slick with sweat. Gorgeous, dangerous-looking…and the spit-and-polish image of the Dragon Prince. Even down to his dark hair and the exotic slant to his eyes.
He had a tattoo far more fantastic than any she had seen, a dragon crawling up his back. Black and blue wings spanned his shoulders, the tail sliding down his spine to disappear beneath the waistband of his pants. When he shifted, she saw that the dragon’s head peered over his shoulder. It looked three-dimensional.
“Yeah, he has that effect on most women.” Glesenda wore an amused expression.
Not quite this effect, Ruby bet. Her chest was so tight she had to push out the words. “That’s Cyntag, the one with the dragon tat?”
“Sure is. Total hotness,” she said on a sigh.
Sure, if you were into men who sent murderous orbs. The hefty guy pretended to sneak up behind Cyntag, who twisted, hooked the other guy’s neck with the curved handle of the cane, and sent him flat on the mat in a flash. Unscathed, Hefty jumped to his feet and tried another attack, which was quickly thwarted with a pseudo-whack of the cane to his head. She watched, mesmerized by the stealthy grace of Cyntag’s movements, the way his muscles flexed, and how damned fast he was.
“You can listen in, too.” Glesenda pressed a button and then ran in five-inch heels to answer the phone.
Cyntag’s voice came through the speaker. “The next counterattack we’ll demonstrate is an assailant in a face-to-face assault.”
Yes, the low, smooth voice she’d heard on the message.
Ready to take more abuse, Hefty tried to punch Cyntag and ended up with his arm locked behind him and the cane shoving him to the floor.
Cyntag extended his hand and effortlessly pulled Hefty to his feet. “Thanks, Stephen.” He raised the cane over his head, which tightened his biceps, and addressed his class. “Looks like a sign of disability or old age, right? If I’m looking for a victim, you’re an easy target. Or maybe not. If you’ve got one of these, you have the ability to fight off an attacker with force. At all times, you can carry a weapon right out in the open, no permit needed.”
At that moment, Cyntag started to look her way. Ruby moved out of view, her fingers so tight on the frame around the window that she had to pry them off. Her hands were shaking as she passed the desk where Glesenda was on the phone with someone who was obviously calling in sick. Ruby glanced at a clock. Forty-five minutes before class ended.
She’d laid her eyes on him, all right. What was she going to do about it? The only way to take him out—if she could—was to shoot him from a distance, but that wouldn’t glean any answers. She was as desperate for them as she was for revenge. Maybe something here would help.
She passed a sign that read OBSIDIAN ROOM. This room bore no window. Too bad, because disturbing sounds emanated from behind the closed door. She tried the handle, ready to act contrite at interrupting.
Except, no deal. The door was locked. The thumps and growls coming from within were muffled, as though the walls were somewhat soundproofed. Those primal growls raised chill bumps on her arms. But more than that, they reached deep inside and twisted at her insides.
She rubbed her arms and wandered into the shop, pretending to look at fighting sticks, canes, and uniforms. Until she spotted a closed door with the words EMPLOYEES ONLY on it.
She pushed it open, prepared once again to feign innocence if she found someone on the other side. It appeared to be a break room and, fortunately, vacated. A door at the other end was ajar, and she could see a desk. Maybe Cyntag’s office. Inside, a contemporary desk was juxtaposed with more antiques, like framed compasses and maps that looked as though they’d traveled on many a high sea. No pictures of friends, family, or a special vacation. A collection of dragon figurines lined the top shelf of the bookcase, each locked in combat with either another of its kind or a man wielding a sword. Dude had a thing for dragons.
Ruby caught herself scratching the damned rash again and closed the door. She sank into the leather chair at the desk and searched for any clue to who Cyntag was and what he was involved in. Anything incriminating would be documented with her camera phone. She’d rifled through four drawers, finding nothing out of the ordinary, when the door opened. Her heartbeat shot straight up into her throat as she turned.
Because of course it had to be Cyntag standing there.
Chapter 4
Cyntag stepped inside and closed the door, his eyes narrowing. Cold dread washed over Ruby. How in the hell had he known she was here? He was supposed to be teaching. And she was sure that he hadn’t seen her. She launched to her feet and slid out from behind his desk. Every excuse or bluff fled her mind.
Thankfully he spoke before anything dumb could roll out of her mouth. “Ruby, right? Ruby Salazaar?”
The blood drained from her face. He knew her. Keep cool and answer him. She swallowed what felt like a ball of sand.
No. Yes. What’s it to you? What came out was, “Yeah?” Brilliant, Ruby.
He stepped forward, reaching for her. Her street-smart instincts kicked in. Mon had taught her to look for a defensive weapon in her surroundings. At the yard, she could always lay her hand on a shard of metal or a screwdriver.
Her fingers touched a silver letter opener as he brushed past her and plucked a cell phone from the desk just as it began playing Queen’s “We Are the Champions.” He ignored the call, and the song stopped.
Since she already had her hand on the letter opener, she went with it, pulling it out of the leather cup and rubbing the curves of the silver dragon handle. “It’s beautiful. Very detailed, even down to the talons.” She wasn’t used to going for the gun; if she had, she’d have blown it for sure by overreacting.
What’s wrong with you? Cool and calm, calm and cool.
Not working. Her rash felt as though it were on fire.
Cyntag eyed the letter opener, obviously nobody’s fool. “And very sharp. I’ll take that.” He tugged it from her reluctant grasp but didn’t return it to the cup. “Moncrief finally sent you to me then?” He glanced around. “He didn’t come with you?”
“He’s dead.” Which you know, considering you killed him. The words burned up her throat and singed her tongue. The rage, she could hardly hold it back.
Cool and calm, calm and cool, damn it.
His eyebrows, shaped like sleek raven’s wings, settled into a furrow. “Moncrief is dead? How?”
“You sent an orb, some kind of lightning thing, to kill him. Don’t play dumb with me.” The words boiled out. So much for cool and calm. “He said your name. I asked him who had done it, and on his dying breath, he said your name.” Now she’d accused him. He would have to act, defend…or kill her. She pulled the gun from her back and leve
led it at him, because the latter option was most likely.
An odd expression flickered across his face. “Ruby, what are you doing?”
Losing her mind, that’s what. Her heart thudded roughly in the area of her diaphragm, which was weird because that’s not where it resided. She grabbed his phone and thumb-dialed her number with the same hand that held it. Her brief outgoing message played, then the beep. She shoved it toward him with her other hand. “Say your name and admit it. Admit you had him killed.”
He was eerily cool, the way she should have been. “I didn’t kill Moncrief.”
“He said you did.”
“I don’t think he said that, Ruby.” God, the way he said her name, slow and smooth, like thick honey. “You obviously saw an orb kill him. You were upset, scared. Like you are now.”
She pushed the gun closer. “I’m not scared. I’m pissed. I know how to use this. I hit the center of the target nine times out of ten.”
“Impressive. Are you shaking like this while you’re aiming?” In a flash, he turned her around, shoved her arm aside, and tightened his grip on her wrist. His arms encircled her, his bare skin brushing against her arms.
A sharp click, then another, and the magazine dropped to the floor. “Is there a round in the chamber, Ruby?” his voice rasped close to her ear. “I don’t want to hurt your wrist, but I will if you don’t answer me.”
“No round.”
He flicked the safety anyway. “Then I suggest you release the weapon, and we’ll continue this conversation in a more civilized fashion.”
The gun fell from her hand, thudding on the floor. He took the phone from her other hand and disconnected, then set it on the desk. Finally, he released her. She moved as far from him as she could, rubbing her wrist.
He casually leaned back against his desk. “What exactly did Moncrief tell you about me?” Cyntag had a deliberate way of speaking, properly enunciating each word.
