The fire covered Nash all right, as he stood unmoving. Nash lit up like a halo, a being surrounded by St. Elmo’s fire. Then the flame imploded, rushed into the depths of Nash’s body, and winked out.
Drake stared at him in astonishment then moved his gaze to the shotgun Nash aimed directly at his chest.
Chapter Seven
Drake and Nash had met before, and neither had thought much of the other then. They were too much alike, dragon and man, both with sticks up their asses.
Drake’s naked state didn’t faze Nash. Nash had once been the biggest Unbeliever in Hopi County, but during the past year or so, he’d become used to seeing grown men standing around unashamedly nude after they’d shifted. He held his shotgun steady, looking unwaveringly down its barrel at Drake.
“Whatever is going on here, you don’t belong,” Nash said in a voice as sharp as winter wind. “Take yourself back to your big house in New Mexico, and don’t interfere in our business.”
Colby barked a laugh. “Oh hey, I’m enjoying this.”
“You too,” Nash said. “I don’t mind arresting both of you, so you can leave, or you can spend the night in my lockup.”
“I want the Nightwalker.” Drake’s body was covered in bruises and burn marks, but the fight hadn’t defeated him. “He has stolen from us.”
Mick said firmly, “And I’ll question him about it.” He was bruised from the fight as well, but barely breathing hard. “I told you, if he’s stolen from the dragon compound, I’ll bring back whatever he’s taken.”
Drake did not like that at all. The stick wedged even higher in his butt, and his dark eyes went ice cold. Usually, Drake enjoyed letting minions do work for him—not that Mick was in any way a minion to Drake—and the fact that he didn’t want to delegate meant that Drake wasn’t too pleased for Mick to find out what Ansel had taken.
Drake gave Mick an evil stare. “If he has it, you bring it to me. No one else. Understand?”
“I’ll let you know what I find out,” Mick said evenly.
Drake had to be satisfied with that. He turned his back on us and walked away, no goodbyes, no parting shots. His body faded into darkness, and from that darkness, a black dragon rose into the sky.
Colby watched him go then turned back to me. “See you, Janet.” He balled his fists and tapped them to mine. “Don’t be a stranger. Please.”
He jogged down the east side of the railroad bed in Drake’s wake, shrouded himself in darkness, then shot into the air as soon as he became dragon, winging his way after Drake. He was spellbound to Drake and the dragon compound by magic—he couldn’t simply fly off in the other direction.
Nash shouldered his shotgun. “Where is Ansel?” he asked Mick. “If he did take something, he’ll have to relinquish it.”
I didn’t answer, preferring Mick and me to take care of this, but Elena said, “He’s in his room in the basement. He’s hiding there.”
“Elena,” I said in dismay. “I thought he was under your protection.”
“He is.” Elena raised her hand again, and the magical barrier she’d put around the hotel receded and vanished. “But only from the Firewalkers. I don’t like Firewalkers, Mick excepted. I also don’t like thieves. Or Nightwalkers.”
She started to walk away, but I stepped in front of her, a dangerous thing to do. “If you could protect against the flames, why didn’t you do it in the first place?”
“I didn’t get a barrier in place in time when the dragon first flamed it,” she said, studying me calmly. “I was taken by surprise. And it’s a defensive shell, not a fire extinguisher. My magic isn’t all-encompassing.”
Finished, Elena stepped around me, climbed back down the bank and walked away. The saloon fire was out now, defeated by more mundane means, white smoke drifting into the darkness.
“Nash,” I began.
Nash turned his gray-eyed stare at me. “Don’t piss me off, Janet. I’ve had a hell of a day, and it ends with me hearing your hotel is on fire.”
“We took care of it,” I said.
Nash studied the smoldering remains of my saloon. “Sure, I can see that. Now, I’m going in there to talk to Ansel.”
Mick stepped in front of him. “I’d rather you didn’t.”
Nash had come to respect Mick, one of the few people he did respect, but he didn’t waver. “I had a woman in my office today, hysterically claiming that her sister had been abducted and killed by a vampire. Now your dragon friend wants a piece of your Nightwalker, not to mention the dragon tries to burn him out. All that makes it my business.”
Mick didn’t move. “If Ansel has stolen any dragon secrets, I’ll have to ask you to be bound to silence. There are things we can’t afford to have humans know.”
“I’ll think about it.” Nash moved around him, his badge glinting in the starlight, and headed for the hotel without waiting for us.
I didn’t like any of this, but no one had asked my opinion. My hotel had gotten fried, and Ansel was there on my sufferance, but did my dragon boyfriend or pain-in-my-ass sheriff think of any of that?
Ahead of us, Nash broke into a run. After he paused step, Mick did too.
I didn’t see what had startled them, but I figured it couldn’t be good, so I hurried after them. Mick could run like an Olympic sprinter, and he passed Nash and reached the hotel first, me panting to catch up.
A crossbow bolt flew out of the darkness at the back door and thunked into Mick’s chest. Mick flinched from the blow but didn’t stop. I doubled my efforts and reached Mick in time to see him pull the long bolt from his chest and drop the blood-coated thing on the ground.
The slayer who’d fired it stared at Mick in amazement, then he found Nash’s shotgun in his face. “Drop it,” Nash said in clipped tones.
The crossbow followed the bolt to the dirt. The slayer—not Rory, but a new guy—raised his hands, then scowled when Nash twisted his arms behind his back and clipped handcuffs onto his wrists.
“What are you doing?” the slayer asked in amazement.
“Arresting you for assault with a deadly weapon,” Nash said.
“I didn’t hurt the guy.” He jerked his chin at Mick who still stood upright, in spite of the bloodstained hole in his T-shirt.
“It went pretty deep, actually,” Mick said. “I have to go.”
I knew what he meant. Mick could withstand bad injuries, but only if he turned into a dragon to heal himself.
Without further word, Mick kissed the top of my head and walked away from us, disappearing into the desert. I watched worriedly, but he vanished almost at once, and I turned my attention back to the slayer.
“There’s a Nightwalker in there,” the slayer said. “Do you understand what that means? A vampire. He’ll suck you dry and crush your bones. You want him to get his teeth into this little lady here? He’ll rape her before he drains her. That’s what they do.”
“She can handle herself,” Nash said dryly. “Assault and attempted murder are assault and attempted murder. I don’t give a crap whether it’s against a human being, a Nightwalker, or something in between. You have the right to a defense attorney. Good luck finding one who believes vampires are real.”
The slayer looked outraged, as though he thought Nash should be on his side. Maybe law-enforcement officials elsewhere—the ones who believed in the supernatural, that is—did assist slayers, but this was Nash. He ran his county like Captain Bligh of the Bounty, and Nash hated vigilantes.
Nash half pushed, half dragged the slayer across the gravel to his waiting SUV and shoved him into the back. Then he perched in the driver’s seat to call in the arrest or whatever, leaving me relatively alone.
The slayer had left chalk marks on the doorframe, advertising his intent. I rubbed them off and went inside, leaving the door unlocked for Mick’s return.
The stench of burned saloon was sharp, but the hall and my private rooms held no smoke. Maybe Elena’s shield had kept out the smoke, maybe the solid wall between the saloon an
d hotel had. Whichever, I was grateful.
I went into the bathroom and washed my hands, surprised but thankful the water was still on. The saloon ran on a different set of pipes, but I wouldn’t know the extent of the plumbing damage until Fremont went over it.
The mirror reflected my face smeared with dirt and blood, a hunk of hair singed where I hadn’t leapt away from Drake and Mick’s fire battle fast enough.
I touched the mirror with one damp finger. “Are you all right in there?”
No answer. No wailing or dramatic moaning, no screeching obscenities. The mirror might have gone dormant to preserve itself, or it might be sulking.
I dried my hands, caught up one of my lantern flashlights, and went to check on my next patient. The firemen were moving around the saloon, and my guests were still out front—the firemen wouldn’t dare let them back in until they were certain all was well.
No one saw me slip through the dark doorway marked “Private” that led to the basement. I didn’t flip on the light as I went down, fearing to short out something and start another fire.
I used the flashlight to make my way down the stairs to the basement, a place which never failed to give me the creeps. We’d cleaned it out and repaired it after the last fiasco, putting in fresh drywall over the brick and studs. Maya and I had painted it a nice ivory that went well with the brick floors. It still gave me the creeps.
One room down here was for maintenance—the generators, water heaters, circuit breakers, and so forth. A smaller room in the very back was locked with a padlock. Elena, Mick, I, and no one else had the keys. Behind that door lay a pool of very powerful magic—shaman magic had been poured into it and built up over generations. I had no idea why an ordinary door, purchased at a hardware store in Winslow, would keep it contained, but Elena had assured me that this was the case.
The third door, on the other side of the large open area at the base of the stairs, now contained Ansel’s bedroom. I walked to it, shining my flashlight into the corners. Though Mick and I had warded this place well—and I could see the faint shimmer of our marks on every beam—I knew better than to let down my guard.
“Ansel?” I called before I reached his door. “Everything should be all right now, but I need to talk to you.”
No answer. I opened the door, finding the light on—so the electricity did still work. I’d taken one step inside before I realized that I’d just made a big, big mistake.
A slender hand with the strength of angels clamped around my neck, and I was slammed into the wall next to the door. I looked up into Ansel’s red-tinged eyes, his lips pulled back from long, nasty fangs.
“Hungry,” he said.
“Ansel!” I shouted.
“Shut up!” He shook me, his hand cutting off my air. “I’m sick to death of your grating, whining voice. I’m going to bathe in your blood.”
“You didn’t kill Laura,” I struggled to say. “She’s alive.”
For a split second, sanity flickered into his eyes, the brown of the mild-mannered Ansel returning. For a second. Then the Nightwalker reemerged.
“You’re good at lying. I hope you kissed your lover goodbye.”
He opened his mouth. Nightwalkers, when they are about to kill, elongate their mouths into long, narrow maws, like wolves—all the better to eat you with.
I worked a spark of Beneath magic into my hands, the spinning white ball the size of a marble. Ansel hadn’t fed on human flesh in a long, long time, and I knew he wouldn’t be sated with my blood alone. Once he got human blood inside him, he’d go on a rampage. All those people milled around upstairs—Mick was away healing himself, and Cassandra had gone home long ago—no one to protect them.
“I’m sorry, Ansel,” I said. “I always counted you as a friend.” I brought up my hand to flick the ball into his heart.
A plastic jug full of red liquid was thrust between my face and Ansel’s. I gagged on the stench. Cow’s blood. Lots of it.
Ansel slackened his grip on my throat just enough for me to twist out of it. I turned around, panting, and saw Elena holding under Ansel’s nose the jug of cow’s blood Mick had put into Ansel’s mini fridge.
I held my breath, and not just because of the smell. Last spring, we’d offered the blood-frenzied Ansel cow’s blood to calm him down, and he’d spit it out in rage. He’d gone into blood frenzy that time because of a spell, though, whereas earlier tonight he’d gone into it fighting to survive. This time he’d woken up both hungry and in fear of his life again.
Ansel glared at the bottle. Elena, unperturbed, pinched his nostrils between her fingers and poured blood into his mouth.
The blood flowed out again, all over Ansel’s nice gray button-down shirt, but he closed his mouth and swallowed. Elena upended the jug again, and this time, Ansel held still while he drank. And drank and drank. He gulped down most of the jug’s contents before he closed his eyes and took a step back.
His mouth returned to normal, and when he opened his eyes again, the brown of the antiques enthusiast regarded at me.
“I am so, so sorry, Janet.” He wiped his mouth with a shaking hand and glanced with dismay at his ruined shirt. “Perhaps you should let the next slayer take me.”
“No,” Elena said before I could speak. “We will not.”
She screwed the lid onto the jug and put the jug back into the refrigerator. She went into the bathroom, ran some water, and came out with a damp cloth, which she handed to Ansel so he could wipe his hands and face.
“Thanks, Elena,” I said.
“I won’t accept your thanks,” she said. “There is much more going on here, and you need to find out about it.” She pointed a plump finger at me. “Keep your thanks until we are done.” Her finger moved to Ansel. “A Firewalker is willing to burn down your haven around you to make you give him something. Slayers are leaving their marks on the doors and trying to break in to kill you. People are holding séances to try to find out information about you. Women are thought dead and then aren’t. You must now tell us everything.”
“I think you’d better,” I said.
Ansel conjured up a sigh that sounded as though it came from the depths of his long, lost soul. “Oh, Janet,” he said, looking more sorrowful than I’d ever seen him. “What have I done?”
Chapter Eight
“You tell me,” I said.
Elena rummaged through Ansel’s closet, which contained a neat row of button-down oxford shirts, polo shirts, suit jackets, and slacks. Even his casual jeans were folded neatly on shelves.
The clean shirt Elena picked out was a tasteful maroon polo. Ansel, always modest, ducked into the bathroom to change.
When he came out, having hidden the bloody shirt in his laundry hamper, he looked almost like a normal human being, except for his too-pale complexion and his haunted expression. He sat down on the desk chair Mick had straddled earlier and put his hands on his knees.
“Janet, I’m sorry. I heard the things I said to you. I . . .”
I held up my hand. “Blood frenzy. It happens. I’m more interested in what Drake wants, and why you were willing to risk burning to death to not give it to him.”
Ansel nodded, looking wretched, a far cry from the brutal Nightwalker who’d been about to suck me dry.
“Laura and I . . . We’ve done something bad, but for a good reason, I think.” He spread his long fingers. “You don’t know much about me, do you, Janet? That’s why I’m so grateful for your compassion in letting me stay here.”
Elena spoke before I could. “You mean you’re grateful for more than a place to hide from the sun, don’t you?”
Ansel nodded. “I told you that, before the war, my family owned an antiques store, which unfortunately perished in the Blitz. What I didn’t tell you was that my father was the greatest confidence trickster the antiques world had ever seen. Well, one of the greatest. The business, unfortunately, is rife with thieves.”
“Did you follow in his footsteps?” I asked. That would surp
rise me. Ansel was always so careful and polite, but then again, his air of guilelessness would help him be a good con artist.
“I didn’t approve of what my father did. He’d cheat people out of fortunes. He’d tell an elderly widow that her houseful of eighteenth-century silver was worthless but that he’d pay her a little more than they were worth because he was compassionate. Then he’d turn around and sell off the whole collection at great profit to himself. Or he’d hire a forger to copy a unique piece of furniture and sell both the original and the copy to two different buyers in two different countries as the real thing. Easier to fool people in the days before you could look up your purchase on the Internet and find out there were six others just like it.”
I’d sunk to sit on the bed while Ansel told his story, but Elena remained standing, arms folded. She wasn’t a very tall woman, but she didn’t need height to be intimidating.
“You must have had an interesting upbringing,” I said.
Ansel looked embarrassed. “I did, yes. I knew how to run a swindle and run it well by the time I was twelve.”
I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment. “Please don’t tell me you ran a swindle on the dragons.”
“I had no intention of doing anything with the dragons at all. I swear to you, Janet. I’m not that foolish.”
“Then what happened?”
He waited a moment, studying his hands. Nightwalkers, when they don’t pretend to breathe, can go entirely still, and Ansel sat as still as death.
“Laura has a small store, but she’s well-known in her field. Buyers come to her from all over the world, especially those wanting Native American art and artifacts. People contact her and tell her what they want, and she finds it for them.”
“And you help her,” I said, “knowing the business as you do.”
“I’ve kept my hand in over the years,” Ansel said, looking modest. “Computers make it easier, though there’s no substitute for holding a thing in your hand and examining it. Internet photos—any photos—can be doctored by anyone with a laptop and affordable software.”
From Jennifer Ashley, With Love: Three Paranormal Romances from Bestselling Series Page 21
