Dragon Fever: Limited Edition Holiday Romance Boxset

by Serena Meadows

  “Dream on, baby. Now don’t make it any worse on yourself. Behave, and maybe you’ll live through the night.”

  “Tell this shithead to get off me.”

  “Let her up, Two-Bit,” Tank said. “Just keep an eye on her.”

  He heard the sounds of movement in the rear seat, then Daryl’s red and furious face appeared in the rearview mirror. “Is the money worth your life, Tank?” she demanded. “You will die, I promise you. Unless you let me go.”

  “Oh, no, baby,” Tank said easily. “You will. You see, the money isn’t all we want. We want your boyfriend.”

  “Just exactly what are you going to do with him?” she retorted. “Provided you can catch him, that is.”

  “Sell him, baby.” Tank grinned into the mirror. “A dragon-man has to be worth millions, dontcha think?”

  “You are really stupid, Tank. I always thought you were smart, but you and your goons here are dumber than a box of rocks.”

  Tank didn’t see it, but he caught sight of movement, and the sound of flesh striking flesh. Daryl cried out. Tank laughed.

  “Two-Bit don’t like being called dumb,” he said, chuckling. “Now, keep your pretty mouth shut unless you want more of the same.”

  “You’re all going to die,” Daryl told them, her voice now calm and collected, and strangely, that cool tone scared Tank the most. “You all will die screaming.”

  Ronan paced the confines of their hotel room, worrying. Daryl should have been back by now with their meal. He had heard the wail of sirens not long ago, and that sent a chill through him. Was she hurt? Were those ambulances? He knew Daryl hadn’t gotten any heroin nor had she OD’d again.

  He had no idea how he knew that, but he knew it was the truth.

  “I have to go find her,” he muttered, his anger and fear growing. “I have to risk being seen. But just where do I look?”

  That was the problem. He could fly around all night and not see her. If she had gone into a building or was in a vehicle, he’d never find her. “Daryl, talk to me, honeybun. Tell me where you are.”

  He closed his eyes and concentrated, hoping that perhaps he might pick up a psychic vibe from her. Some dragons had the ability to sense where their loved ones were, but he wasn’t one of them. His frustration mounting by the minute, he knew she was in terrible danger. That much he managed to catch.

  The phone on the desk rang a shrill note, making him jump. Ronan stared at it, shocked, and it rang again. Knowing it must have something to do with Daryl’s not coming back, he walked slowly toward it. It rang yet again, a third time, then a fourth before he stretched out his hand and picked it up.

  “Yeah?”

  “Hello, dragon man.”

  Ronan shut his eyes, his jaw clenched. He remembered that voice as it yelled at him, the hand with the gun in it coming around to bear on him. To shoot. The voice as it taunted Daryl. “Tank.”

  “I’m so tickled you remember me.” Tank laughed. “Guess who I got with me?”

  In the background, he heard Daryl screaming vile insults, and his hopes rose. If she’s healthy enough to yell, he hasn’t hurt her yet. Then Tank’s amused and gravelly voice came back, loud and clear. “She isn’t dead yet, dragon man,” Tank informed him, glee in his tone. “Pay attention, because this next bit concerns you.”

  “I’m going to hazard a guess and say you want your money.”

  “You’re a smart one,” Tank said brightly. “Yeah. I want my cash. You bring it to an abandoned warehouse, and maybe you get your bitch back. Alive and unspoiled.”

  “What’s the address?”

  Ronan scribbled it down on the hotel’s stationery and tore the sheet off. “I’m leaving now.”

  “Good, dragon man. And remember, you leave your dragon at home. Just you, in your man shape. Got it?”

  “Yeah.”

  Tank hung up. Ronan stared at the phone’s handset for a moment, then put it back on its cradle. Reading the number of a local taxi firm on the card next to the phone, he picked it back up and dialed the cab company. After ordering his taxi, he hung up again and gazed around at the room.

  Their clothes lay strewn everywhere, some still in the suitcases, others draped over chairs. Ronan pulled the gun from his waistband, checked its load, then put it back. As he waited for the cab, feeling numb while his brain worked at top speed, he packed all their stuff without really knowing why.

  By the time the taxi’s headlights splashed across the window, Ronan was ready. He took one more look around the room where he and Daryl had made love and watched television and ate Chinese take out, then opened the door. The driver stepped out of his taxi.

  “You call a cab?”

  “Yeah. Help me with all this.”

  After all the cases were loaded into the trunk, Ronan gave him the paper with the address. “Take me to this place.”

  “You got it.”

  As the cabbie drove him to the warehouse, Ronan stared out the window. His brain continued to work, assessing various options for how to get Daryl away from Tank safely. That Tank, and anyone with him, would die this night, he had no illusion. Most likely, Tank had his pals Two-Bit and Flame with him, and Ronan considered them objectively.

  Two-Bit wasn’t very smart, Ronan recalled, and Flame, while intelligent, was also obsessed. How that could help him, Ronan didn’t know. And Tank himself was essentially a coward and a bully when he held the upper hand. Have to take the upper hand away from him. Somehow.

  The driver pulled to the curb and turned to look at him over the seat. Ronan observed the decrepit neighborhood, the empty buildings, the distinct lack of streetlights. The warehouse itself had busted windows throughout and no sign of life. He met the cabbie’s eyes.

  “You sure this is where you want to be?” the man asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Ronan paid him and got out, then walked around to the rear of the taxi. The cabbie helped with his suitcases and set them on the broken sidewalk. “I’ll linger in the area, man,” the driver said. “In case you are at the wrong place.”

  “Thanks, but I know this is it.”

  Ronan watched as the driver pulled away and looked again at the structure. He may not be as psychic as one of his friends he went into exile with, but he knew he was being watched. He felt eyes on him like hot, wet weights, as though they were the maggoty remains of something dead.

  Picking up the suitcases, he set them in the shadow of the building near the door. Then he took the cases with the money and hid them in the weeds that grew alongside the alley behind the warehouse. Gazing up, he studied the structure, his eyes seeing quite well in the darkness. A sedan stood parked back there, and Ronan could scent the heat coming off of it.

  They came in that vehicle.

  He didn’t sense their eyes on him. Maybe their only vantage point was in the front. That meant they were possibly concentrated on the street side and hadn’t been able to follow him to the alley side. Shifted forms, Ronan leaped skyward, spreading his wings and beating his way up. Straight up the side of the building, its cement bricks right in front of his face.

  Reaching the roof, he banked left and sank to the mixture of cement and metal. Large metallic objects had been placed at intervals along the rooftop, no doubt having something to do with the operation of the warehouse. Striding to the edge, Ronan peered down at the street but saw nothing at all. All was still, silent, and not even a car moved along the avenue below.

  The roof creaked under his weight as he made his way to the roof door. His talon discovered it was locked. Breathing deep, he sent forth a thin stream of red-hot flame into the knob, instantly melting it and the locking mechanism along with it. The superheated metal dripped and oozed to the cement and lay there, glowing red and gold in the darkness.

  The door swung open, smoking.

  Shifting forms again, Ronan stepped into the building and trod down the stairs as silently as possible. His feet gave no echoes, and down he went, listening for any hint of where Ta
nk and his goons held Daryl. He heard nothing and continued onward until he reached an open area that filled the entire first and second floors.

  Only catwalks and huge pipes held up by wires met his inspection. Down below, a myriad of portable panels separated parts of the warehouse, dividing it into sections. Chains hung from steel bars where perhaps machinery had once attached. Though Tank and his minions must know he was there, he saw and heard no sign of them. Nor did he see Daryl.

  “Greetings, Tank,” he called. “You wanted me. I have your money.”

  “Hiya, dragon man.”

  Tank emerged from behind one of the panels, Daryl in front of him, a gun held to her head. He observed her hands were bound in front of her. Lights suddenly flared below Ronan, illuminating most of the first floor. He saw only Tank and nothing of his companions. Daryl had been gagged, for a cloth had been stuffed into her mouth and tied around her head.

  She appeared healthy and furious, her huge blue eyes trying to tell him something.

  Tank gazed up at Ronan with a wide grin. “Glad you could make it. Where’s my money?”

  “Out front. Let Daryl go and I’ll let you live.”

  “The money first.”

  “Daryl first.”

  “No, no, no.” Tank’s voice rose on the last note, gaining in volume and unstable fury. “The money.”

  “Out front. Go get it.”

  Tank’s face twisted in frustration and rage, clearly upset that things were not going exactly as he planned it.

  “Two-Bit,” he yelled. “Get the money. It’s out front.”

  From somewhere to Ronan’s left, Two-Bit scrambled to obey, and Ronan observed his right hand was next to useless. He held a gun awkwardly in his left. Vanishing out the door on the street side of the warehouse, he came back in moments later with a suitcase. He dropped it, then went back out for the other.

  Meanwhile, Tank watched Ronan with a tense and fearful grin, as though knowing he was in trouble and seeking to make the best of it. Ronan grew concerned that he hadn’t yet seen Flame and dared not take his eyes from the scene below him to look around for Tank’s second henchman.

  “Open them,” Tank roared.

  Two-Bit knelt and undid the clasps on the suitcases. He gave a wail of horror. “It’s just clothes and shit, Tank.”

  Instantly, Daryl slammed both her bound hands into the center of Tank’s broken arm. He bellowed in pain, staggering back, his left hand lowering. Swinging around, she sent both fists into his nose, shattering it. Under his screams of pain and rage, Daryl bolted, running hard, and vanished into the warehouse.

  Ronan leaped from the stairs, launching himself into a free fall.

  Midair, he shifted.

  His wings wide, he sent a sheet of flame at Two-Bit, sending the man running for cover, screaming hysterically. Tank had staggered out of his line of sight, perhaps seeking Daryl to use as his hostage again. Furling his wings, Ronan landed on all four legs on the concrete floor, his tail lashing in his fury. Tilting his head back, he roared, sending his voice rocketing throughout the building.

  Something stung him on his right rear leg, a sting like a nasty, angry wasp. Ronan spun around, seeing Flame backing away, a syringe in his hand. Flame laughed, gleeful, triumphant, staring up at Ronan, pointing his finger. “We got you, sucker,” he yelled.

  Ronan swung his heavy tail, and cracked Flame across his hips, crunching bones like fine crystal. Flame screamed as his body was hurtled through the air to land hard on his shoulder, breaking that, too. He writhed on the cement floor, squirming like a bug on a pin, his cries high and breathless.

  Turning with the intent to char Flame into a small pile of ash, Ronan stumbled. What the—

  His knees buckled, and he almost fell again. Dizziness swamped him; his gut wanted to hurl whatever was in his stomach out with extreme force. Unconsciousness hovered at the edge of his vision, and he knew he was falling.

  Before the blackness took him into its deadly embrace, Ronan saw Tank and Two-Bit approaching. Their manner was still cautious, as they knew they walked toward something dangerous, yet both grinned with triumph and a heady joy.

  I’m sorry, Daryl. Forgive me.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Frantic, Daryl ran through the warehouse, ducking amid the panels that separated portions of the building, searching for anything that could cut the ropes that bound her hands. How Two-Bit had not found the Glock in the small of her back as he lay on her in the car, she had no idea.

  Thank God, thank God, thank God.

  She heard Flame’s screams of agony and knew that Ronan had been jabbed with the ketamine. Flame did it and now paid for it with his life. But Tank and Two-Bit were ready to chain Ronan; even now, she heard the deadly rattle and chiming as they set a loop of iron links around his massive neck. How can he get free of that? Oh, God, you can’t let them do this.

  Unable to help herself, Daryl peered around a panel.

  Ronan lay on his chest and belly, his long serpentine neck straight out on the floor. His eyes were closed, and though he lay in some sort of a near unconscious state, smoke drifted up from his nostrils. Both Tank and Two-Bit avoided that as they locked the steel chain around his neck, and more to his front legs. The heavy chains led to iron pegs in the cement floor, perhaps once used as anchors for machinery in the past.

  They laughed as they worked, giggling and dancing in place. Beyond them, Flames moans of agony went on and on, his pleas for help ignored. At last, Tank ceased his laughter and studied their handiwork, his left hand cradling his once-again injured right. As though he didn’t notice, the blood from his nose continued to seep down over his lips and chin.

  “We got ‘im, Tank,” Two-Bit squealed with joy. “We’ll get millions fer ‘im, won’t we?”

  “Go shut Flame up,” Tank ordered. “He’s breaking my concentration.”

  Two-Bit’s laughter died. “What am I supposed to do? Call an ambulance?”

  “Just put a bullet in his head.”

  Daryl watched Two-Bit gape, staring. “I can’t just shoot ole Flame. He’s my buddy.”

  “Shoot him!” Tank roared.

  Silent, sullen, Two-Bit walked away, pacing around Ronan’s huge black form, and vanishing behind his vast bulk. Daryl watched Tank as he inspected the chains, checking their holds, muttering under his breath. Turning away, she continued her search for something to cut her bonds with, wondering why Tank didn’t bother with her anymore.

  He has his prize. Something far more valuable than the paltry half-million I stole from him.

  Expecting the sound of the gunshot that ended Flame’s life, Daryl looked for anything that would cut the ropes. She strode amongst the remains of a once-thriving business, hoping to find an old knife or handsaw blade—something. Flame’s moans echoed through the empty building, Daryl forcing herself to not be creeped out by them.

  He got what he deserved.

  Ignoring them as well as Tank alternating between gloating triumph and yelling at Two-Bit to shoot the mother fucker, Daryl spotted a broken edge of sheet metal. It was wedged under broken concrete and bent at a tidy angle. Kneeling beside it, Daryl ran the rope that bound her hands back and forth along its edge.

  “Daryl?”

  Daryl froze for a moment as Tank’s lazy voice rose and echoed. “Where are you, sweetheart? Come to daddy now.”

  Sounds like he’s gone as loony as Flame. Ignoring him, Daryl sawed the ropes against the metal, seeing it slowly fray, its strands popping little by little. She would get free, but not fast enough. The sound of boots stomping around the place told her that Tank had begun to actively search.

  If he found her still tied and helpless, he’d waste no time in killing her.

  “Olly, olly oxen free.” Tank’s crooning voice echoed to the roof and vanished somewhere among the catwalks. “Daryl, baby, don’t be shy.”

  Her pulse pounding, her mouth dry, Daryl frantically sawed at the ropes, listening as Tank grew closer.


  “Come on, Daryl, you’re not playing fair.”

  A wild scream of laughter bubbled up in her chest, but Daryl forced it down. The ropes frayed and finally broke, falling to the floor like a fuzzy snake. Yanking the Glock from her jeans, she snapped the safety off and backed behind a panel. She heard Tank enter the spot she had just vacated.

  “Oh, Daryl, child, what have you done?”

  Her sneakers nearly silent on the cement, Daryl headed back in Ronan’s direction. I’ll have to kill them. To protect Ronan. Get those chains off him. Then, when he wakes up, we can get out of here. Flame’s low moans and cries continued, but those were the only sounds in the place. She paused, listening for Tank’s boots or his voice, and heard neither.

  Spooked more by the quiet than Tank’s taunts, Daryl kept the gun out and ready to fire the instant she saw either Tank or Two-Bit. Creeping slowly toward Ronan, she peered around a panel to look at him. A green eye blinked slowly, and more smoke poured from his nostrils.

  Is he waking up?

  The faint scrape of a boot on the cement warned her.

  Spinning, Daryl fired just as Tank emerged from behind a panel, his gun aimed at her. Her shot splintered the wood beside his face, and forced him to duck and flee, yelling his lungs out.

  “How’d she get a gun? Two-Bit, how’d you not see a gun on that bitch?”

  Two-Bit’s voice, somewhere to Daryl’s left, rose in protest. “You dint tell me to search her, boss.”

  Near laughter, Daryl looked again at Ronan, who had raised his head and now looked at her fully. Though his eyes were still dulled with the ketamine, they were aware. A wild joy rushed through her. They didn’t give him enough. A single syringe isn’t enough to keep a dragon of his size out for very long.

  But Ronan was still very much in danger. If Tank realized his prize was waking up, he’d shoot Ronan to prevent both his escape and his revenge. Daryl put her finger to her lips in a shushing gesture, then flattened her hand and pushed downward.

  Ronan understood. He lay his great head back down and closed his eyes just as Two-Bit stepped into view. Daryl instantly shot at him, making him yell in fear and retreat, cursing her for having a gun. “What’d you expect, shitheels?” Daryl shouted, following him. “You want me to roll over and die?”