Dragon's Rogue (Wild Dragons Book 1)

by Anastasia Wilde

  Some of them had been her teachers.

  “So,” the tall woman said, “do you have a description of this guy? Or are you just wandering around asking everyone in St. Johns if they’ve seen anyone lately who looks like they might have a penis?”

  Blaze kept her smile friendly. This woman either had something to hide, or she was just a class-A sarcastic bitch. “I have a sketch.”

  She opened her slim briefbag and pulled out the sketch she’d made, based on what she’d seen of the burglar that wasn’t covered by his ski mask. Which was mostly eyes and that annoyingly sexy mouth, so the shape of the nose could be wrong. He could have a mustache, or even a beard. Hell, he could have a birthmark over half his face.

  But she’d figured it was worth a shot. If she hadn’t found him or the idol at the house, she’d planned on canvassing the neighbors with a phony story about being a private investigator.

  Now she really, really wanted to see this woman’s reaction when she saw her shady boyfriend in the sketch.

  But Ms. Sarcastic Bitch was good—too good to give anything up. She just took the sketch, her expression unchanging, and studied it for a minute or two.

  Blaze dropped her left hand to her side and let the pendulum dangle again. Damn. It was still pulling hard, right at this woman. But Blaze could see there was no way she could have the idol on her. There was nowhere in her clothing to hide it.

  Was it somewhere else in the room? Behind her, maybe?

  The woman shook her head. “I don’t know him.”

  “Never seen him around? Coffee shop, maybe? Café? Grocery store?”

  “Remind me to start taking pictures of everyone I see in the grocery store.”

  Blaze’s ‘friendly’ smile thinned. Fucking attitude. Talk about people who normally wouldn’t hang around in a store selling unicorns and fairies.

  “Can I see it, Rebel?” said a soft voice behind them. It was the woman who ran the shop. Blaze barely suppressed a snort. Rebel? If anyone’s name fit her, this one’s did. Tempest came into the back room and Rebel handed the sketch over.

  The smaller woman looked over the sketch, gnawing at her upper lip as she concentrated. Rebel moved back toward the door to the shop.

  The pendulum followed her. What the hell?

  Tempest shook her head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in person,” she said. Then she turned those strange, beautiful eyes on Blaze again. “But I can see you two are connected.”

  Blaze didn’t know what to say to that. Was she a fake psychic, giving fake readings in her tchotchke store?

  Or did she really know something? A dart of unease stabbed her, thinking of the fragments of ‘memories’ the man had planted in her mind. Wild sex by candlelight could definitely be termed a ‘connection’—if it had ever happened.

  Rebel took the sketch back from Tempest, a faint frown between her eyebrows. “I’ll make a copy of it.” She didn’t wait for permission, just took it over to the tiny copy machine in a corner and ran it through. “Is there a way we can get in touch with you, if we see him?”

  Hmm. That was interesting. Now she supposedly thought they might see him. Like, in her living room on Maple Street? Her bedroom?

  Blaze fished a business card out of her purse. It had a fake name on it, and the number to a burner phone. Rebel took it. “Thanks. I’ll see you out.”

  Her tone was firm, and Blaze had the feeling that she was leaving whether she wanted to or not.

  Within moments she was out on the street. The shop door shut behind her with a jingling of bells. The ‘Open’ sign turned to ‘Closed.’

  Blaze walked to her car, trying to figure out what had just happened. Her tracking dust had led her to Rebel, and to the house on Maple.

  But Rebel didn’t have the idol.

  And Blaze hadn’t found the man who’d kissed her and jumped out her window.

  Was it possible this woman had also been in her vault last night? Were she and the sorcerer working as a team? If they’d both been hit by Blaze’s trap, it would explain why the tracking dust had led Blaze to her.

  But not why it wasn’t leading to the sorcerer or the idol. None of this made sense. Because if the sorcerer had blocked or removed her tracking spell, why wouldn’t he have done it on the woman as well? Unless he was planning on her taking the fall.

  Blaze had spells she could use to capture and question the woman, though she’d never used them. Even though she’d imagined stringing up the thief and making him talk, she’d at least known he was guilty. She’d seen him herself.

  This woman might be innocent. She didn’t have the idol, and the fact that the tracking residue was on her and not on the male thief was suspicious.

  Blaze’s teachers would have said she should go back in the shop and do whatever it took to get the information she needed.

  She knew she might have to go dark side before all this was over, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it now—at least, not yet. It was the idol that was important. She had to find it. There was no way she could leave it out in the world, especially without knowing who had it or what they were going to do with it.

  And this woman didn’t have it.

  It was the man she had to find.

  Blaze gazed at the closed door of the shop, then turned and walked back to her car. She’d keep an eye on the Maple Street house tonight—see if the man showed up there. If not, she had other resources—some of them highly placed in the black market magical antiquities business.

  And one of them was throwing a party tomorrow night. She’d been undecided about attending, but now she knew she needed to go.

  If anyone knew who her mysterious sorcerer was and where he might be found, it would be Jean-Claude D’Amboise.

  Chapter 13

  Tempest stared at the closed door of the shop. That woman had made her anxious. It had been a long time since anyone made her so anxious.

  Usually her stories kept that from happening. Her mind used to go crazy with what-ifs—things she imagined might happen that seemed so real. Stupid things, like what if she crossed the wrong street and a bus hit her? But then, what if she went down the other street instead, and she tripped on the sidewalk and broke her leg? Some days she wouldn’t go out at all because she saw so many bad things.

  Or what if that man sitting outside the coffee shop begging was messed up in the head and decided to hurt someone? She’d see it happening. And then she’d wonder, what if she gave him a cup of coffee, would that stop him? But in her head maybe it wouldn’t, and she’d try different things in her mind until she found one that worked, like coffee and a sandwich. Or five dollars, or a bottle of whiskey. And then she’d feel compelled to do it.

  Just in case.

  When she was seventeen and in the state hospital, the therapist had taught her to write it all down. Write it like a story. Write the worst things that could happen, so she’d know they wouldn’t really.

  After a long time she’d stopped worrying so much. She’d learned to control it. But then lately it had started happening again. She worried about the dark shadow coming to get Rebel. She worried about Mount Hood erupting. She worried that dragons were real, and then she worried that all the dragons were dead.

  She didn’t tell anyone that part. Not even Rebel. They really would think she was crazy. Crazier.

  Especially because none of the things she thought of to stop this new bad stuff ever worked, in her stories or in her head.

  Rebel brought her a cup of tea from the break room. Tempest took it and sipped, happy that her hands didn’t shake.

  “Are you okay?” Rebel looked worried.

  Tempest smiled. “Don’t worry,” she said. “If you worry because I’m worried, then I start worrying because you’re worried, and then it will go around and around until we both collapse from worry.”

  Rebel didn’t smile back. “You saw something when you looked at that woman.” She checked the card the woman had given her. Tempest saw it was already fray
ed around the edges from Rebel fiddling with it. “Elizabeth Montgomery.”

  Tempest let out an explosive giggle, surprising herself. “That’s not her real name.”

  “How do you know?”

  She shrugged. “Partly because I know.” Rebel nodded. She was the only one who believed that Tempest’s worries weren’t always just fantasies. When they were on the streets, she’d kept them out of trouble sometimes by doing the things she thought of that made the bad things not happen. Or by staying away, if she couldn’t figure out a way to stop them.

  “But mostly because Elizabeth Montgomery was an actress. She was on that old TV show in the 1960’s, Bewitched. It’s on cable.” She turned to look at Rebel, humming a bit of the theme song and then wiggling her nose. “She was Samantha. The witch.”

  Rebel rolled her eyes. “Seriously?” Then her face grew thoughtful. “A witch. The witch.”

  Tempest could almost see Rebel making connections in her mind. The sketch. The woman. Something else she couldn’t quite grasp. She asked, “Who was that man? In the sketch?” She knew, even if faux-Elizabeth didn’t, that Rebel had recognized the man.

  Rebel moved her shoulders uncomfortably. In anyone else, Tempest would have called it a squirm, but Rebel didn’t squirm. Rebel sighed. “It was that job I was on last night,” she said. “To recover an artifact from that rogue witch I told you about. It went south. Another thief was there, and he kept me from getting the package. Alarms were set off. I had to bail.”

  She could hear the annoyance in Rebel’s voice. Rebel was a perfectionist. She hated when things got screwed up, even if it wasn’t her fault.

  Robbing a witch’s house was dangerous, although Rebel had done it before. But if she knew who you were…

  “Did she see you?”

  Rebel shook her head. “I got out clean. But she must have seen the other guy. I mean, I can’t be positive because he was wearing a mask and I didn’t get a good look. But when I looked at that sketch…”

  “You recognized him.”

  Rebel nodded.

  Tempest said, “Was that woman who came in here the witch whose house you were in?”

  “Not if the picture in the intel was right.” But Rebel still looked worried. For good reason—witches and sorcerers could alter their appearance, if they wanted. It could still be her.

  “So, she didn’t see you, but when someone came looking for him, they still came here where you are. Why here?”

  “Good question.” The words came out slowly. Rebel was looking off into the distance, rubbing her hands up and down her arms, like Tempest did when she was worried. Or like she was trying to scrub something off her skin.

  This didn’t make any sense. Unless the things making Tempest anxious right now were true, and they were all connected to the shadow that she kept seeing in her mind. Rebel, the witch, and the other thief.

  And Tempest.

  Another stab of anxiety hit her in the stomach, and her fingers twitched, wanting to pick up her pen and write until it went away.

  Rebel asked, “Do you know who he is? You said you’d never seen him in person, but…” she let her voice trail off.

  Tempest nodded. She didn’t like to lie, but it was easier than you’d think to tell the truth without really telling it. Like she’d done with faux-Elizabeth. “I’ve seen him before.” She paused, then finished softly, “But only in my head.”

  Chapter 14

  Blaze lifted a glass of champagne from a waiter’s tray and descended two steps into Jean-Claude D’Amboise’s massive sunken living room. She had on her sexiest black dress, one that clung to her curves like a second skin. Her heels were stupidly high but they made her legs look fabulous, and her bra encased her boobs like armor.

  Her whole outfit was both armor and a weapon. Seductive clothing and makeup to draw the right people in, and a veneer of untouchable beauty to keep them from getting too close.

  It was a fine line to walk, but she’d been doing it for five years. Ever since she left her last teacher and set up shop in Portland.

  Ever since she met Jean-Claude, and he took a liking to her.

  The problem was, Jean-Claude was Jean-Claude, even if he liked you. Cynical, egotistical, power-hungry, and full of himself. Any favor he did for you, he made you pay for, one way or another.

  He was a powerful man, in all sorts of ways. Anyone in Portland’s magical community who got on the wrong side of Jean-Claude didn’t last long.

  Luckily for Blaze, she was powerful too. Powerful enough for Jean-Claude to have more respect for her than he had for most people.

  She didn’t delude herself that that would keep him from turning on her, though, if she didn’t suck up to him the way he wanted.

  The way he expected.

  She waited her turn while he laughed and chatted with others in the room. Blaze knew nearly all of them, by sight and reputation. Those she didn’t know were on the periphery, hoping to gain Jean-Claude’s notice. Not worth worrying about.

  Finally Blaze saw her chance. She cut off a minor witch from the Red Star coven who was making her way towards Jean-Claude, and touched him lightly on the sleeve of his expensive, exquisitely tailored jacket. “Bon soir, mon ami,” she said, giving him the French greeting and kissing him on both cheeks.

  “Bon soir, cherie,” he replied. “You look wonderful.”

  “So do you.” It was a lie. He’d aged since the last time she’d seen him, the lines around his eyes and mouth growing more pronounced. And his energy felt… off. Darker.

  No one knew how old Jean-Claude was. He was still handsome, and looked to be in his fifties. Blaze had the suspicion he was quite a bit older than that.

  This was the first time she’d seen him looking like he might be feeling his age—but she’d never say so. That would be suicide.

  “Are you enjoying my little soiree?”

  “Of course. How could I not?”

  She gestured to the room. It was filled with crystal glasses and crystal chandeliers, expensive food and expensive artwork. Expensive people.

  She was lying, of course. It all made her feel claustrophobic and a little nauseated, but she couldn’t worry about that. She needed information.

  “Where have you been, mon amie?” he asked. “It’s been ages since I saw you. Have you been hiding your acquisitions from me?”

  “Jean-Claude, you know I have no secrets from you,” she said, flirting with him over her champagne glass. Another blatant lie. They both knew she was full of secrets. He’d been trying for years to find out her real identity, but she and her first teacher had scrubbed that clean years ago, with a mix of technology and magic.

  He’d never find it. No one would ever connect her with the Silver Raven coven that way.

  “Maybe yes, maybe no,” he said, flirting back. “But I have been keeping one from you. I have someone coming tonight who is very much hoping to meet you.”

  He let that dangle, watching her face. Her heart lurched, though she managed to keep her expression serene. Years of practice.

  “How mysterious,” she said, accepting a refill of champagne from a passing waiter. “I’m on tenterhooks.”

  Jean-Claude just smiled.

  Blaze’s heart was racing. Had the coven tracked her down already? Would Jean-Claude have betrayed her to them, if they came to him for information and he realized who they were after?

  She knew the answer to that. Hell, yes, if they offered him enough.

  What would they do when they found out she no longer had the idol? How hard would it be for them to find it?

  Or did they have it already? Was it her they wanted? Revenge, maybe?

  She had to get out of here. But first, she needed what she came for.

  “I ran into an interesting duo recently,” she said. “Retrieval specialists. Small-time, I’m thinking, but maybe trying to make their way to the bigtime.”

  Jean-Claude frowned briefly. “New operatives? Here in Portland?” He looked displeas
ed, which meant he hadn’t authorized anyone new working in Portland. Interesting.

  “Rumor has it they’re working out of St. Johns. A man and a woman.” She was taking a risk asking Jean-Claude about them. If he decided to go after them, he could very well find the idol before she did.

  Jean-Claude shook his head and made a ‘tsk-tsk’ sound.

  “My dear Blaze,” he said. “Usually you are far more subtle. Surely you know information is not, as you say, a freebie?”

  “Of course not,” she said demurely. “I heard that you might be interested in one of my new pieces?”

  Jacques held out his arm, and she tucked her hand through the crook of his elbow as they strolled over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over Portland. She’d never minding touching him before—he was an attractive man, though too old for her. Not to mention as dangerous as a poisonous snake.

  But tonight she got a shiver when she touched him, as if something cold and oily were reaching out for her.

  Like that smoke from the idol last night.

  She was imagining things.

  “Could you perhaps be referring to the Dragonfly of Morocco?” he asked. Blaze smiled and inclined her head. There was no way she was giving up that piece, but he didn’t need to know that. “I must admit,” he went on, “it would make a lovely addition to my collection. Perhaps if I were able to tell you something you wanted to know, you might consider taking pity on me, and not driving such a hard bargain as you usually do?”

  Blaze laughed. “Are you accusing me of taking advantage of you, Jean-Claude?”

  “I am helpless before your beauty and business acumen.”

  “Who isn’t?”

  He threw back his head and laughed.

  She went on, “I might be able to see my way clear to coming down on the price, a bit, should you happen to know something of interest. If it panned out, of course.”

  She took a sip of her champagne.

  Jean-Claude shrugged. “I know of only one retrieval specialist working out of North Portland. But she doesn’t handle anything magical, so she is of no interest to me.” He winced. “Besides, her sister owns one of those horrible tourist shops. Crystals and ceramic unicorns or some such.” He sounded like she sold week-old roadkill.