Red Hot Dragons Steamy 10 Book Collection

by Lisa Daniels

  Standing outside her door, Helga hesitated on the knocking. Part of her wanted to turn and go. She thought about the note left in her workshop and on the table, informing the others where she intended to go. What waited behind the door? Would her father be well? She dreaded the notion of him being mistreated. Hurt.

  Bunching her hand into a fist, she knocked four times against the door. Heart in mouth, she waited, considering where else they might be. Her father in the factory, perhaps—though he usually had this day off.

  Footsteps. The door swung open, and Helga rubbed her sweaty palms on her pants. Her mother stood behind the door, wrinkled mouth pursed. Her eyes widened. “Helga!”

  “Hey, Ma.” Helga tried to hide her disappointment. “Is Dad in?”

  “Yes... yes... come in.” Her mother stepped aside, allowing Helga to walk in and see that the place hadn't really changed. Her father sat in his favorite armchair, reading a thin book with a picture of a police detective on it, and he glanced up, saw Helga, and after a blank couple of seconds, slowly grinned.

  “You're back! Oh, Helga!” Her father lurched onto his feet, made as if to hug her, then timidly turned it into an awkward handshake.

  “We've been worried about you.” Elma fussed about her daughter, brushing off any signs of dirt, and frowning disapproval at the soot stains under Helga's fingers. “Where've you been?”

  “Fine, mother. I've been fine. I got a job working in the city with gems. It's been going well so far.”

  Elma nodded absently, her swarthy face pinched in apprehension. “I see. Where's that, dear?”

  “Greenview Street. Inner City.” Helga waited for her mother to gape at this announcement, exclaim how on earth Helga could afford a property in such an expensive location, but instead, her mother just nodded. “Well, good for you, dear. Uh, unfortunately you came at a bad time. I was about to get groceries, make the dinner for tonight. Your father's got a late shift, he'll want food...” Still wearing that absent expression, she steered Helga to the kitchen table. “You and your father catch up. I'll join later. You want anything special? Maybe your favorite meat and potato and cabbage dish. You'd like that?”

  Instantly, Helga resisted the urge to slaver, thinking about her mother's simple but delicious meal. “Y—yeah. I'd love that.”

  Giving a weak smile, Elma patted Helga shakily on the head, before bustling off, getting ready to leave. Janson stared after his wife, brow furrowed, before he went to join Helga at the table. The door slammed on them a moment later.

  “She seems remarkably less hating of me...” Helga wasn't sure what to think of her mother's reaction. “I half expected her to close the door in my face after what I did.”

  “She's not very good at showing emotions,” Janson said, offering a small smile. “She wasn't very happy about you leaving, though. I didn't hear the end of it for some time...” His eyes darted nervously, and he rubbed at a spot on his arm.

  “Mother didn't hurt you, did she?” Helga's nostrils flared.

  “Oh, no. No! She was just... and we had some problems... but it's all over now. Tell me. How's it going? Are you being treated well?”

  Obvious change of subject—her father still didn't want to talk about her mother. Fine. With a smile, accepting the drink her father offered, Helga began to tell him about her new position. She left out the shape-shifting part, but made sure to describe in detail how much people appreciated her items. She wanted her father to understand that she succeeded in her chosen path. To not regret the choice he made when he let Helga go.

  “And look, the item you saved for me, it works really well now!” Helga proudly showed Janson the crossgun, after double-checking that her safety was fixed in place.

  “Oh! This looks a little different than I remember.” Her father held the weapon, more out of politeness than enthusiasm. A little trickle of unease crept into Helga. She wanted to see more from her father, somehow. To see true excitement on his face, true happiness about how well she was doing.

  It was as if the glimmer of defiance she'd seen in him the night they parted had been extinguished.

  “Father, please be honest. Is Ma giving you a hard time? Did she blame you for my escape?”

  He shook his head too fast, knuckles turning white as he gripped the table. “Well, she wasn't happy, of course.” Now his face shifted to an odd shade of red, as if suddenly constipated. Or holding onto words that wanted to burst out of the secrecy they'd been locked in.

  When Helga scraped her chair back, her father made a funny spasm, as if to grab hold of her, before withdrawing the impulse.

  “Father, what's happening?” A strange sense of danger settled on Helga's shoulders. “Please. Tell me.”

  Taking huge, frantic breaths, her father rocked slightly in his seat, before finally squeaking out, “We—we had some trouble. Your—your former husband—his family, very...”

  Helga's breathing hitched. “They didn't hurt you?”

  “Goods stolen, deal made, said—said we needed to...” Her father let out a groan, before he yelled, “They wanted you, needed you to show them how you made your things! Which were stolen! Gods, they were so mad...”

  A cold sliver of fear crept down Helga's spine. “They're extorting you?”

  He nodded frantically, eyes burning with shame and guilt. “You're so talented. We never knew. If we had—maybe—maybe your mother wouldn't have been so hard on you. Maybe I would have...” He took more awkward, pitiful breaths, eyes closed. Then they snapped open with sudden determination. “You need to leave.”

  Now his hand reached out for Helga again, though he wore a terrified expression. The same he always wore when he was on the verge of defying someone.

  “Father, if you're in trouble, maybe you can come live with me. I'm in a good place now. Or if you need money, I'm sure I can send you coin. Please, let me help.”

  “You don't understand, Helga. They threatened us. Told us to keep you busy if you came. So they could... take you. Then our debt would be paid. We'd keep our house.”

  Helga stared at her wretched father, mouth open. “No! Father...” Her heart crashed. This was her fault, wasn't it? Now she saw bruises on her father's arm, and her throat clogged up.

  “Your mother, I think she went to get them.”

  “What will happen if I'm not here when they come back?” The betrayal didn't even bother Helga. Not after seeing her father's trembling, his fight to warn her.

  “It—it...” He couldn't even say it. “Just go. Please!” He shoved her out the door, tears now streaming down his face. Never had he looked so pathetic and so strong at the same time, so terrified yet so defiant.

  She didn't move. Visions of her father, lying crumpled and broken in front of the door, beaten by that man who'd used her own crafting against her—how could she do that to him? “Come with me, Father! Come with me as well!”

  Her father let out a sound like a wounded animal, pushing her further away from the front door. “No, I can't, I won't leave Elma! Just go!” Finally, she ran for it, ducking into an alleyway—but went no further.

  Instead, she searched for a drainpipe, one she knew to be tough, and after a quick test, began to climb up it. A moment later, she clattered onto the roof and gripped her way to the top, looking down into the street of her home. Her father still stood outside the door, frozen in place, pale as a ghost.

  It throbbed in her heart, thinking about the nightmare her father tortured himself through. He must feel as if he was slipping into the deep end, with no light. Nothing but water to breathe, nothing to hold onto. The house no longer seemed ordinary, but the water tank that trapped him.

  Don't go back in, Father, Helga thought with all her heart and soul. Escape. Run away. Except she knew he wouldn't. Helga stuffed her knuckles into her mouth to stifle a scream before, with trembling hands, she eased out her crossgun.

  And waited.

  Might not be the best shot in the world, but the sight on her crossgun allowed accurate
shots of up to 100 yards. If she angled the crook of it 45 degrees.

  Theoretically. Maybe now her years of testing crossbow strengths and ranges might come in handy.

  Though she'd never done it out of her workshop before.

  Need to edge closer. Make sure I'm in range. Closer the better. She shuffled down the roof, then risked a hop onto the next one, almost sliding off before finding leverage. The moment of sheer panic made her rest, sweating on the roof for a good few minutes. When she looked over the roof again, she saw her father had gone in.

  The police rarely bothered with issues in the factory areas. Too many deaths, when they had more important clients to look after. If the almost-husband's mindless thugs wanted to take it out on her parents, no doubt the deaths would be overlooked. Helga gritted her teeth with rage, watching.

  Perhaps five minutes later, though it felt like hours, she saw her mother approaching with the goons in tow. She recognized them all. The same ones who'd beaten her up, stolen her stuff.

  Acting like they had a right to everything she'd made. Adrenaline rocking through her, she rested the crossgun, making sure she presented a small, barely visible target. Her mother knocked on the door. Janson answered a moment later, and did his stuttering, guilt-riddled performance. Each man seemed to wield a blade. No guns.

  The four men barged inside, bowling her father aside, and Elma yelled at Janson, her arms windmilling.

  “You let her go? You let her go? They'll kill us, you idiot!”

  Her father gibbered something inaudible back, while Elma began tearing out chunks of her hair, hysterical, terrified.

  Moments later, roaring, the men obviously having searched the house in case Janson lied, they barged out, weapons drawn, screaming and cursing at her parents. Fear slithering through Helga like a snake, she unlatched the safety and sighted with one eye, trying to keep her arms still enough to stay on the men. Must be fifty yards away, maybe less. Point blank range for a crossbow. She should have this.

  What if I miss? What if I kill my mother, my father? What if...

  One of the men, a huge pig of a brute with a black, bristling mustache, pointed his sword towards her mother. “You'll pay for this!”

  Easiest target. Biggest volume of body to hit. Don't think don't... Helga's finger twitched. The bolt shot off, and she slid the mechanism, allowing the next one to roll into place.

  The first bolt punched through the side of the man's stomach, and he slipped, sword falling to the ground.

  Don't think! Helga held her breath, desperately trying not to be shocked, sickened by what she'd done, aiming for the next target. The man's companion, gaping in blank incomprehension. One finger twitch. Death sped past his head, clattered over the cobbles, and he let out a wail.

  “We're under attack!”

  Cursing at the miss, Helga slid the next bolt and let fly again. Another miss—she hit the open door of her home.

  “Run!”

  The men didn't wait to find out who was shooting. Her father followed the trajectory, and he saw Helga spread on the roof. The three remaining men ran, not bothering to help their companion. She fired one more bolt, and hissed in satisfaction when it drove through the leg of the thin bastard. The one who'd broken her ribs. He squealed like a stuck pig, and his other two companions dragged him out of sight. The overweight man lay in front of her parents' house, bleeding out. Still alive for now.

  She locked eyes with her father. He still looked white and scared, but gave a grim nod. Her mother, who'd been pointlessly covering her head with her arms, looked up, saw, and gasped.

  Helga slid off the roof, landing with a heavy thump onto the ground, and limped off. Keeping the queasy sensation inside. Unable to take away the image of that man upon the ground, bleeding from her quarrel, or the shock in her parents' eyes.

  Chapter Seven – Quentin

  Quentin received his first heart attack when he saw Helga's note. He highly expected it to be unsafe at Helga's former home, judging by the anger of the men he requisitioned her goods from. Gorchev wasn't one who appreciated having his items stolen. Even if his minions had been the ones stealing in the first place.

  Should have foreseen this better. Should have dealt with Helga's parents sooner. Zaine would have Quentin's neck for this. He sweated profusely, thinking about his failure of duty. Best to head over there now, get them out, put them in a hotel, and tap into his own funds to secure a new home. His responsibility, his cost.

  His second heart attack came when a knock came from outside, and he saw Helga through the window, stony-faced, clutching her crossgun.

  He practically threw himself at the door, opening it. “I was just about to go out and find you. How is everything?” Maybe he was wrong. Her parents might not have been compromised. Helga slouched past him, dragging her feet, until she slumped on the nearest armchair.

  “Quentin, my family are in trouble.”

  Cautiously, Quentin approached her, trying to betray no sense of his guilt on his face. “Oh? What happened?”

  Should have known. Should have steaming known. He'd been so busy with everything else, yet he couldn't spare a moment for her parents.

  “From what I gather, my almost-husband isn't happy with my items being reclaimed from him. Or I suppose about the missing egg. They were extorting my parents. Told them to hold onto me if I arrived and get them to come over. My mother went, my father was talking to me...”

  Sucking in air, since Quentin realized he'd stopped breathing, he shifted one hand to the armchair. So close to her skin. One little jerk, he'd be holding her again. “But you got out, right? You're okay?” His eyes searched for injuries. Her expression remained unfathomable.

  “For now. My father cracked and told me, so I got out of there before those men arrived. But I didn't leave.” A slow, savage smile entered her lips. “I stayed nearby. Went on the roof. Got close enough to try sticking them with this.” She patted her crossgun, which Quentin now noticed had modifications.

  Modifications he'd suggested.

  “You shot them?”

  “Uh huh. Not a great shot, though. Managed to hit the big bastard, since there was so much of him to hit. And got one of them in the leg as they were fleeing. I wanted to get him in the head. He broke my ribs before.” She looked so fierce, eyes glittering with rage. Might have made a good dragon. But something else wavered in that gaze as well. The first shards of death.

  “It's not easy, killing someone,” Quentin began, but Helga silenced him with a glare.

  “On the contrary, Quentin, it is easy. Too easy. If you do it from a distance, it's far easier to become a monster.” Her hands trembled as she stated this. “I was happy to see him hit by my quarrel. I tried my hardest to kill the others. But now...” she fell quiet. Chewing on her words. “I don't know.”

  Perhaps Quentin did. He wasn't much of a killer by dragon standards, either. Oh, some of his brood hatchlings like to dance the red dance, fight one another, hurt one another. His clan liked a little human hunting, too, but they did it where no news would reach the city, taking loners into vast forests in the Hinterlands and chasing them until they collapsed in death.

  He didn't understand why they enjoyed it so much. And he didn't particularly think Helga enjoyed the aftermath of her little actions now.

  “I think we better get your parents out of there as soon as possible,” Quentin told her. “You might have scared them off for now, but it's unlikely they'll stay away forever. You have made true enemies of them.”

  “Something I share with Mia, at least. They certainly don't like her. Gods, I wish I had her powers.” She gripped her crossgun harder.

  “You don't need her powers to do good.” Or bad, Quentin thought, but he didn't let that slip out. Helga gave a great shuddering sigh, and now Quentin allowed his hands to reach for her shoulders. She looked at him for a moment, as if seeing him for the first time, and Quentin wondered if he'd made a mistake. If this was where she'd shrug him aside and tell him to
never go near her again. His heart twisted almost painfully at the notion—being tossed out from this rare human's warmth, straight into the path of Zaine's wrath.

  “I promise I'll go get your parents sorted right now. I'm sorry you had to go through all this, but once they're safe in a hotel in the inner city, I can focus on making arrangements.”

  Helga swallowed, her dark eyes similar to the night sky. All clouds and a hint of storm. “My father... he won't want to leave his cannery job.”

  “Then he's stupid.”

  “My mother... her family's had that house for generations. It's got so many memories.”

  “It's not worth hanging onto now. I'm sure they'll realize that, given what happened.” Quentin wanted to draw her into his arms, to hug her, maybe kiss her; the impulse pounded treacherously inside his chest, but he substituted it with a smile. “I'll find a way to get them to move.” Even if I have to burn it down.

  “My father... he said that they didn't realize how... talented I was. The men wanted my items to make a profit. And my mother would have been fine with it if I could have raked in money. Everything's solved with money, isn't it?” Her lips twisted into a bitter grimace. “Not love or caring or respect. Steaming money.” Before Quentin could stop her, she bowled her crossgun away, and it clattered into the wall. “I don't want to work for money! I want to work because I love my work!”

  Quentin's hands continued to massage her, trying to instill calm into her storm. She was reacting like a child, in a way, and Quentin couldn't really pretend to understand the motivations behind it, because his brood family had a role for him from the start. A role he accepted, even if he was mocked for his weakness, mocked for being too soft with the humans...