Thorolf stepped forward, evidently noticing the body on the floor for the first time. “Hey, is that Theo?”
“They threw him back,” Chandra said. “I think he should be isolated, maybe even confined.”
“Hard call,” Thorolf said.
“You trust too easily,” she countered and the air crackled between Pyr and mate. “He was delivered here for a reason. We should be careful until we figure out what it was.”
Kristofer couldn’t suppress a shiver, because he suspected she was right.
“We need to talk to Erik,” Quinn said with authority. “Someone call him now.”
“At this hour?” Kristofer asked.
Quinn shook his head. “If I know Erik as well as I think I do, he’s already awake.” A cell phone rang in the distance then and Sara appeared in the doorway, offering the ringing phone to Quinn. The Smith of the Pyr nodded as he checked the name of the caller. “Hey, Erik,” he said, moving out to the patio to take the call.
“What’s in his hand?” Bree asked, peering at Theo.
Kristofer pulled what looked like a page torn out of a book from Theo’s limp grasp. He was startled by the shimmer of red light that emanated from it, then it was just a sheet of paper. “It’s a list of the Pyr,” he said.
“It must be the inventory from Maeve’s book,” Arach said, scanning the list then heaving a sigh of relief. “No recent losses. That’s got to be a good thing.”
But Kristofer wondered whether it was.
“What is it?” Bree asked, obviously noticing his expression.
“I won’t trust anything that looks like good luck so long as Maeve is hunting the Pyr,” he admitted. “What if she’s just stacking the odds against us?”
“Then we need to armor up and be ready for the worst,” Hadrian said with purpose, glancing after Quinn. “What about those gloves with the retractable steel talons that Quinn once made for Donovan?”
“If you’re going into production, I’m first in line,” Thorolf said and the other Pyr nodded agreement.
“Hey, what’s with your cheek?” Kristofer asked Hadrian, noticing the blue-black mark there. It looked like the imprint of a kiss but was an unlikely color for lipstick.
Hadrian raised a hand to it, as if he’d been unaware of it. “It’s cold again,” he said, glancing at Lila.
“The kiss of death is back,” she said with concern. “Let me see if I can make it recede again.” She led Hadrian to one side and Balthasar followed. He’d apprenticed with Sloane, the Apothecary of the Pyr, so maybe he and Lila could help Hadrian together.
“I don’t understand,” Kristofer admitted to Rhys. “What does the kiss of death mean?”
Rhys was even more grim than usual. “Lila says it means Hadrian’s marked for death.”
“Like a curse?” Bree asked.
Rhys nodded. “Exactly like a curse, but apparently harder to break. She says its success is inevitable.”
That wasn’t the best news Kristofer had heard.
Maybe the numbers of the Pyr were being diminished in other ways, more cruel ways than simply being killed. Alasdair was suffering and so apparently was Theo. And Hadrian had an inescapable curse in the kiss of death.
Did Maeve intend to torment the Pyr before she eliminated them?
If so, could the Pyr undermine her plan?
One
Wednesday, December 4—Northumberland
Hadrian MacEwan should be dead.
No one had ever survived the kiss of death before, at least not for long. It was relentless, a ticking clock, an inevitable killer. What had changed? Rania had followed the formula, precisely as she had done twelve times before.
But this time, it hadn’t worked.
Was that the fault of the selkie healer? A good healer could counter many charms and undermine many toxins. She’d just never seen one succeed against the kiss of death.
Did dragon shifters have particular powers Rania didn’t know about? She’d never hunted the Pyr before. Perhaps they had some additional resilience that she didn’t know about. But then, why would Maeve have demanded that Rania choose one of the Pyr as her thirteenth and final victim? The Dark Queen understood the kiss of death better than anyone: it had been her gift to Rania, a tool to use in service of her will.
Had Rania herself made a mistake? That was the worst possibility. She didn’t make errors and it was a bad time to start. She didn’t want to betray Maeve’s trust, or let her brothers down.
The unwelcome truth was that she felt different since meeting Hadrian. She’d been surprised that her chosen victim was so handsome, then startled by the flash of light he’d called a firestorm. Had she been sufficiently shaken to mess up? It was hard to believe. Maeve relied upon Rania’s ruthless efficiency. The kiss of death required preparation and concentration, but it was almost second nature to her by this point in time.
Rania had reviewed the brief meeting with Hadrian a thousand times, seeking the solution to the riddle.
It was worrying that she’d even been tempted to give him a real kiss, never mind more. She hadn’t even seen him at his best, but she’d never found a man more attractive. He’d been unconscious when she found him, hit on the back of the head. That shouldn’t have made him intriguing. But there was no mistaking the fire that burned within him or the raw power of his nature. Even if she hadn’t known he was Pyr, she would have sensed that there was more to this man than met the eye.
Something had flickered to life within her in that first moment. Something new. A spark of curiosity and of desire. And her ring, the ring she wore on a chain around her neck, had changed. The stone had ignited with an inner fire. She’d never seen it do that before. How had he done that?
Did he possess some kind of charismatic dragon magick?
Rania had been drawn to Hadrian, against her will. She’d wanted to slip her fingers into the unruly auburn waves of his hair, to caress the square line of his jaw, to touch the firm line of his lips. She’d wanted to seduce him, thoroughly, and that was so far from her usual inclinations that she wondered what was going on. Such attraction, after all, could compromise her effectiveness.
It already had.
She dreamed of Hadrian and daydreamed about him. She savored the memory of her first glimpse of this dragon shifter, and the admiration that had flooded through her. Hadrian was tall and broad, a warrior even in his human form. His eyes were green, but that single word didn’t do them justice: they held a thousand warm hues of green from emerald to sea glass, even with some flicks of gold. There was humor in that gaze and intelligence, too, and the way his eyes had lit with admiration when he surveyed her had been an unexpected pleasure.
She’d only revealed her face to him, hiding the rest behind a veil of feathers, so it hadn’t been lust that had lit his expression. The way he had smiled, just a little, had nearly stopped Rania from doing what had to be done.
That was what made him dangerous.
He could tempt her to hesitate.
“The firestorm,” he’d called it when white light sparked between them and there had been awe in his deep voice. Like it was a marvel. Like she was a wonder. Rania hadn’t ever felt appreciated like that. Maybe that was the secret. He had an accent, too, a British one, which seemed just about perfect for a hunky dragon shifter.
What did he look like in his dragon form? She wanted to see him in flight and when he fought. Curiosity was dangerous, but Rania couldn’t resist the mystery of this dragon shifter who had dared to survive her kiss.
She’d studied since her failure, determined to make it right. Thanks to Melissa Smith’s television specials on the Pyr, it was easy to find out more about the dragon shifters. She’d learned that the firestorm was the mating sign of his kind, the Pyr, the mark of one dragon shifter finding the woman who could bear his son.
It was a romantic notion, which meant Rania didn’t believe in it one bit. It had to be a way to seduce women and create more dragon shifters. Maybe a kind of
sex spell. She’d bet the firestorm sparked whenever one of them wanted it to.
She’d learned about beguiling, too, a kind of hypnosis practiced by the Pyr, and wondered if that was how Hadrian had made her pause before giving her lethal kiss. That delay might have been enough.
It wasn’t a mistake she’d make twice.
Her ring, though, was a riddle she couldn’t solve. It still shone with inner radiance, burning like a beacon, although she had no idea why. Had it changed forver? How? Why?
It was time to extinguish both lights forever and put an end to the distraction that was Hadrian MacEwan. The Fae spies had said he would return to his smithy in Northumberland this very day so Rania awaited him in his own lair.
Impatiently.
He would be with two other Pyr, the spies said. He’d left Manhattan with them: one who was injured from Maeve’s exploration of his mind and one who was a dragon healer. There was a fearlessness in the decision to leave the other Pyr that Rania tried to keep from admiring—there had to be safety in numbers, after all, and the dragon shifters were doomed—but she told herself to be realistic. It might not be bravery. It could be a refusal to acknowledge that the attack the previous Saturday was the first of a sequence of forays that would leave the world devoid of Others.
Hadrian might be stupid.
He might be cocky and over-confident.
He wasn’t necessarily courageous. Rania should give credit only when she knew it was due. She’d manifested inside his home, leaving the locks and any other protective mechanisms undisturbed. And then she waited.
It wasn’t easy. After all, a blacksmith’s studio was the last place Rania wanted to be, and even drawing close to one gave her the creeps. The only good thing about Hadrian’s home was that it was located in the country, where there were fewer prying eyes to notice any change of routine. He’d converted an old mill to both studio and home, and a river ran merrily alongside it. Rania could hear the birds and the wind, too. She found the location of his home soothing, but told herself to remain on guard. She’d never yet adjusted to the modern world but she’d have plenty of time to worry about that later.
She was so close to completing her obligation. Just one dragon shifter stood in her way. Rania could taste triumph.
And immortality. She’d have plenty of time to follow her dreams once she became Fae.
It didn’t take long to explore Hadrian’s place thoroughly. It was simply furnished and comfortable. She concluded that he had simple tastes and pleasures, as well as a respect for tradition and history. He was tidy. He lived alone. He read books and did horrible blacksmith things in the adjacent workshop, which she refused to even enter.
She shuddered at just the smell of iron and ash. That scent alone should make him easy to kill. In his human guise, he was a man, and that meant women were his victims. A man and a blacksmith. This should have been easy.
His occupation was why she’d chosen Hadrian of all the Pyr. There was another blacksmith in their kind, the one they called the Smith, but he had young sons. Rania was protective of children, given her own history.
No one needed to know that she had a soft spot.
She paced and wished he’d hurry. It was already past noon. She should have asked the Fae spies for more detail. She had her plan and her strategy: she just needed her prey.
When Rania heard an approaching vehicle, she froze, listening, so utterly still that no living creature would sense her presence. When the engine was turned off, she hid, retreating to Hadrian’s bedroom, and remained silent. Doors opened and closed; men spoke to each other.
Her heart raced and she tried to summon her usual mood of icy precision. She felt emotional and fluttery, uncertain, which wasn’t a welcome change at all. She fingered the ring hung on a chain around her neck, soothed by its smooth surface.
It would all be over soon, she reminded herself. Maeve would cross out the name of another dragon shifter from her list and Rania, along with her brothers, would be free.
Hadrian was relieved to be home. Two firestorms in rapid succession had worn him out, never mind being trapped in Fae. He wanted to sleep in his own bed, return to the rhythm of his life and do some solid work that would make a difference in this battle against Maeve and her minions. Even if Lila’s fears about the new mark on his cheek were valid, he’d accomplish something before he died: he’d see his fellow Pyr outfitted with new weapons.
Before leaving Kristofer’s farm, he’d had a long consultation with Quinn, the Smith of the Pyr and his mentor, and they’d made a plan to produce all the steel-taloned gloves needed. No one among the dragon shifters believed Maeve had forgotten that the Pyr were on her list, too.
The Pyr had divided into groups to ensure their own defense and that of their mates and children: there was one group in Chicago with Erik, one group on Bardsey Island with Donovan and Marco, one group at Kristofer’s farm in Vermont, a big group in Manhattan with Drake and Rhys, while Alasdair and Balthasar had come with Hadrian to England. Alasdair wanted to come home, too, and Balthasar had joined them to continue to monitor Alasdair’s recovery.
The three Pyr had flown to London, then taken a regional jet to Newcastle. Hadrian’s green Land Rover had been parked at the airport, while Alasdair’s blue one was still at Hadrian’s lair. Alasdair had driven down from Scotland and they’d traveled to America together over a month before. Their trucks could have been twins, both older and well-loved but completely reliable. Hadrian liked to joke that just like the two of them, Alasdair’s Land Rover showed its mileage more.
It was after lunch by the time they approached the closest town to Hadrian’s lair. They stopped for groceries and at the post office.
To Hadrian’s satisfaction, the parcel had already arrived from Donovan. Over the years, he’d heard so much about Donovan’s gloves. Though he’d seen them in action once or twice, Quinn’s detailed description had made him want to examine them more closely.
He returned to the truck as Balthasar was loading groceries into the back and tossed the box with the gloves to Alasdair, regretting that he had to drive. Alasdair was checking messages on his phone, but he caught the box. Hadrian started the engine again as Balthasar got into the back then leaned forward between the seats.
“Is that them? Can I see them?” he asked. Alasdair passed him the box and finished up with his phone.
“Messages from Erik,” he said with a shake of his head.
“News?” Hadrian asked.
“Advice,” Alasdair said and they groaned in unison. It was a bit of a standing joke that the leader of the Pyr did tend to make a lot of suggestions—never mind commands. “Just be glad he’s in Chicago and we’re not.”
“I wish I wasn’t driving,” Hadrian complained, his impatience so obvious that the other two Pyr chuckled. “I want to see those gloves.”
“And you want to get to work,” Balthasar noted.
“It’s not that far to your place,” Alasdair said.
There was a sound of tearing paper then Balthasar gave a low whistle. “These are amazing!” He put on one glove and held his hand forward over the gear box, wiggling his fingers.
Hadrian looked between the road and the glove repeatedly. It was a good thing they weren’t on a busy road anymore. Each glove was made of fine leather, the long sharp talons attached to each fingertip. The steel continued from each finger across the back of the glove for strength, and the talons were hinged, like long fingers. They were also sharp, essentially five blades on each hand, and retractable. Balthasar flicked his fingers and the blades swung out, flashing dangerously.
“They are amazing,” Alasdair said.
“You’re killing me!” Hadrian complained and they all laughed.
“I might not give them up,” Balthasar teased, then his tone turned thoughtful. “And Donovan carries them through the change?”
“That’s what he said,” Hadrian said. “He’s able to augment his dragon talons with them.”
“Inc
redible,” Balthasar mused. “I totally need a pair.”
“Me, too,” Alasdair said, taking the other glove and tugging it on. “I can’t be the only one who wants to slice Fae warriors to shreds.” He slashed with his gloved hand and Hadrian heard the blades whistle through the air.
“Not at all,” he agreed with heat. He was never going to forget how much his feet had hurt when he’d been compelled to dance endlessly. He doubted Alasdair would forget it either—plus Alasdair had endured Maeve rummaging in his thoughts.
“Are you going to take one apart?” Balthasar asked.
“I hope I don’t have to,” Hadrian said as he turned onto the smaller road that led into the hills around his lair. He was excited to get to work and didn’t feel tired at all. “Quinn’s instructions were pretty precise. I think I just have to study them closely.”
“You two are competing, aren’t you, to see who can make the most gloves the fastest?” Alasdair teased.
“Just a friendly competition,” Hadrian agreed. “A comparison of methods.”
“How about I make some dinner while you check them out?” Balthasar offered.
Hadrian smiled. “You can tell I want to dive in?”
“Call me psychic,” Balthasar teased.
“Maybe you’re projecting your own enthusiasm,” Alasdair said.
“Probably. I want a pair of these and the sooner, the better.” Balthasar slashed at the air again.
“Plus the sooner Hadrian starts making them, the sooner we’ll all have another weapon,” Alasdair said. “I’ll help cook, too.” He yawned. “Although I’ll probably crash early tonight to try to get over the jetlag.”
“Start tomorrow like you never left,” Balthasar agreed. “It’s the best way.”
Hadrian hadn’t admitted it to his fellows yet, but he was determined to do more than replicate the gloves: he wanted to improve upon them. It had been almost ten years since Quinn had made this pair for Donovan, after all, and Hadrian was inclined to use more modern resources. The Smith of the Pyr loved his wrought iron and artisan tools, but Hadrian respected the benefits of tradition melded to innovation. He knew he’d never convince Quinn to change his methods, and that wasn’t his goal. In a way, he saw improving the design of these gloves as a challenge that would vindicate his view.
Dragon's Mate: A DragonFate Novel (The DragonFate Novels Book 4) Page 3
