Dragon Intrigues

by Isadora Montrose

  So Roadkill was Dom. And his henchwoman, Jinx. Not that names helped. Her mind was a swirling muddle and she had no answers to Dom’s question.

  CHAPTER 42

  Neil~

  When he’d said he was grateful, Phillip Olander had meant it. He’d said a fleet, and a fleet was what they had gotten. If eight motorboats, a couple of ketches, a sailboat, and two power yachts were a fleet. A flotilla maybe.

  The hawk captaining this cruiser had assured Neil that all the vessels had inflatables aboard which would make landing parties feasible. He liked the way this hawk thought.

  More hawks flew overhead, their eyes in the sky. Too bad it was foggy and visibility was down to half a mile. Neil itched to be in the air too. But unlike a hawk, he was the size of a small plane. He couldn’t skim over the water where shipping filled the channels, he would need to go above the clouds where radar would detect him in a nanosecond.

  When air traffic control hailed the UFO, and it failed to respond, fighter jets would be scrambled. Best-case scenario he would screw up Blythe’s rescue and put dragons on the front page of every newspaper on every continent. Despite his growing conviction that his mate was in imminent peril, Neil had to bide his time.

  Packard was in the lead vessel, not that they were clustered together. They were all supposed to be random boaters out for a quiet cruise, or fishers hoping to be in position by dawn. But the Olander crew all carried encrypted satellite phones as a matter of course. Packard’s directions meant all the boats were moving in roughly the same direction towards the Anacortes.

  Between the rocks and sandbars and the fog, the going was slow. The only good news was that Packard said Blythe had finally stopped moving. But despite the GPS signal remaining strong, the wolf was having difficulty pinpointing her position. The remote area was rife with tiny islands often no more than large rocks. She could be stashed in a cave, or be held in any of dozens of private houses.

  Moreover, they were a good two and a half hours behind her abductors. Neil set his teeth and drew on his training. In the hour before dawn when all you could do was sweat and hope, a smart Marine caught some sleep. He folded his arms and forced himself to set his anxiety aside and rack out.

  CHAPTER 43

  Blythe~

  Jinx grabbed Blythe by her sore arm and shoved her down a dark hall into a large bathroom. She lost her cookies in an old-fashioned commode, black with neglect. The kind with a tank high on the wall. Wherever she was, it was old. She pushed herself off her knees and located the sink. It too was grimy, but at least there was water. Rusty, stagnant water, but water.

  The black and white tiles on the floor were smeared with muddy footprints, larger than her prints. Those tiny hexagons mesmerized her swimming senses. It was with an effort that she pulled her eyes away and looked for an escape hatch. The spotted mirror over the sink told her she looked as bad as she felt. Her clothes and face were smudged with dust and her hair was loose and tangled.

  There was nothing, not even soap, she could use as a weapon. The wooden shelves beside the tub were empty. She tugged, but they had been screwed into the wall, and she was pitifully weak. Somewhere along the line she had lost her jacket and her cell phone. And her cameras. No, Bieber One had taken those.

  “Look alive, Chickie,” Jinx called through the door.

  The door opened as Blythe knelt in front of the toilet suffering another set of racking spasms. Dom’s stink floated into the bathroom adding to her misery. She vomited to the accompaniment of Jinx’s laughter. Blythe’s kicked ribs made themselves known with every heave. She touched her side gingerly. Not broken, but she was going to have spectacular bruises tomorrow. If she lived that long.

  “Water,” she begged weakly.

  Her request made Jinx chuckle. The door slammed shut again. A key turned and brisk footsteps tittupped away. Blythe had bought a few seconds anyway. But the only way out of the bathroom was through the boarded-up window or the locked door. She found the light switch. Nothing. So this place was uninhabited and Dom and Jinx had not made themselves comfortable.

  Where were Neil and those werewolves? She had to try to stay alive long enough to be found. Whatever happened, Neil would look for her.

  As for her coming ordeal, it was too bad she had nothing to trade. She didn’t have the foggiest idea where Molly or the crystal was. Which come to think, was good. Otherwise she’d have blabbed just to get away from Dom’s death-ray eyes. What was up with that reek of decay? She felt she ought to be connecting the dots, but nothing came to her.

  Jinx opened the door. A plastic water bottle was thrust at her. “Wash your fucking mouth out, bitch. I don’t want to breathe your barf.”

  Memory returned. Jinx was the woman she had been told Hyland was courting, and who SPAR had assigned her to record. Just as Alden Reilly was part of their psi-gang. She sure hoped Neil had turned that bastard over to SPAR.

  The other shoe landed. Well, shift and damn, these psi-crooks had played her all along. She wasn’t bait in SPAR’s sting, she was the cheese in the opposition’s mousetrap. There were too many layers for her addled brain to sort out.

  Staying across the street in safety as she recorded Hyland and his supposed victim using her telephoto lens and long-distance directional mic meant Blythe had not picked up that Ferris’ victim was also a flat. And even with Dom’s disgusting smell washing over her, the lifelessness of Jinx’s scent informed her that Jinx’s psychopathy had been crystal-enhanced. Blythe’s senses weren’t up to identifying what form the flat’s psychic gift took although clearly she had talent.

  Blythe opened the bottle of water, wishing she was faking her trembling hands and uncooperative lips. But there was nothing she could do about the humiliating dribbling. Her mouth refused to work. She dragged out her freshening up as long as she dared, but all too soon she was being marched back into Dom’s unnerving presence. She wished her brain would come online. At this rate she was going to die of fear.

  This time her captor was bent over a coffee table still thick with dust. She still couldn’t make out Dom’s features through the smoke. Why didn’t they open the flue? Angular fingers sorted through what remained of her gear. Her cameras had been taken apart, the lenses removed, and the eyepieces unscrewed. They weren’t broken, but the lining of her bag had been sliced out.

  “My kindness only extends so far,” Dom’s sibilant voice announced. “I want that crystal. Where is it?”

  Even though a lie would buy her time, something compelling in that voice forced her to blurt out the truth. “I don’t know. I didn’t even know Hyland gave one to Molly.” Dom’s orange eyes turned to molten bronze. Searing cold shot through the smoggy air to chill her heart and seize her lungs, even as stifling heat sucked her dry. Her knees buckled.

  This time Jinx had help hauling Blythe to her feet. By the smell, a male sharp who bathed annually and not always then. She tried to open her eyes, but the lids didn’t know how. “She ain’t faking, Dom.” The male spoke deferentially, but it was a warning.

  “When I want your opinion, Lazarus, I’ll tell you,” Dom’s fetid fumes thickened, the hot-cold sensation coming from those laser-beam eyes squeezed Blythe’s heart more tightly. Her head reeled and she hung limply from the merciless claws of two vultures. “Last chance, Ms. Warren. Where is Molly Needles?”

  “SPAR took her to a safe house,” she gasped, hoping for relief from the burning cold.

  The killing blast intensified. “Where is that?” Dom hissed.

  CHAPTER 44

  Neil~

  Dawn had come and gone. The sky was a glary gray as the sun struggled to burn off last night’s thick fog. Visibility was still poor, but the hawks had been reporting for hours. Neil, Merritt and Packard had gathered below decks of Packard’s vessel to work on strategy. The latest scout was in the galley making himself coffee and breakfast.

  Packard was uncharacteristically quiet. “Spit it out,” Neil demanded. “If there’s bad news, I want it straight
up.”

  “In the last eight hours here’s been no change in the subject’s position,” the wolf said reluctantly. “We wouldn’t expect much, not out here, GPS limitations being what they are, but there ought to be some static as she walks around or alters position.”

  “Meaning?” Neil bit out the word.

  “She could be asleep. She could be bound and unable to move.” Packard stopped.

  “Or she could be dead,” Neil completed his thought.

  “Chin up, Drake,” Merritt said bracingly. “They might have taken her boots. If she’s alive, we rescue her. If she’s hurt or dead, we avenge her.”

  “Damn straight,” Neil replied. “And don’t call her the subject, Packard. She’s Blythe.”

  “Sure,” Packard agreed easily. “Okay, here’s where we stand. We’ve narrowed our search to these coordinates.” One finger tapped a paper map where a triangular outline had been made. “But there’s gotta be twenty islands in that area. Not including rocks with no names or buildings. That’s a lot of places to raid. We only get one chance to surprise these guys. We hit the wrong place, and we’ll make the news before you can say, ‘Sorry, ma’am, our mistake’.”

  “That had occurred to me.” Neil attempted to stuff his impatience deep. Snarling at his colleagues wouldn’t get Blythe back sooner. “Got any ideas?”

  The young hawk came out of the galley with a plate of peanut butter toast and four mugs of coffee. Earlier he had introduced himself as Chet Olander. He handed the mugs around and sat down. His amber eyes were clear and he looked as if he had spent the night in bed instead of in the air. He made Neil feel ancient.

  “Like the guys in my flight were like talking, before we took wing,” Chet said.

  “Speak American,” snapped Packard. “And skip the youth-speak too.”

  “Oh, sorry, sir.” Chet snapped to attention. “We hawks are grouped in age cohorts of three to six tercels. That’s our flight. There are four of us in mine. Taking wing is our way of saying we shifted to hawk morph. Anyway, last night after Ronnie and Meggie had told their story, we got talking, so of course we did a search on the net. Meggie’s my little sister and we wanted to know more about the rabbit who saved the girls.”

  “Yes.” Merritt made a pick-up-the-pace gesture. “We don’t have all day, son.”

  The hawk flushed. “We found that news story about the nurse and the guys in Spider-Man masks and we thought that they probably were after Ms. Warren. That’s her building after all. We figured using stolen vehicles with stolen plates was kind of a modus operandi. Not diagnostic, but a consistent strategy. The SUV that took Ms. Warren away was also stolen and the plates came off another vehicle.”

  “Your point?” Neil asked.

  “Well, here we are, flying in circles trying to figure out which teeny island is the one where Ms. Warren is stashed. But they all look fine from the air. Nothing you wouldn’t expect to see. Pocket beaches, docks, trees, bushes, one or two boats tied up at the bigger islands. A few jet skis on the water. But we were wondering, if their MO was hiding behind stolen goods, if perhaps they took her to a stolen house.”

  “How would you steal a house?” Neil asked.

  “Easy as pie. You find a vacant one and move yourself in. Unless there’s a resident caretaker or neighbors, who would know? You could squat for a long time, no problemo.” Chet bit into his toast and chewed heartily.

  “Could be,” Packard said thoughtfully. “I like it. Only how would we know which ones are supposed to be vacant?”

  Chet grinned. “That’s the easy part. The same way they did. Either they looked at the MLS listings for the Anacortes. Or they called an agency. The MLS is the Multiple Listings Service we realtors use,” he added in response to Packard’s look.

  “Go on,” Neil encouraged.

  “So we go to the MLS site, take a look at what’s available in our search area. I’d put my money on them using a realtor. There are a ton in the Seattle area, and an outsider wouldn’t know that showings are all recorded and available to anyone with MLS access.”

  “You have access, son?” drawled Packard.

  “You bet. I’m a senior at Washington State. This semester, I’m doing an internship at Olander Realty. That’s why they sent me.”

  Packard swung his laptop around. “Knock yourself out.”

  Chet’s fingers flew over the keyboard. He flipped through five or six screens and up popped a short list. “There are only three to choose from.” He hit the first one. Up came an image of a sprawling ranch-style house set in the middle of acres of green lawn surrounded by rocks and a sparkling ocean. “Now we can look at the house plan, any outbuildings, and we can also cross-reference with land title registrations if we want the survey.”

  Packard took over. He scrolled through pages of pictures. While he was occupied, Neil thought of an objection. “What if they just bought themselves an island?”

  Chet screwed up his face. “I don’t think so, sir. You have to register a land purchase six ways to Wednesday. Real estate agents get involved out the wazoo. That wouldn’t fit with their strategy. But we could also look at all recent purchases.”

  “They could’ve used a numbered company,” Merritt said. “To add a layer of cover.”

  “Stick out like a sore thumb,” Chet objected. “Maybe not in the city where corporations employ holding companies to do their big deals. But out here, it’s pretty much the boonies. If we do find a place recently bought by a numbered company, it would be weird enough, we should target that one, sight unseen.”

  Packard looked up. “I like this listing. Private island. Only water access. It’s been on the market for years. Looks like it’s falling to pieces. I’ll bet it gets an interested buyer about twice a year, if that. Can you find out if Gannet Island has a caretaker, Chet?”

  “I can. And if anyone has been shown it recently.” His fingers flew on the keyboard.

  CHAPTER 45

  Blythe~

  At first the darkness was absolute, but then a faint silvery glow shimmered at the edge of her consciousness. Blythe cautiously opened her eyes wider. She was probably dreaming. Nope. Psi-light was coming from her ring. What did that mean? Neil had sealed it to her hand. It was infused with dragon magic.

  Was he close? Was help on the way? Or was this glimmering just part of how it worked? Didn’t matter. It was proof that they were bonded. It was high time she stopped being cowardly about their relationship. Caution was one thing, perfectly reasonable for a rabbit. Cowardice was quite another matter.

  She needed to buck up, take control of her life. Even if that meant a dragon was her fated mate. Admitting she loved her bossy lover was step one. Step two was getting herself out of this tight spot. Neil was looking for her. She knew that with every fiber of her being. But looking and finding were different. How could she help?

  She rubbed the ring. Probably wasn’t going to help save her skin, but she drew strength from its gentle glow. There had to be a way for the cheese to remove herself from the trap. Especially if she was the bait in a dragon snare. For a start, where was she?

  Wherever she was, it wasn’t the bathroom. She used the light from her ring to explore. It was easy because the white paint on the paneled walls reflected its glow. Wherever she had been put was about the size of a walk-in closet. And except for her and a sink, it was empty.

  She forced herself to listen carefully. Like any old timber building, this house creaked. Nearby she could hear raspy breathing. Almost certainly Lazarus. He was probably dozing. Things were quiet except for the background belching and jangling of boiler pipes full of trapped air.

  Her head had cleared and in here the rotten stink was comparatively minor. Dom must be on another floor. The chill in this tiny room was not the chill of death and decay. It was cold because no one had turned on the radiator under the boarded-up window. She knelt and turned the knob. In the walls, pipes banged and squealed. The rad gurgled and faintly warmed.

  Underneath t
he mustiness of a disused dwelling, she could smell the clean, damp fragrance of the ocean. Hear it too, now her heart wasn’t pounding. Between the rumblings of the heating system, the soft roar of motor boats and the softer splash of waves told her they were on the water.

  Not that knowing she was near the sea was any help. Lot of coastline in Puget Sound. Lots of tiny private islands. She could be anywhere. How would Neil ever find her? She knew instinctively she wouldn’t survive another session with Dom. Another blast from those eyes would permanently disrupt her aura. She had to figure out how to escape.

  The paneled door was locked. Of course. The light switch did not turn on the single dangling bulb. What was this room? It was small. The absence of light leaking around the boarded window indicated it was nighttime. Probably why her guard was asleep. It was hard to stay awake hour after hour in total darkness. She circled the room patting the wooden walls.

  Her fingers smacked against a china handle. Not walls, closets. She gave the knob a tug. Locked. So was the next one. But now she knew where she was. She was in the linen closet.

  In this big old house, it was a room with a window. These tall cupboards had once held crisp white sheets and fluffy towels. Maybe even spare blankets. Too bad they were all locked. She could probably force the locks, but even with the pipes for cover, the noise would bring her captors running to resume her interrogation.

  The Drake cottage had a similar room. The linen presses, as Granny Warren called them, all used the same key. They were kept locked to keep out the damp ocean air, but the locks were small, just meant to hold the doors closed. In the cupboard under the sink, she found a bunch of keys hanging up. Jackpot. The smallest one worked on the closet locks.

  In the one to the left of the sink, wooden shelves had been fitted carefully into the cedar-lined cupboards and screwed or nailed into place. She couldn’t lift any of them out, succeeding only in tearing the brittle shelf liners. She was small enough to crawl onto a shelf and ease the door closed, and every one of her rabbit instincts urged her to hide. But hiding wouldn’t help any since she couldn’t lock the door from the inside.