Dragon Intrigues

by Isadora Montrose

  Neil swiveled his hips one last time and covered her mouth with his. Only then did he thrust his full length into her already pulsing passage. She felt her ripples draw him over the edge, and caught his primal groan as he let his full weight rest on her for an instant.

  Once again she felt that weird psychical alignment of their auras, even stronger this time. Her eyes rolled back. When she opened them, he had untangled himself from her and padded into the tiny bathroom. Water ran, the toilet flushed. He climbed back into bed and gathered her close. Peace suffused her.

  “Go to sleep.” He kissed her temple. “I’ve got you, beloved.”

  That was it? They had just had the most transcendent sex of her life, and he said, “I’ve got you?” Romantic, I don’t think. And yet she went instantly to sleep.

  CHAPTER 20

  Dallas~

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. His dumbass brother had screwed up. Screwed him. That was fucking Austin, always looking for a fast buck with no thought for the consequences.

  Sweet was dead. Dallas had taken care of it. Her office had suffered an unfortunate electrical fire, which conveniently had fried her records. Thanks to Dallas’ pal at the pet crematorium, she would spend the next few decades in a nice box on some bereft dog lover’s mantelpiece getting cozy with the ashes of a mastiff. Probably get buried eventually when the owner croaked. Nothing to him either way.

  He should fucking be safe and laughing — on his way to his shiny new life. But turned out that his fucking idiot brother had handed over one of his crystals to the bunny’s partner to retune. Now that bitch-goddess Jinx wanted it back. And suddenly snuffing Desirée Sweet was all his idea. And her convenient disappearance a problem rather than an opportunity.

  Sweet’s death left Jinx at the top of their little shit heap. Right where she belonged. He had no beef with a couple of hookers who upgraded to running their own cozy little dungeon. It was the aftermarket blackmail that made Madame Desirée and Mistress Jinx standouts in the degradation field. That pair were experts at fucking ass, coming and going. But they weren’t going to fuck his.

  Not that he had spoken to the lash-mistress himself. No indeed. Jinx’s enforcer spoke for her. Nothing so crude as actual threats had been made, but Dallas knew menace when he heard it. Besides, any dude who could get past Dallas’ layers of cover to his new personal phone number gave new meaning to omniscient. It was too late to simply cut and run.

  Worst of all, Dallas was almost certain that emotionless, spectral voice belonged to the client who had ordered the hits on Warren and Needles. Which meant his balls were jammed tight between a rock and a hard place. Because Jinx might think she was a big shot now, but she was lime and salt, no tequila. Whoever her enforcer was, he was 190 proof. And he scared Dallas shitless.

  Only a couple of unpleasant options remained. He could cooperate with Jinx’s spooky fixer. Or he could turn himself in to SPAR and let their keepers protect him. On balance, he preferred Option One. Better the devil you know.

  CHAPTER 21

  Neil~

  She joined him after her morning shower, dressed in black jeans and a drapey melon-colored blouse and low black boots. Her hair was in a businesslike twist at the back of her head. “I’m packed. Let’s eat.” Last night’s blissed-out bunny was in hiding. But at least he’d put some bounce in her step.

  He gave her a good-morning kiss to remind them both that he had claimed his mate. He kept it light because he had to focus on keeping her safe. “Good. We’ll shove the bags in the rental and grab a bite someplace, and then I think we get the heck out of Dodge until SPAR sorts out this mess.”

  Blythe’s brows snapped together. His bunny wasn’t having it. “We can keep hiding. But not for long. And first I have to drop by the studio. A business doesn’t run itself. Besides, Molly and I have a big wedding on Saturday.”

  That was a no-brainer. “Cancel.”

  One little black boot tapped. “You don’t tell a bride, three days before her big day, that you aren’t honoring your contract. Not if you ever want to do another wedding. By the time our client was done with us, Molly and I would have to close down and start over under different names — in another city.”

  He was skeptical. This much fuss over some photos? “You think she’d sue?”

  “I think she’d go out of her way to tell the world how we ruined her wedding, even though we’re only doing the candids. Plus she’d want her deposit back.”

  “Surely she could find another photographer?”

  “Not as good as us. Not in three days. But even if she got someone better, she’d still post on Facebook and Instagram that we were unreliable,” Blythe said gloomily. “And if we return her deposit, we won’t be able to make the rent.”

  “Isn’t that running things a little close to the bone?”

  “Welcome to the real world, Drake. This is how small businesses operate. All it would take to ruin us is Courtney Olander bad-mouthing us. We’d never get another job.”

  He let that crack about the real world slide. Drake money had smoothed most of the rough patches in his life. But he was impressed. “Any connection to Olander Global?”

  “Her dad is Phillip Olander.”

  He whistled. Olander Global was the big leagues. Real estate? Container ships? Oil? He’d have to ask Great-Grandfather to refresh his memory. For obvious reasons, the burner phones they were using weren’t connected to the internet. “Difficult client?”

  “Bridezilla isn’t in her league. We’ve already done two photo shoots.” Blythe shuddered. “The afternoon her bridesmaids tried on their dresses hit new lows in bad behavior. I edited out the bits where she chewed out her BFFs for being too chunky, not blonde enough, and my personal fave, wearing the wrong shade of nail polish.”

  “Nail polish?”

  “Open-toed sandals. Bride wants everyone in sea-green polish. And you should have heard her talking to the woman doing the alterations.” Blythe rolled her eyes. “So, yeah, if I back out, I’m pretty sure Courtney will screw me on social media. And she wouldn’t even have to make it up.”

  “Is this job worth your life?”

  “Just about. This is our biggest job yet. I was counting on Courtney for referrals. Even without the hit to our reputation, we can’t afford to let this one get away.” Her lips firmed and her face got stubborn. The bunny had made up her mind and was digging in.

  He thought of something else. “Is it normal to use one photographer for candid shots and another for the formal ones?”

  “Nope. That would be too expensive for most brides. But the Olanders are beyond rich.”

  “But surely it would be more convenient for them to use one outfit and have them provide different photographers to handle both assignments?”

  She tapped her chin. “Maybe so. Peter Zapolski is handling the studio portraits and the formals. He’s pretty famous. Maybe he refused to take snapshots. Lots of photographers think candids are beneath them, and usually he doesn’t even do weddings.”

  “I just wondered. But if he’s so famous, why’s this Zapolski doing it at all?”

  “People don’t say no to the Olanders,” she said. “Not if they want to prosper in Seattle.”

  “Ah. And Bridezilla selected your company because?”

  Blythe sighed. “She met me when I was photographing the house of a family friend. The Olanders are hawks. Maybe she was just doing a fellow shifter a favor? You know how that goes?”

  “Hmm.”

  “Anyway, I need to check on the studio. Maybe Molly left me a message there. I don’t like it that she’s gone silent.”

  “If she’s in hiding,” he explained patiently, “she can’t use her phone any more than you can. That’s why we got burners and turned off our own phones.”

  “I guess.” She was silent for a few minutes.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Do you really think Molly is hiding with a field worker from SPAR?”

  “That’s what Great-Grandf
ather said,” he reminded her stiffly.

  “You don’t need to act like he’d never tell a lie.” She waved her ring at him. “Look at the whopper he made up about us.”

  He lost his patience. “Blythe Warren, that ring is real, our betrothal is real, and what happened on that bed last night was real. Great-Grandfather doesn’t tell lies.”

  She didn’t look convinced, but what she said was, “So you really think Molly is safe?”

  “Yup. Safer than you are, probably.”

  “Nah, that keeper’s probably regular Army.”

  That made him smile. “Some of those guys are competent.”

  She sobered. “We still need to go to the studio. There’s stuff I need to do before Saturday. Particularly if Molly isn’t going to be available to help.”

  He gave in. “You get twenty minutes. And then we hit the road.” What could possibly go wrong?

  CHAPTER 22

  Blythe~

  They parked outside her studio. Just a quick in and out. She’d collect her gear, check the landline messages, and hightail it wherever Neil felt was safer. Their front window looked the same as usual. She spared a moment to admire their sign. Very professional. The platinum-leafed easels Molly had insisted on looked dramatic and rich in the windows. Upscale. Trendy.

  On the left was a formal portrait of a bride and groom and their attendants against the rich floral backdrop provided by the Washington Park Arboretum. On the right a happy pair chased their miniature ring bearer, himself in hot pursuit of a spotted spaniel, across a green lawn.

  Blythe had had more than one qualm about putting that photo in the window. The little renegade upstaged the bride and groom. But Molly had been right about that too. The kid was adorable. So was the dog.

  “Cute dog,” Neil said.

  The blind on the door was pulled as it always was when the studio was empty. The little oval sign that read: by appointment only was hanging from its silver ribbon. The neighborhood wasn’t the best, but Warren & Needles presented a very professional image indeed.

  Neil plucked her keys from her hand. “I’ll go first.” He looked at the lock and whistled. “A genuine Field lock.”

  “No better locks anywhere. It was a gift from Molly’s parents.” Like the Fields, the Needles were Mystic Bay merchants and top-level geotalents. Field locks were legendary in the paranormal world. “You’ll need to touch the stone in the lock with my fob before the key will turn.” Both lock and fob were set with tiny tuned emeralds that glowed like LEDs. Which is what normals assumed them to be.

  “Doesn’t work,” he muttered.

  Weird. The fob should let anyone open the door. “Let me. It’s set to my aura.” She tapped. With a tiny click the lock released. This time the key turned.

  Neil stopped her. “Me first.”

  “You’ll need me to disarm the security system.”

  He stepped in and stared at the box on the wall. “It’s not set.”

  She flipped on the lights. “It has to be,” she yelped, although she too could see the lights were red. Was Molly really okay?

  “Stay close, but stay behind me,” Neil snapped.

  She didn’t know about him, but she was running hot. All her senses on high alert. She sniffed suspiciously. Someone revved up, jittery and angry had passed this way recently. Molly’s bodyguard? She didn’t think SPAR would have assigned her a sharp. And there was a second man with Antsy. She knew that blah scent.

  “Be careful,” she muttered. “Sheppard’s been here.”

  “I smell them both. But the spoor is hours old. I think they’ve been and gone.” His voice was so low she could barely hear him.

  Like all the storefronts on this older street, these premises were long and narrow. It didn’t take long for Neil to check them. The tiny reception area held three chairs and a small table on a pale gray carpet. The studio was behind that. It was set up with a white daylight umbrella and lights on a stand. A marble bench draped in blue velvet was angled invitingly. Warren & Needles’ standard staging.

  The bathroom was next. A symphony in gray and white tile. They had made the landlord enlarge it because the clients used it too. It was empty. Neil whistled again. “Fancy.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What’s behind this door?” Neil asked.

  “Office.” Everything in it was secondhand because they never took clients back here, but nothing looked unusual.

  “No electronics,” Neil said. “Nice pictures.”

  She and Molly had hung their private work on the walls. She specialized in photographic portraits, Molly in landscapes. The series of Granny and Neil’s grandmother hanging in her office was her best work ever. The art shots were their passion, but so far the public wasn’t buying.

  “My laptop’s in here.” She patted her shoulder bag. “Molly usually keeps hers with her too. Our printer is still here. And that’s all she wrote.”

  “Okay.”

  The floor-to-ceiling supply cupboard was in the hallway leading to their minuscule break room, one door was not flush with the others. The custom Field locks glowed purple instead of green. Like the security system they had been disabled. She nudged Neil. He opened the cupboard. Floor-to-ceiling shelves were still full of photography equipment. A good thing considering what they still owed on their loan.

  “Any chance you forgot to set the alarm and lock these cabinets up?”

  “Nope. And even if Molly forgot how much we still owe the bank for this gear, she’s supposed to be with SPAR’s hotshot bodyguard. The chances of them both forgetting to lock up our cameras and studio is nil.” SPAR’s field worker was a bear all right, his wholesome, stable scent was a pleasant change from Antsy and Sheppard.

  “Right.” His voice was grim. “I don’t think you were robbed. But take a look.”

  She pulled up the insurance list on her phone and went to work. It took a few minutes to verify each item was present but they all were. Nonetheless her whiskers were twitching again. “Nothing’s missing. But Molly and I are scrupulous about putting things where they go. Most of this stuff is fragile, all of it’s expensive. Plus we paid extra for custom cases, and we always use them.”

  She picked up a black metal box with its hinged lid half-shut. A pair of short lenses lay askew in their nest of gray foam. “These should be tight in their cushioning. And the foam should lie level top and bottom. Someone’s removed the lenses and the foam, and stuck the top piece back upside down so the lid won’t close.” It was beyond creepy to think of someone going through their stuff.

  “A careful search, but a search,” Neil agreed. He was still keeping his voice pitched low and soft.

  “Don’t you think it’s time to call the police?”

  “And tell them what exactly? There’s nothing missing. No vandalism. The police would only tell you that you forgot to lock the cupboard and the shop. And put your lenses away carefully. This place is set up to pass the kind of inspection it would have gotten if you had been abducted. You think there are fingerprints?”

  “I guess not,” she said unhappily. “Yesterday those spider guys wore latex gloves.”

  “Hmm.” He poked his head into the break room. “Where do those doors lead?” He pointed to two almost invisible panels. One in the back wall, the other against the side wall. Both were steel, painted to match the walls. The rear door had an activated Field lock, the other an ordinary deadbolt set flush.

  “Back door. Basement,” she responded. “Basement key’s on my keychain.”

  “No Field lock?” Neil teased.

  “Nothing important down there,” she said.

  It was unfinished and full to the brim with the previous tenant’s leavings. Instead of clearing it, the landlord had given them a rent reduction. They didn’t need the space, and occasionally various artifacts used by the defunct home-staging business had come in handy for photo shoots. Their bench had come from the basement.

  “It’s not locked.” Neil reported quietly. He pushed
the door lightly.

  As if that was the cue they had been waiting for, two guys in Spider-Man masks burst out of the basement and rushed them. Antsy and Sheppard. Not again. And then Antsy grabbed her and lifted her off her feet. Knife in hand, Sheppard rushed Neil.

  CHAPTER 23

  Blythe~

  The door slammed shut with enough force to send vibrations through the staircase. Antsy flung her head-down over his shoulders, and held her in place with both arms, as he trotted down the basement stairs. Waves of sadistic lust spiked in his smell, turning her stomach. A sharp all right. They did so love violence and cruelty.

  But she needed to focus. This was her moment. If she was going to get free, she had to do it while Antsy was concentrating on not tripping on the worn treads of the steep old stairs. Make her own opportunity. Once he had her bound and gagged, she would be at his mercy. She squirmed. Punched his kidneys and pinched his sides hard. He thumped her ass harder.

  “Behave yourself, bitch,” he growled.

  His blows hurt. But he had released one hand to hit her. She yanked at his shirt and flung herself away from him toward the open side of the stairs. Unbalanced, he fell to his knees, taking her with him. He grabbed a fistful of her top and twisted. Ow. The fabric cut into her breasts. They bounced together from step to step. But by the time they hit the concrete, she was a rabbit and all he had was a fistful of cotton.

  There was only one bare bulb at the bottom of the stairs. Not exactly code, but in a building this old, they were lucky to have electricity in the basement at all. Even with the light on, it was dim. Only narrow walkways remained between teetering piles of boxes and fittings. And they were hard for mortal eyes to see. But dim was plenty bright enough for a rabbit.

  She knew exactly where she was and where she was headed. There was no escape from the basement. In the days of horse-drawn wagons, there had been a delivery hatch, but as the street level was raised by successive improvements, it had gotten buried. She and Antsy were stuck in here until either Neil or the flat joined them. But she didn’t have to be Antsy’s captive.