by Abigail Owen
I
Brand pulled his 1970 Plymouth Hemi Cuda into the empty parking lot and rolled into the space nearest the frosted glass door sporting a tiny sign. Medical Services.
Right place. The fact that it appeared deserted didn’t faze him, not for this kind of facility. With a flick of the key, he cut off the deep rumble of the souped-up classic car’s engine but didn’t get out immediately.
“Why the hell am I here?” he muttered under his breath.
The fifth place he’d been sent in the last year looking for gods knew what—having visited the traitors in South America, the Huracán Enforcers in California, a witch in Alaska, and a chimera in Toronto. Now Cheyenne, Wyoming.
The Blood King was searching for a woman. That’s all Brand had pieced together, though suspicion had started to itch at him.
He pulled out the satellite phone he carried with him when working for the king and punched in the private number he never stored in the device’s memory, just his own. Immediately a low male voice answered.
“Have you met her?” came the immediate question. No intro or greeting necessary. The man on the other end already knew who he was and why he was calling.
“No. I’m parked outside.” And this is a colossal fucking waste of my time.
He’d traveled halfway around the world on a goose chase for something that didn’t exist. Brand kept that last bit to himself. Ladon Ormarr wouldn’t appreciate having his obsessive quest questioned again. Not that he’d rip Brand’s insides out next time they crossed paths or anything, but Brand needed the other dragon to stay on his side. Serving as a mercenary for Ladon, the Blood King of the Blue Dragon Clan, doing every job no one else would take, was all for a purpose—survival and revenge.
Ladon was a major key to a plan centuries in the making—one that involved killing Uther, the King of the Gold Clan. Something that had turned out to be a lot tougher than Brand had ever expected, so Brand had no intention of pissing off his only ally.
“Call me when you’ve seen her.”
Click.
Brand stared at his phone and held back his irritation with effort. Looked like Ladon had zero intention of letting this fixation go.
Fine. He’d get this over with, get paid regardless, and move on to trying to figure out how to get to Uther before he died of old age.
Brand swung himself out of the car and stalked into the facility.
And immediately froze.
Smoke. The noticeable scent of it hung heavy in the halls of the private medical clinic tucked discreetly into a series of warehouses in Cheyenne, Wyoming. The campfire aroma had a sweet undercurrent, sort of chocolaty, and was strong enough to mask the antiseptic smell that inundated most medical facilities.
Brand stopped inside the doors and studied the flavor of the odor, letting it wash over his senses of smell and taste, trying to identify the source. Only a handful of creatures dealt in fire. A dragon shifter himself, he should be able to easily identify this one.
The fact that he couldn’t pinpoint a species landed on the “pay attention” scale of his give-a-shit-o-meter.
That small suspicion that had been creeping up on him grew deeper roots.
Brand controlled his reaction, determined to give no outward sign of his tension. He’d trained himself long ago to never respond so others could see. Reaction was weakness that could be exploited, and weakness for a rogue dragon meant certain death.
Instead, he walked up to the receptionist, a woman who gave a low growl deep in her throat. Polar bear shifter. He’d expected no less at this clinic. From what he understood after checking this place out, Dr. Oppenheim dealt only with special cases. Supernatural medical needs. Having reinforcement in the front office in the form of a large predator shifter was only smart.
The polar bear wouldn’t have been able to help the growl or the way her canines elongated in her mouth. Predators didn’t like it when more dangerous predators showed up. Dragons were as dangerous as anything supernatural got, and they didn’t play nice with others.
Strike that. They didn’t play. Period.
Brand ignored the growled warning. He’d already sized her up in one glance. This woman was an alpha and unmated, which could make her dangerous. Good thing he didn’t care.
He whipped out the credentials he used in situations like these. “My name is Brand Astarot. I’m a private investigator.”
The lie about his job tripped easily off his tongue. He’d been using the PI cover for his own purposes for a long time. It tended to open doors faster, or at least give him a reason to be in unusual locations and circumstances. “Dr. Oppenheim should be expecting me.”
The bear shifter took a moment to force her teeth back to human size. “My apologies, Mr. Astarot,” she murmured. “We don’t get much traffic during daylight hours.”
Not completely at ease, she eyed his form, taking in his six-foot-five, muscled frame, the breadth of his shoulders, her gaze finally dropping to his right hand.
Every dragon shifter sported a brand signifying the clan and king he owed allegiance to—Blue, Gold, Red, White, Green, or Black. Even in the Americas, supernaturals knew to check.
Brand had no such mark on his hand. Which left only one option—he was a rogue dragon, abandoned or exiled by his people, or one who’d deliberately left his clan.
A rogue who hadn’t already been hunted down and killed by his own kind tended to be batshit crazy and unpredictable with it. Crazy wasn’t his style.
Yet.
But the receptionist didn’t know that, and the general perception was a tool he relied on to stay alive.
“We don’t get many dragons in here, either,” she finally said.
Reading between the lines, and knowing his extremely secretive people, he doubted this clinic got any. Dragons had their own healers. “I understand.”
She nodded, then picked up the phone. “Dr. Oppenheim? A private investigator named Mr. Astarot has arrived. Shall I have him go on back?”
After a long silence, a calm voice answered. “I’ve been expecting him. However, our patient is about to supernova again.”
Supernova?
Dr. Oppenheim continued. “I guess if he’s investigating her, he’d better see what he’s dealing with.”
Even the shifter grimaced. She hit the button to hang up and pointed at a set of double doors to her right. “Through there. End of the hall.”
Brand paused at the doors. “What does supernova mean in this context?”
She grimaced again. “Let’s just say we’re lucky we have a fireproof room, or we would’ve burned down twice in the last month.”
Fire. The same symptom he’d been tracking all over the damn planet. Brand couldn’t see Ladon bothering with any of the lesser fire creatures, and he was too smart to mess with a hellhound. He’d initially assumed Ladon was searching for a dragon mate. A queen would stop the aging process for the king, as well as help solidify his claim to the throne. As a new king, Ladon could use all the support he could get.
But no. The scent mingling in the smoke wasn’t dragon. This was something…different. And if his suspicions were right, something impossible.
Adrenaline-fueled curiosity mixed with a certain amount of dread as Brand made his way down the long corridor. About the length of a football field, the walls were painted white, matching the white tile floors, all illuminated by overhead lights that gave off a low buzz that aggravated his sensitive hearing and cast a bluish hue over everything.
He passed several doors with various labels. Normal ones like exam rooms and surgery. A few not-so-normal ones. He held in a sneer as he passed a room geared toward newly made werewolves—no windows, dragonsteel bars that he’d bet were electrified, magically warded, or both. Not that a dragon’s first time shifting was any easier, but they had their own process for that.
He
reached the end of the hall just as a woman with dark gray hair tipped in neon green stepped out of a room. She wore a white lab coat, so he figured this had to be the doctor.
“Mr. Astarot?” She held out her hand, which he grasped as he nodded. “I’m Dr. Oppenheim. Mariska has been under my care for the last five weeks or so.”
Mariska? Sounded Russian. A good place to hide if she was what he suspected.
Brand tucked a spurt of uneasiness behind a poker face that never lost him a game. “All I’ve been told is to come see this woman.”
“We didn’t want to discuss particulars over the phone, in case someone was…listening in.”
Brand narrowed his eyes, taking in the slightly too eager light in the doctor’s eyes. His experience dealing with liars and manipulators lit up a warning with big red lights. He’d bet his hefty fee for this job that this Oppenheim person knew what her patient was already.
Did that mean Ladon knew, too? “Can you give me the particulars now?”
Her green-tipped hair swayed as she nodded. “She’s almost at the end of another bout. I think you should witness the worst of her symptoms. Then we can talk.”
At that, Dr. Oppenheim turned and hit a button beside the door. The entire wall was instantly rendered transparent, like glass, and Brand got his first view of the reason he was here. Sort of.
A woman huddled on the floor in the middle of the room with her back to him, naked, her body consumed by angry red flames that sparked at the tips.
“We had to remove all the furniture, because when she goes, she melts everything but the walls, which are magically warded to withstand even dragon fire.” The doctor sent him a significant glance, which meant she knew what he was, though he had yet to identify her species. Some kind of healer, possibly a minor deity or demigod with the ability?
Suddenly, the woman on the other side of the glass clutched her stomach and moaned, low and long. An answering pain radiated through Brand’s body.
What the fuck?
He swallowed back a groan. “Is she hurt?”
The doctor flicked him another glance. “You could say that. She experiences episodes that start with a loss of vision, followed by discomfort, which builds to what she describes as a full-body migraine at the height of the fire.”
Brand nodded, even as his thoughts spun.
No dragon or any other fire creature he knew of suffered when they loosed their fire or shifted. And why the hell had her moan affected him, the painful burn spreading deep into his bones?
Brand breathed in, steadying himself. He possessed a massive level of self-control thanks to the power of kings that flowed through his blood. He was the only one left from his bloodline, but the authority of his ancestors still filled his veins. He sought that control now, having to reach for it, struggle to find it.
As he watched, the fire pouring off Mariska’s body grew, crawling over the floor and up the walls almost as though it were alive. She crumpled to the ground, curling into a ball. At the same time, a series of keening sounds burst from her.
His control slipped another notch as pain pulsed through him, stronger than before. On the edge of something sharper, but not quite there. Brand slammed his hand on the wall and leaned into the pain. In the same instant, instinct dragged at him. He needed to be in that room to… Fucking hell. He didn’t know what. Help her? Instinct screamed at him to help her.
“Mr. Astarot?” Dr. Oppenheim’s concerned tones barely penetrated the haze that had taken over his body. Brand couldn’t tear his gaze from the woman separated from him by a wall.
She trembled now, body visibly tensing and releasing. Low moans tumbled from her lips and slid down his spine like electric shocks.
“Why does it take so long?” he groaned around his own escalating situation.
“We don’t know.” The doctor put a hand on his arm. “But I’m more concerned about you right now.”
Instinct chose that instant to take over every cell of his body. He needed to be in that room. Now. He shook the doctor off.
“Step back,” he growled, his voice already dark and smoky, even though he wasn’t shifting.
“Wait!” Dr. Oppenheim yelled.
But she was too late. Brand burst into the room and ran at the woman sprawled in the middle of the floor. He dropped to his knees in front of her. “Let me help you.”
She jerked back. Her eyes, blazing with flame to the point he couldn’t see their color, darted around as if she were searching for him in the dark. Right, she couldn’t see. Her mouth dropped open, but he couldn’t tell if it was from fear of him or from panting through what looked like waves of razor-edged agony. He knew the feeling.
“I know I can help you.” He had no idea how he knew, but he did. “Will you let me try?”
She sucked in a sharp hiss, her face contorting. Then she nodded, wincing as if even that small movement was unbearable.
Urgency moved him around behind her, where he dropped to his knees, banding an arm around her waist and pulling her up and against him, his thighs bracketing hers. The softness of her bare skin registered in his fogged mind, and the edge of his own pain dulled.
Interesting…
Flames licked at his body, the heat intensifying. Thankfully, his control of fire kept her from burning off his clothes. Maybe he could try to contain her fire? He sensed her need for more touch, needing it, too, but didn’t want to take advantage.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered in her ear.
He ran a hand down her arm, and she sighed, seeming to ease, if only a fraction, at his touch.
Then she clenched as another pulse shot through her—he knew because an answering pulse shot through him—and she dropped her head back against his shoulder. A scream that pierced his heart poured from her lips, and the fire burst around them before he could get a handle on it, the reverberation of the explosion ringing in his ears, the power behind it shaking him.
Then, before he could process what was happening, the flames sucked back into her body, a river of angry color disappearing into her skin, like water down a drain, swirling around them both, until all that was left were the two of them in a room gone deadly quiet.
The pain in his body evaporated, leaving behind only a dull ache. Meanwhile, her skin glowed, like a white-hot poker just removed from the kiln.
What the hell just happened?
He glanced down into her face and registered how the woman in his arms was beautiful in a way that snatched the breath from his lungs—long red hair spilled over his arm. Delicate features, high cheekbones, eminently kissable mouth. She reminded him of a tiny bird. One who needed protecting from the world. Who might snap if he held her too tight.
And glowing, like an angel.
“Fuck me,” Brand spat. Mariska—and he doubted that was her real name—was a phoenix. A creature destined to mate a dragon king, making him the High King of the dragon clans, and, according to legend, bringing peace to their kind.
Total crap in his opinion, and not Brand’s primary concern.
This was why Ladon had sent him, because he knew Brand was the only dragon who’d bring her back to him. Because Brand needed Ladon more than he’d need a phoenix. Being a rogue no longer scared him—he knew how to survive that way indefinitely—but he did need the power of a clan behind him in order to take out Uther. He’d waited centuries to kill the King of the Gold Clan.
Giving this phoenix to Ladon would open that door.
The woman in his arms stirred, eyelids fluttering open to reveal eyes so pale blue they reminded him of blues found deep in glacier ice. Eyes like a white dragon. Hypnotic.
“You,” she croaked.
The lingering dull ache disappeared as an unaccustomed stomach-clenching sensation of trepidation sank to the bottom of his gut. “You know me?”
She gave a trembling smile. “That
was a damn idiotic thing to do, you ass. I could’ve killed you.”
Then she went limp in his arms.
…
He’s real.
Kasia’s first thought as she pulled herself out of a deep and dreamless sleep was for the man… The man she’d seen in almost every vision she experienced when she went up in flames. A year of seeing his face with more and more frequency. A year of not knowing his name or who he was. A year of hiding and waiting in total isolation since her mother sacrificed her life.
Now she’d finally met him.
While in the midst of what she could only describe as an almighty full-body migraine, blind and incapacitated with pain…and naked as a newborn. That had to have made quite an impression.
The sensation that came with her visions, that seemed to be tied to them, like a physical manifestation of the intense power being released inside her, was something she couldn’t control, or stop, or even ignore. Almost like unlocking the visions in her head required peeling back her physical self to let the magic loose. No sight, to clear the way for her mind’s eye, followed by the anguish of being stripped raw, turned her body into an open gateway.
You’d think the fire would be enough, but apparently not.
He’d held her through it all, his surprisingly gentle touch both soothing her pain and bringing her to the end of her tussle with fire much faster than she could’ve done on her own.
Leaving me lying naked in his arms.
The heat of a rare blush crept up her chest and neck and into her face. Then, as the lethargy of exhaustion receded more, realization struck hard. No way should he have been able to survive her fire. Who the hell, or more specifically what the hell, was he? And could she trust him? Or did she need to run?
“How are you feeling?” The deep tones of a smooth male voice washed over her. He had an accent she couldn’t quite place—not quite American, not quite British.
A small part of her mind hummed in appreciation. She liked his voice, which reminded her of bottomless pools of water in a cave. Dark. Sinfully beautiful. Her visions were silent, so until today, she’d never heard him speak.