Dragon Seeker [Part One]

by Carina Wilder

  Dragon Seeker, Part One

  Carina Wilder

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1. Sleepless in London

  2. Lyre

  3. Midnight

  4. Partnership

  5. Killer Instincts

  6. Intimacy

  7. Touch

  8. A Stranger

  9. A Dragon’s Task

  10. A Seeker’s Duty

  Also by Carina Wilder

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2016 by Carina Wilder

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Dedicated to Denise Taylor, and to all who find the inner strength to overcome the obstacles in their paths.

  Sleepless in London

  “Ow!”

  The needle worked its way along Trix’s flesh in a seemingly unending cycle of cruel jabs. The Hunter winced the pain away, reminding herself that she’d literally asked for this self-imposed, brutal torture. But how the hell was she to have known how much a hip tattoo would bloody hurt?

  “What a brilliant way to spend the wee hours of the night,” she muttered, trying to steer her mind away from the constancy of the pain as she lay flat on the table, hands clenching into hard little balls of white-knuckled tension.

  “Not much longer, luv,” the artist assured her for the thousandth time, his Cockney accent losing any charm it may otherwise have possessed amid the swirling trail of inflamed nerve endings.

  “It’s fine,” she replied in a strained voice, sweat beading her brow in defiance of her bold-faced lie. “I’m being a wuss. I’m sure I’m just suffering from late night sensitive skin. Or something.”

  For God’s sake, woman, she chastised herself. You slit throats for a living. You’ve been bitten more than once. You can take a little discomfort.

  For a moment she craned her neck to watch him work, stomach taut as her back remained flat on the table. The good news was that it really did look as though it was nearly done. Whatever it was. The design—her design—a dynamic pair of swirls, had sprung immediately into her mind the moment she’d walked by the all-night tattoo joint.

  When the yellow-toothed man wielding the frightening looking tools had asked her what she wanted, Trix had requested a sheet of paper before drawing a quick sketch for him, tracing the outline and filling it in, dark grey cross hatching shading its edges.

  “This,” she’d said, handing the paper back to him. “This is what I want.”

  “All right, then. So…erm…what is it?” The look on his face had told her that he thought she was completely fucking loony.

  “I’ve no idea,” she’d replied.

  “So, luvvie—you don’t know what it is, but you want it inked permanently into your flesh?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly it.”

  “Tell me then, ‘ave you been smokin’ a little crack, by chance, my petal?”

  “No crack.” She’d let out a laugh then, recognizing the absurdity of her request. But her eyes flashed bright, resolve overtaking her. It had to be done. For whatever reason, in this moment, she needed the design to become a part of her.

  “And, um, could you make it the colour of wind?” she’d added as a sort of insane afterthought. Wait—the colour of wind? Where the hell had those even words come from?

  But he’d nodded obligingly, heading to the back room to transfer the design to a mirror image of itself, uttering, “Your wish is my command,” although Trix was fairly certain that she’d heard him add “Ya feckin’ crazy woman” as he’d walked away. And fair enough. She deserved no less.

  This was the sort of lunacy that repeated nights of insomnia inflicted on her, she supposed. It had to be, because until eleven o’clock that night, she’d never considered decorating her body in ink, let alone in some random, spontaneous abstract shape.

  As she threw her head back, she pondered the madness she must have been suffering to walk up to a complete stranger, thrust a handful of bills at him and say, “Please—carve something permanent into one of the most sensitive parts of me. And then I’ll thank you by bleeding a little and crying hysterically.”

  Yes indeed. This was masochistic venture, if ever there was one.

  But now, even as the needle continued its slow reign of terror over the surface of her flesh, relief came in the form of her phone, buzzing to life in her left front pocket. Reaching down slowly in order to avoid contact with her torturer’s work, she extracted it and pulled it to her ear.

  “Trix here,” she said, attempting to add a timbre of normalcy to her voice.

  “Beatrix, it’s Bertie.”

  The boss. The least threatening woman ever to walk London’s streets. And yet, no one ever defied her—well, not usually. The de facto matriarch of the Syndicate, the Hunters regarded her with love and respect. Some of the Dragon shifters had developed a healthy respect for her as well, though most of their kind observed her from a distance with an amused smirk, as though pondering how the hell this woman had come to be in charge of a Syndicate of powerful Hunters and Hashes, the assassins sometimes hired to take down London’s less savoury inhabitants.

  “Bert, it’s way after hours, and technically, this is a day off. Why on earth are you calling me?”

  “Don’t worry, it’s still your bleedin’ day—night—whatever—off. But I need your help on something. We’ve been doing some reconnaissance work, and well, I need you to go on assignment tomorrow night.”

  “Oh?” A familiar surge of adrenaline pulsed through Trix. She lived for the hunt; any excuse to use her weapons was a welcome distraction from the banality of everyday life. “So, what do I get to…” She was about to say kill, but she pulled her chin towards her chest, her eyes focusing on the man with the needle in his hand and she thought better of it. “What’s the job?”

  “A stakeout, in the East End. More bodies have been found in the area, scent trails and the like. I need you to go on watch tomorrow, and keep a close eye on one of the condominium buildings on Hartley Road, starting at midnight. We think a Forsaken has taken up residence there, and he likely only comes out under cover of darkness.”

  “A Foreskin has taken up residence, you mean.” Trix didn’t like to give the Forsaken the dignity that their foreboding title offered. The creatures, half-shifter and half vampire, were horrid, vicious and a waste of oxygen, and the Hunter wanted nothing more than to wipe them off the map.

  “Fine,” sighed Bertie. “One of the Foreskins, then. Just do as I say: go on night watch, and see if he’s actually living there. But remember: no nonsense. Don’t try to take him on by yourself. You know what almost happened to Neko—they’re strong, fast and unpredictable. All I want is for you to confirm that’s his hiding spot.”

  “But if he comes out and I have a clear shot…”

  “No. I’m not arguing about this, Beatrix.” Bertie was employing her best I’m-using-your-full-name-and-I’ll-kill-you-if-you-defy-me mother voice now. “You know the Alliance’s rule: No Hunter takes on a Forsaken alone. If I think for one moment that you intend to do something foolish and get your skinny little bum killed, I’ll come by myself and give you a hard swat. Understood?”

  The redhead couldn’t help but grin as she agreed to the boss’s terms. She loved when Bertie became an arse-kicker, possibly even more than hearing her say the word foreskin.

  “Give me the address and I’ll be there,” she said. “And I promise not to be too foolish.” T
hough our definitions of foolish are, of course, quite different.

  “I’ll text you the exact location. Be careful, you. And bring the weapons the Guild gave ya. Just in case.”

  “They’re already sheathed and ready to go.” She lifted her head, noting the bemused glance from tattoo man. “Don’t worry,” she told him. “I’m only talking about daggers, swords and the like. And I only use them on people who piss me off by jabbing needles repeatedly into my nerve endings.” Was that a fresh droplet of sweat on his forehead? Trix threw him a sly wink. Probably not a good idea to make the poor guy tremble while the torture device was still clenched between his fingers.

  “Good girl,” Bertie’s voice said over the line, ignoring Trix’s secondary conversation. “Oh, and Trix—the Dragons will be keeping an eye on you from above. So if you do get into trouble, help won’t be far off.”

  “Oh?” Another leap in Trix’s belly. Dragons, you say? She’d been hoping for this. “Who, exactly, will be there?”

  Bertie let out an impatient sigh, the sort that she emitted when a Hunter was asking too many irrelevant questions. “I’m not sure. Lumen is going to speak with some of them tomorrow, apparently. Not that it should matter in the least, young lady. I know how you enjoy the shifters of the Guild, but do try not to get too distracted. Staring up at the sky for too long could get you killed.”

  It’s not their Dragon forms that I’m worried about. It’s the falling over from a deadly orgasm when a certain man shows his face at ground level. “I won’t get distracted, not if there’s a Foreskin about,” she replied. It was the truth, after all. Her fellow Hunters always said that there were two Trixes: Business Trix and Excited-Lady-Parts Trix. When it came down to it, the former always won out. Yes, the men of the Guild were something to behold. But she had a job to do, and as always, she intended to do it well.

  But for now, she was still in the midst of a night off. So, when she’d said good-bye to Bertie, she lay her head back and allowed herself the luxury of closing her eyes and thinking about one Dragon shifter in particular:

  Him.

  The pronoun received a capital H, even in her mind’s eye. He was just that worthy. Just that stunning. An all-consuming, gorgeous sleep-thief. Memories, all that she had of him now, had kept her up more than once since they’d met, images of his face, body and scent racing through her mind. The raven-haired godling, she called him, though it was by no means the only nickname that roamed around her head when her thoughts turned to him on an hourly basis. Mr. Sexy-Dragon. Sir Makes-Me-Pant-A-Lot.

  The man whose face I long to ride.

  Lyre.

  Her mind, seeking further distraction from the pain that was still being inflicted by Mr. Jabby-Needle, traveled back to the first time she’d laid eyes on the godling. It was just outside the Syndicate’s tower weeks earlier, on the day when the Hunter-Dragon Alliance had formed under Hampstead Heath.

  Trix had arrived slightly on the late side due to a holdup in the Underground, and by the time she’d come upon them, the shifters had already transformed into their Dragon forms, awaiting their riders.

  After scolding her for her tardiness, Bertie had assigned Trix to one of two identical-looking beasts; beautiful, glacier-coloured Dragons, each of them longer than two elephants standing head to tail, and certainly far more exquisite. Her fellow Hunter Anaïs was already perched on the back of one, so that Trix had been left with only one other option.

  The moment she’d thrown a leg over the Dragon’s arched neck, a sensation had flowed through her unlike anything she’d ever felt. A connection, invisible tendrils of electricity running between their minds. At first she’d assumed that this was some odd Dragon magic; a spark of energy that their kind emitted. But then the voice had come; the deep, rumbling, satin-smooth baritone, vibrating through her mind like the aftershocks of an explosive kiss.

  “Hello there. I’m Lyre. I’ll be your flying taxi this afternoon.”

  She’d leaned forward, craning her neck to see if the Dragon’s lips were moving. But no, of course they weren’t. He wasn’t a damned parrot. Not that parrots had lips, either.

  “How are you doing that, talking inside my head?” She’d realized immediately that she was also thinking the words, rather than speaking them. As if some instinct told her that he’d hear her thoughts if she sent them his way.

  “A gift,” he’d replied. “I’m very special, magical, and important. Oh, and a touch psychic when I want to be.”

  Trix had to work hard to stifle a snort. “Oh, are you then? Isn’t that nice for you?”

  “It really is. Tell me, though—do you feel as though you’ve gone completely mad?”

  “Yes. And…no. I mean, it’s bizarre, but I’m not going to lie and say I don’t like it. And if I did say it, something tells me you’d know I was full of shite, anyhow.”

  “I probably would, yes,” he said. “We Dragon shifters are nothing if not intuitive. So, are you ready to soar?”

  “Is anyone ever?”

  “No. But just tell me you’re not afraid of heights.”

  “I’m not afraid of much.”

  “Good.” With that, he’d taken a few swift steps and launched himself skyward, massive wings unfolding at his sides as they swept up, a gust of wind seeming to carry them into the clouds.

  “What’s your name?” he’d asked her, as though to distract her from any fear she might be confronting in that moment.

  “Beatrix. Trix for short,” she’d stuttered out, her mind so blown by the takeoff that she could scarcely formulate the words, even in the depths of her own brain.

  “Are you called that because you turn tricks, or because you play them?”

  She’d chuckled. “It may shock you to learn that I’m neither a hooker nor an imp.”

  “You look a little impish, with your freckles and smiling Irish eyes,” he’d told her.

  “Scottish, actually.”

  “Ah, even better. Well, either way, you’re definitely more imp than hooker.”

  “I didn’t realize that you’d even looked at me.” A blush splashed red over her cheeks. A flirtatious Dragon? What a thought. But then again, there was a very human man inside him.

  “Of course I did. A woman like you would be difficult to ignore, just as you are right at this moment. Tell me, are you comfortable?”

  She’d realized that she was still leaning forward, her chest pressed to the long row of vertical scales lining the back of his neck. An effort to draw closer to him, but it might be causing him discomfort.

  “I am quite comfortable, yes. But I’ll sit up, if it’s bothering you,” she told him.

  “Not in the least.”

  They’d spoken during the trip about all sorts of things. Their families, including the fact that he had a twin brother called Minach and that yes, he was the very similar-looking Dragon carrying Anaïs. That even though Minach was in the Guild, Lyre wasn’t, but he was one of the Kindred, the Dragon shifters of ancient blood endowed with extraordinary powers.

  And the longer she’d spoken to him, the more she’d wondered what his human face looked like. How tall he was, how devastatingly handsome. She’d already grown fond of his personality, his easy manner. And something told her that his face would be just as appealing, or possibly even more so.

  Trix had been disappointed to learn that the Dragons remained clothed when shifting into their human forms. It was some form of frustrating magic, no doubt, that allowed their layers of cotton and denim to accompany them through shifts. Damned magic.

  And sure enough, when they’d landed under Hampstead Heath, Lyre had shifted into an exquisitely gorgeous human male, all dark hair, intense, sexy blue eyes and muscles that took her breath away. His shoulders were so broad that he looked as though he could take down a long row of normal men by simply walking into them.

  But instead of approaching her as she’d expected—and hoped for—after their chat, the fully clothed Lyre had retreated to a distant corner. N
o more conversation, it seemed. No more intimacy. It was as though he’d become someone else entirely.

  Trix had examined him from a distance, taking in his gorgeous face, those exquisite eyes that seemed to fix on everything but her. Cheekbones that begged to be outlined by a woman’s fingertips, to say nothing of his extraordinary chest and arms, all bulging muscles and hardness. Smile lines at the corners of his eyes gave away a love of laughter—a love that his twin, Mr. Minach Frownyface, apparently didn’t share.

  She’d wondered at first why he’d gone quiet; why he’d made such a hasty retreat from her. Why, rather than continue their conversation, he’d isolated himself as far away from her as he could get. It was only when her friend and fellow Hunter Neko had explained that Lyre couldn’t hear that she’d understood, though the news had been a surprise. His voice in her head had been so clear, so immediate. And yet it seemed that he’d lost it the moment he’d changed. She supposed that his human form wasn’t so adept at delving into human minds as his Dragon had been, and of course, she didn’t know sign language. So all she could do was stare and try very hard not to drool on herself, all the while wondering if she could learn to sign the sentence, “I’d really like to remove your trousers with my teeth.”

  Neko had warned her that the Dragon men had a way of infiltrating a woman’s body and soul, of working their way in and staying there. And Neko knew whereof she spoke, of course. After being assigned to kill a Dragon shifter named Lumen, she’d fallen in love with him and, within mere days, had joined with him in some sort of eternal bond. To call it a torrid love affair would have been like calling a hurricane a light breeze.

  But of course, Trix had no relationship with Lyre. And now, as she lay on the tattoo artist’s table, she reminded herself that Lyre was, in fact, almost certainly oblivious to her existence by this point, the obsession quite one-sided. The Dragon shifter was a polite, gorgeous, edible creature who couldn’t care less if she walked London’s streets or vanished in a puff of smoke, never to be seen or heard from again. She was just a human—a mere Hunter, dull and unimpressive. And he—well, he was a feckin’ Dragon. He could fly. Could shoot flames. And he smelled like walking sex with a side order of more sex. He was a gorgeous, perfect, splendid, tasty man.