Fury of Fire

by Coreene Callahan

  He’d changed so quickly. Had gone from scales and fangs to, well…that.

  Six and a half feet of WOW. Dressed in leather. Oozing raw sex appeal. And the OMG factor didn’t stop there, either. She swore she could smell him. The scent drifted, claiming her attention and, unable to help herself, she breathed deep. Yeah, that was definitely him. Yummy clean male with a hit of knee-weakening cologne.

  Unnatural.

  Unreal.

  Unbelievably hot.

  With a slap, Myst hit the reverse button on her brain. No way. She refused to go there…into hotsville with a guy she’d just seen transform from a dragon.

  Think scales…think scales…think scales.

  The instruction stomped across her cerebral cortex, but didn’t make much of an impression. How could it with him standing there looking like a freaking cover model? If only he would move…start acting big, bad, and scary. She needed to stay afraid of him, but his stillness had the opposite effect. For some reason, it calmed her, slowing her heartbeat one thump at a time. What was he doing? Giving her time to adjust to his transformation…hoping she’d forget what she’d seen?

  She chewed on the inside of her lip. No chance of that. She couldn’t shake the mental image of dark blue scales, a spiked tail, and razor-sharp fangs.

  He was a walking, talking nightmare. A fascinating one, but…

  Mesmerizing or not, Bastian was still scary. His intensity added that extra special something—sort of like the special sauce on a Big Mac—to the OMG factor.

  Fighting the cold sweats, the old Mickey D’s song streamed into Myst’s head. She latched onto it, clinging to the familiar, and strained to remember the words. She could hear the music: the cheery jingle, the people singing along as they double-fisted their hamburgers.

  Pickles.

  Yes, it had something to do with pickles and onions. Lettuce and tomatoes were in there somewhere, too. Okay. All right. She was getting it, the tune and lyrics were melding, helping to slow the rush of adrenaline.

  Lettuce, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun.

  Yeehaw. She had it, along with the ability to breathe again.

  Way to go, McDonald’s. No wonder they sold so many Happy Meals.

  Held prisoner by Bastian’s gaze, she shifted in her seat, hoping movement would help her break away. She didn’t have to look at him. Eye contact, after all, was a choice, wasn’t it? All she needed to do was find another focal point, one that didn’t make her heart do the slam-out-of-her-ribcage thing.

  Her angel squirmed in her arms, making an adorable baby sound. Myst blinked, glanced down—breaking the spell that was Bastian. Still fast asleep, the newborn stretched, then frowned, his soft, arching brows drawn into a tiny pucker. The sight evened Myst out, reminded her of Caroline. She’d made a promise to her friend to keep her beautiful baby boy safe.

  Nothing Bastian planned trumped that.

  A crunching sound cut through the quiet. Black leather flashed in her periphery. Bastian was on the move, long legs taking him around the front bumper of her car. Myst tensed in her seat, taking in the width of his shoulders, the muscles roping his arms, the flex and release of his long muscular legs. The word invincible came to mind—echoing inside her head in all CAPS—but as he got closer, she realized something important. His approach was cautious, almost gentle…as if he was trying not to overwhelm her.

  At any other time, she would’ve approved. Appreciated the generosity. But not tonight. Trust wasn’t on the table. She’d tried that once—back at Caroline’s house—and he’d pulled a nasty surprise out of his hat. She refused to go for round two in the Ways-to-Scare-the-Crap-out-of-Myst Department.

  Bastian paused beside the driver’s side door. In slow motion, she released her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. She didn’t want to startle her kidnapper into pouncing…or make him come after her before she was ready. Curling both arms around the baby, she secured her hold. Tiny fists tucked beneath his chin, he snuffled, but accepted the shift. Thank God. The last thing she wanted to do was bobble him when she scrambled over the middle console toward the passenger seat. But if Bastian tried to touch her, flight would become her only option.

  The muscles in Bastian’s forearm flexed as he grabbed the door handle. Myst slammed the fleshy part of her fist against a black button. The locks engaged, the snick sounding loud in the silence.

  His eyes crinkled at the corners. A second later and, all by themselves, the locks flipped back to the open position. With a quick tug, he pulled the car door open.

  The interior light went on, glowing yellow as musty air rushed in. With a yelp, she planted her heels on the seat and scrambled to the other side of her Honda.

  “Myst…” Coming down to her level, he crouched in the space between the door and the car frame. As he met her gaze, he held his hands out, palms up in a gesture meant to reassure. “I won’t hurt you.”

  Uh-huh. Right. Like she believed that.

  Bastian wasn’t some fairy tale knight in shining armor. He was a kidnapper: the one who’d taken her freedom and might even now take her life. Only a fool would give him a clear shot by allowing him too close.

  Her chest heaved as she fumbled at the door behind her. He shook his head, murmured something, but she couldn’t hear him. Her heart was pounding too hard, taking up all the space inside her head. Only one thing registered. She needed to get herself and the baby away from him…to some place that was truly safe. Like a US military base manned by big strong marines with submachine guns.

  Maybe one of the Few and the Proud could get the freaking door open for her. Her hand was slick with sweat, and the handle wasn’t cooperating. Stiff from disuse, the thing kept jamming, making her lose her grip and—

  Her fingers slid off the curved plastic for a second time.

  Close to tears, Myst juggled the baby, shifting him to the crook of her other arm. She found the latch and yanked hard. The lock popped. Putting herself in reverse, she pushed against the armrest, away from Bastian. God, he was still talking, his eyes so full of concern Myst almost believed he meant it. Almost. But she wasn’t that naive.

  The hinges creaked, and the door swung wide. Momentum thrust her backward. She hit the ground hard, tailbone connecting with stone. With a grimace, she shoved the pain aside and put her legs in gear. Bastian growled. Her breath hitched and not wasting a moment, she pushed to her feet. Without warning, the head rush hit. She stumbled sideways as her knees took a bow and nausea turned her stomach inside out.

  Tasting bile, she grabbed for the car roof. Her palm slid and, grasping for purchase, she tried to pull back. Too late. Metal scraped the inside of her forearm as her hand disappeared into a hole left by the dragon’s talons, locking her arm inside a jagged steel trap.

  She sucked in a quick breath, tried to adjust, protecting the newborn as she slid sideways into the door. Razor-sharp metal sliced her skin. “Oh…ouch!”

  “Myst…baby, don’t move.” She flinched as Bastian vaulted over the roof of the car, leather coat flaring like bat wings behind him. So fast. He was too fast, and before she could react, he landed beside her—hardcore male loaded with just-kill-me-now aggression wrapped up in a pretty package. He moved in tight, getting up close and personal. “Easy…let’s get you free.”

  God. He smelled fantastic…like Lanvin cologne mixed up with gorgeous male. She sagged a little, going soft inside. Which just pissed her off. She didn’t like reacting to him on a woman-to-man level. It was insane. Kidnappers should be mean and nasty…should smell like dirt and grease and BO, nowhere near this good.

  In full retreat mode, Myst pulled up on her arm. Sharp steel bit, cutting the inside of her forearm. Not that it mattered. She had one goal here. Get her arm back and her feet moving, but…ow! That hurt.

  “Be still,” Bastian growled, his mouth next to her ear, his chest a breath away from her shoulder.

  Myst froze. “I can do it, just…don’t touch me.”

  “As soon as I ge
t you free, I’ll let you go…all right?”

  No, not all right. “Get away from me!”

  “Shh…relax. It’ll go easier that way.”

  Easier for whom? Not her. Bastian was too big, too strong…and entirely too close now. She was a heartbeat away from a full-blown panic attack. Myst could feel it gathering in her lungs, throbbing in her veins, tunneling her vision. Her teeth started to chatter. She couldn’t breathe. There wasn’t enough oxygen in the room—cave…whatever!—and she…oh, God…

  “Myst…bellmia.” Bastian’s hand found the nape of her neck. His palm settled gently, cupping overly sensitive skin. She shivered as a zing of sensation moved down her spine in a sensual swirl.

  “I c-can’t b-breathe.” Her muscles shook, loosening her grip on the baby. “I’m going to d-drop him. I’m going—”

  “No, you’re not. He’s fine with you…safe…just like you are with me.”

  The bass of Bastian’s voice came from far away, like radio waves. She tuned in, holding on to the fragile connection. It was stupid, but she needed his calming touch. Clung to each of his murmurs like a lifeline, soaking in his care as he cupped her elbow. His palm was calloused, rough in all the right places…like a man’s should be. Somehow, the flaw made him seem safe, putting him on par with human men.

  Not good at all. She didn’t want him anywhere near her comfort zone. And comparing him to the men she knew? Yeah, that landed him somewhere north of normal, smack-dab in the middle of her I-want-to-get-to-know-you radar.

  “Hold tight, baby.” With care, he guided her wrist past a jagged piece of metal. “Almost there. Rotate your arm just a little…yeah, like that.”

  She nodded, following his instruction. When her hand slid free of the hole, he aligned their palms, her right with his left. His fingers brushed hers, slipped between, laced them together, protecting her skin every step of the way. With gentle pressure, he turned her forearm toward the ceiling to examine her skin.

  “You cut yourself.”

  Making a fist, she tugged on her hand. “Let go.”

  He glanced away from the thin trickle of blood on her inner arm. As his gaze met hers, his grip on her hand tightened. Not a lot, but enough for Myst’s panic parade to start beating the crap out of her mental drum kit. Boom, boom, boom. There went her heart again.

  “Please.”

  “Promise not to run?”

  “Yes,” she said a little too quickly. His eyes narrowed as he picked up on her lie, and she babbled, “I promise…cross my heart and hope to die…” she trailed off as he raised both brows. She scrambled in full reverse. “Okay…not hope to die, but you get my point, so—”

  “Look, I know you’re dealing with some heavy shit here. I get it. I really do.” One hand still cupping her nape, the other imprisoning her hand, it was as if they were slow dancing, without the body sway or willingness on her part. He sighed, as though tired. “But, here’s the thing. You run. I give chase. In the end, we’re right back where we started…me touching you. So, let’s save ourselves the trip. You can’t win this one, Myst. You’re here. I am, too. Accept it so we can move on.”

  “I want to go home.” Crap. Not exactly a convincing argument. She sounded like a spoiled six-year-old. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to meet his gaze. “I won’t tell anyone, Bastian. I’ll keep my mouth shut. I’m an excellent secret keeper…the very best. It’ll be like it never happened. I’ll go home. You’ll—”

  “Maybe I believe you…” His pause gave her hope. He killed it with one quick slice. “Maybe I don’t. But that’s not the real problem.”

  The real problem? Bigger than the fact that she’d been kidnapped? “It can’t be that bad. Not enough to take away my freedom.”

  His hand flexed around hers. “You remember the brown dragon you saw tonight?”

  She nodded. “The fire breather.”

  “He was part of an elite group of warriors…my enemies…and one of his comrades escaped during the fight.” He shifted, slipping his hand from her nape to her cheek. He cupped her face gently, and Myst flinched as the pad of his thumb brushed over her temple. “Do you know what he’s doing right now?”

  “No.”

  “He’s telling his commander about you. About the baby. That Rikar and I protected you. You know what conclusion he’ll draw?” She shook her head. Bastian continued, “He’ll think you’re important to me, and that makes finding you a priority. Myst, you can’t go home. It’s no longer safe for you in the human world. Like it or not, you are now a part of mine.”

  Tears stung her eyes. “No…no way. I have friends, a job…a life I love.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Sorry. Yeah, right. He looked devastated. Completely ruined standing there, his green eyes steady…and not a bit sorry. God help her. It wasn’t fair. Not Caroline’s death, and her angel’s sad start in the world. Nor the fact she was trapped in Bastian’s stupid, upside-down war.

  As he released her and stepped back—leaving her wrung out—she closed her eyes and let the tears fall. She was more than a prisoner now. She was lost. Spiraling out of control in a place she didn’t understand or want to be.

  And wasn’t that the perfect nightcap to an already gut-wrenching day.

  Chapter Nine

  Calamity erupted from the bedside table, guitars riffs screaming heavy metal. Detective Angela Keen burrowed a little deeper into her pillow, trying to tune out the screech of AC/DC. It didn’t work. Brian Johnson just kept singing.

  Holy hell. “Thunderstruck” was fast becoming her least favorite song.

  But then, that was the point. The whole reason she’d chosen death rock in the first place. She needed a good kick to jar her awake, and the ringtone was the only one that ever managed it.

  Cracking an eyelid, she stared at the digital alarm clock. The red lines stayed blurry for a moment, then jumped into focus. Three forty-two a.m. Great. She’d only climbed into bed four hours ago.

  Angela reached for her cell phone, fumbled a second before getting a hold of it and flipped the top open. “Yeah?”

  “Wakey-wakey, Ange.” The gruff male voice came through the line loud and clear. “I need you on site A-SAP. We’ve got another vic.”

  Her brows drawn tight, she pushed up onto one elbow. “Are you sure?”

  “Same MO,” her partner said, his East Coast accent clipped.

  Not a good sign. The intensity of Mac’s voice always indicated his level of pissed off. And a tight tone on Ian MacCord meant one thing…another girl had turned up dead.

  A sick feeling settled in the pit of her stomach and, fighting clingy sheets, Angela shoved her duvet aside. She loved her job—she really did—even though someone had to die for her to go work. The problem here? Young women were the ones doing the dying, and she didn’t have a lead. Not one. A big, fat goose egg of an information string.

  Liberated from the cotton cling, Angela swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Ash pile?”

  “Haven’t found one…yet.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Corner of Yesler and First,” Mac said, sirens wailing in the background. “Follow the circus…reporters are already here.”

  Lovely. Just what they needed. Sharks already circling in the tank.

  “Keep it tight, Mac.” She ran her hand over the top of her head, ruffling her short hair. “See you in twenty.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  The snap of Mac’s phone sounded as she flipped her own closed. Setting the Motorola Razr on the bedside table, Angela reached for the civvies folded on the bench at the end of her bed. Force of habit. She couldn’t sleep unless her clothes were laid out, ready to go…just in case. Well, “just in case” had come about three hours too early. Not that it mattered. The investigation she and Mac had caught wasn’t a nine-to-fiver.

  Army-style chinos went on first. The plain white tee and button-down shirt got pulled over her head next before she reached for her Roots boots. The footwear was a thin
g of beauty, a rare budgetary splurge: heavy on comfort with gobs of style to spare.

  Stomping her right foot into her boot, she tucked her shirttails in, grabbed her holstered Glock 23 along with her badge from the drawer in her nightstand. After adding her Razr to the melee, she headed for the door. As she stepped out into the corridor and reengaged her condo’s double deadbolts, Angela ran her tongue over her teeth. Ugh. She really should brush—Mac would no doubt thank her for it—but with another crime scene on the go, getting there took precedence over fresh breath. Her partner would have to deal, and the Lifesavers in the glove box of her Jeep would have to do.

  In less time than it would have taken to find the Colgate, she was out of the underground garage and rolling down the deserted boulevard. Streetlights cast murky shadows, LEDs barely bleeding through the haze of night fog. Typical of Seattle, but Angela thanked God it wasn’t raining. The mist might be a pain, but reduced visibility was better than losing the integrity of her crime scene to weather.

  Ten minutes and two Lifesavers later, she hung a left onto Yesler Way. Her hand tightened on the steering wheel as she spotted the police cruisers. Lights flashing off gray brick, three patrol vehicles angled out from the curb, establishing the outer perimeter, keeping the growing crowd at bay.

  Yeah, the Thursday night club scene was a real Cirque du Soleil. And the biggest clown of all had come out to play.

  Even from half a block away, Angela could see Miss Thing powering up her microphone, cameraman following behind like a whipped dog. Clarissa Newton—pain-in-the-butt reporter with air in place of a brain.

  Angela shook her head, pulled up to the curb behind the cruisers. It was sad, really. The woman was a throwback, a bleached-out blonde who thought looks mattered more than intelligence. Had Clarissa used mental acuity instead of push-up bras and blow jobs to land her stories, Angela would’ve thrown her a bone and traded a little information. But the whole “I’m-beautiful-help-me-out” attitude annoyed the hell out of her. So, Miss Thing was on her own.