Firestorm Forever: A Dragonfire Novel

by Deborah Cooke

  “How horrible!”

  “It was a wearisome journey and an ordeal, and when it was done, I alone was returned to this time with the stone, and its heart had gone dark. I thought I had lost my entire company and I was certain that my solitude was a mark of failure of the worst kind.”

  Ronnie stretched up and kissed his cheek.

  “We had suspected on the journey that some of the men were being taken to the time and place of their firestorms. It subsequently turned out that all of the men in my company were taken to their mates. Because we had been enchanted for so long, I suppose we had missed our opportunities, and the darkfire made it come right.”

  “Oh! That’s a wonderful story.”

  “More than that,” Drake said with satisfaction. “They had their firestorms.”

  Ronnie felt her mouth fall open. “They had sons.”

  “And their sons had sons. Because of our travel through time, history was changed. Suddenly there were generations and generations of Pyr that had not existed before our departure. They all have this tattoo. I was urged to get one in honor of my role in their creation.”

  “The quest you thought a failure was a tremendous success.”

  “We have a better chance in the Dragon’s Tail Wars because of our mission and the darkfire crystal. The men I asked to guard Timothy are of the Dragon Legion. Their leader is named Theo.”

  “Just like your son.”

  “He is descended from my son, so he is both comrade and blood kin.”

  “But you weren’t taken back to Cassandra,” Ronnie said, wondering whether Drake regretted this situation.

  He gazed down at her with a satisfaction that made her heart thunder. “No. I was brought to my own firestorm that I might fulfill the promise of the future.” They kissed again, lingeringly, and Ronnie knew her last doubt was banished. She was breathless when Drake lifted his head, the glow in his eyes making her want to preen.

  “You must eat to build your strength,” he murmured, stealing kisses between his words. “And today, Sloane will wish to check upon our son.”

  “No more stories?” she teased and Drake grinned.

  “One more,” he said. “You will tell me of these pearls.” He kissed her temple. “There is a reason you do not take them off.”

  “They were my grandmother’s and are the only thing I have from her.”

  “Except your memories.”

  Ronnie smiled. “She was wonderful, both practical and elegant. She made everything look easy and did it with style.”

  “Ah, so you have much in common with her,” Drake murmured, rolling over to kiss Ronnie again.

  “We agreed about Mark, if nothing else,” she admitted without having meant to do so. He froze and considered her, his expression confused. “My parents didn’t want me to marry Mark.” She forced a smile. “They thought I’d be unhappy as a military wife and that I could marry better.”

  He studied her solemnly. “But you followed your heart.”

  “And they disinherited me.” She shrugged, trying to hide the sting of that memory even though Drake’s avid gaze made her feel that he could read her thoughts. “My grandmother died shortly after we were married, but she was the only family member from my side who attended the service. She gave me these pearls that day, along with her blessing.” Ronnie’s fingers found the pearls and held fast to them. “It was all I needed, and so much more.”

  Drake might have said something, but he lifted his head and stared at the glass partition that divided the house. His eyes narrowed as Ronnie watched and she saw him inhale deeply. She couldn’t hear anything, but she already understood that he perceived more than she did. “What do you hear?”

  “An intruder,” he murmured, then got smoothly to his feet. There was a blue shimmer around his body, like an aura of light, and Ronnie felt that something bad was going to happen.

  How could there be an intruder in a dragon shifter’s home? Who would dare?

  * * *

  Someone knocked on the door of Maeve O’Neill’s Manhattan brownstone. Her home was located on the Upper East Side, on a fashionable but quiet street. The hour was late, but the knock was demanding. Expectant. Maeve frowned. She wasn’t expecting any guests much less any appeals for her assistance.

  Of course, the most interesting requests were the unanticipated ones. They came from those individuals with the most to lose. Maeve’s curiosity pricked.

  The visitor knocked again, harder and longer.

  Maeve went to the window. There was no car or taxi in the street, no one walking by, no fading taillights. From this window, she couldn’t see her front step, although clearly someone stood there.

  Fortunately, Maeve had other resources at her disposal. She turned her wrist, conjuring a sphere of light in the palm of her left hand. It was like a glass snowball, albeit with a more golden light, and might have been a living model of her front step. She peered into it, studying the scene.

  A man stood before her door, impatience in every line of his body.

  He was tall and blond, as fit as a commando. His hands were propped on his hips and he was glaring at the door as if she defied his will by not opening it. How could he be so sure she was home? He rose his hand to knock again just as Maeve recognized him.

  The dragon hunter from Easter Island.

  The one who wasn’t human. Maeve hadn’t been sure initially just what or who he was, but she’d have bet her last spell even at the outset that he wasn’t human. During their conversation, she’d realized that he was a dragon shifter, another half-breed, and had cast some amorous vibes his way, just to entertain herself.

  Evidently one of them had belatedly taken root. There was little more satisfying than encouraging a love spell and snapping it tight. Maeve liked when men capitulated to her and were snared by her wiles.

  How like a dragon to wait for his moment. Their patience was legendary, as was their romantic prowess. This one was tasty and likely had good stamina. As much as she despised both Pyr and Slayers for their nature, she’d been content to let them take each other out in their private war. She eyed the dragon shifter on her doorstep and wondered whether this might be a good moment to intervene.

  He was the last Slayer, unless she missed her guess, and he was wounded. Those Slayers hatching from eggs seemed fixed on eliminating the Pyr, and she was sure she hadn’t seen the last of them. Let the Pyr battle the hatchlings.

  By taking down this Slayer, she could tip the balance in favor of eliminating them all.

  The world would be contaminated by one less half-breed species.

  And she hadn’t had a dragon in a good long while.

  It was hours until morning anyway and she never slept. She liked the idea of changing the odds in one night, putting the pieces in motion to make the world as it should be, according to her.

  Maeve tugged on a silk robe and put on a pair of satin mules. She wasn’t wearing anything else—other than her perfume—and her ebony hair hung loose over her shoulders. She took her time descending the stairs, ensuring that her heels clicked loudly on the marble floor. He’d hear them, she was sure. She drew another deep breath in the foyer, nodding to herself as she verified her impressions. He had a whiff of immortality about him, contrary to her expectations.

  Which only made him more interesting.

  Indeed, she was all a-tingle at the possibilities.

  Maeve opened the door, forgetting that a human woman would have been more cautious in a big city in the middle of the night. His blue eyes narrowed and she knew he’d noticed her mistake. She exhaled, sending an aura of desire his way and saw him forget his observation. It was almost too easy.

  His gaze flicked over her, and his throat worked. “Maeve, I need your help.” His voice was tight, and Maeve guessed he hadn’t asked for help in a very long time.

  Desperation suited him.

  Or maybe it just suited her. “How did you find me?”

  “You gave me your address. When we met
at that little restaurant.”

  Maeve smiled. “I never give anyone my address. A woman can’t be too careful in these times.”

  He held her gaze, so confident that she wondered whether he had forgotten her oversight. Or had he guessed something about her nature? She found herself even more intrigued—and excited by the prospect of a challenge.

  “You must have,” he insisted. “How else could I have found you?”

  Maeve leaned in the doorframe. “Maybe you have superhuman powers,” she suggested, letting her voice turn sultry.

  He smiled then, casting a glance down the street before he leaned against the door frame, too. His face was just inches from hers.

  She saw the glitter in his eyes and it confirmed his nature. She hadn’t had dragon in a while. She let her smile widen.

  “Maybe you’d like to find out for sure,” he said, his voice lower and his eyes warmer.

  “An offer I can’t refuse?”

  “An opportunity you’d be crazy to miss.” Again, his gaze swept over her, but this time, it lingered on the curve of her breast, the indent of her waist, the arch of her foot. When he met her gaze again, his own eyes were blazing with a desire that made Maeve lick her lips. “You may be many things, Maeve O’Neill, but I doubt you’re crazy.”

  He smiled hungrily and reached into his shirt. Maeve felt her eyes narrow, but he pulled out a large dark disk.

  Actually, it was a dragon scale. She wondered whether it was one of his own, whether he was going to make some sappy claim that he’d lost it due to his love for her, but the way he looked at it made her suspect otherwise. It was a prize to him. A trophy. The scale was as dark as a black pearl, and its surface was slightly opalescent. It had thorns on the lower edge and somehow gave the impression of being very primitive.

  “Is that what I think it is?” she asked.

  “A dragon scale,” Jorge said. “This one’s old.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “From the Pyr who grew it.” A nasty glint lit his eyes. “Let’s see if he’s paying attention.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s an old spell. I learned it from another dragon hunter. It should cause excruciating pain to the Pyr who lost this scale, if it works.”

  “Anything that weakens the Pyr is fine by me.”

  Jorge smiled. “I knew we had something in common.”

  “More than good looks, you mean?” Maeve flirted a little, satisfied when his gaze heated even more.

  “More than that,” he murmured, again making her wonder how much of her truth he saw. “Much more than that.” He claimed her mouth in a hungry kiss, one that made Maeve’s heart leap with the possibilities. All too soon, he ended the embrace, holding the scale between them. “First things first,” he murmured. Jorge’s mouth drew to a thin line as he cracked the scale in half.

  Maeve heard the other dragon’s scream of pain. It was distant but distinct. Despite her determination to hide her nature—and her skill at doing so—she was sufficiently surprised that her eyes widened.

  And Jorge noticed. His smile was predatory. “You heard it, too,” he murmured, then broke the scale again and again, and Maeve liked the glee in his expression. He was destructive, vengeful, vicious, heartless.

  They did have more in common than good looks.

  What if she showed him her truth? Would it drive him mad?

  Or capture his heart? Maeve smiled at the prospect of giving this Slayer a similar weakness to his victim. She tried to veil her excitement, reminding herself that he was watching her closely and that his senses were keen.

  “You’re sensitive, then,” Jorge said. “Maybe sensitive enough to be a dragon slayer yourself.”

  “I don’t like to get my hands dirty.”

  “Trust me—I’d do all the dirty work for you.”

  “We could make quite a team,” Maeve replied, letting Jorge make his own assumptions before she grabbed his collar and hauled him into her foyer. She slammed the door and turned the deadbolt, then pushed him into the wall. He smiled down at her, so clearly satisfied with his victory that Maeve wondered how she’d ever doubted his nature.

  There was something dragon-like in that smile, to be sure.

  She wondered how many times he’d manage, and how rapid the succession. She couldn’t wait to find out.

  “Good thing I don’t like shy women,” he said and Maeve laughed.

  “I’ve never had any interest in being a demure maiden.”

  “And I’ve never found such women interesting.” He looked at her again, and she thought she saw his nostrils flare.

  This was fun. Why exactly hadn’t she indulged in dragon in recent centuries?

  “Jorge, wasn’t it?”

  “Jorge.” He nodded.

  “So, how do you see this partnership working, Jorge?” she murmured, leaning against him as she kissed his ear. He didn’t need to know that she knew his real nature.

  He made a growl deep in his throat and his hands locked around her waist. He grazed her throat with his teeth, a move that was both erotic and dangerous, given his nature. Maeve shivered at the deliciousness of it all, then Jorge whispered in her ear. “First, I need a little break from the dirty business of hunting the Pyr.” He pulled back slightly. “Some R&R.”

  “And what constitutes rest and relaxation for a dragon slayer?”

  Jorge’s smile was immediate and hungry, the look in his eyes answering Maeve’s question more clearly than words ever could. She locked her hands around his head, pulling him closer as he bent to kiss her, and savored how he nearly devoured her mouth in his passion. He definitely had promise with such passion as this, if not a polished technique.

  Maeve would have her fill of him before she orchestrated his destruction.

  She had to wonder whether Jorge would even realize his mistake. He certainly wouldn’t be able to correct it in time. He was in her lair already.

  His fate was sealed.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Marco left Jac alone reluctantly and went to collect the only thing that could protect her. He manifested in Sloane’s home, right beside the opal and gold dragon in the great room. The house was hushed and he knew that it was early in the morning. He heard humans sleeping and Pyr breathing smoke and refused to count how many were in residence. He heard the murmur of low conversation coming from a room ahead, the talkers out of sight and apparently behind a glass partition. None of it was important.

  The only thing that mattered here was Rafferty’s state. That Pyr was sleeping deeply, and the darkfire crystal was clutched in his golden talons. When Marco narrowed his eyes, he could just barely discern a crackle of darkfire deep in the stone.

  He quickly considered his options. Was the stone keeping Rafferty alive? If so, what right did he have to take it? Would that condemn his oldest friend and the Pyr to whom he owed the most? Marco didn’t want to even think about causing further injury to this dragon who had done nothing to deserve it.

  On the other hand, Jac needed to be able to defend herself. As long as the firestorm burned, it would blaze when Marco was near her and attract the attention of Pyr and Slayers. If he stayed away from her to dampen the flames, he wouldn’t be able to defend her himself. He also knew that by giving her this gift, by empowering her at the same time that he acknowledged her ability to take care of herself, he’d bring the firestorm closer to fruition.

  Marco had a feeling he could guess what Rafferty would say. This Pyr had always been the one to argue in favor of the firestorm. Marco had to hope that if he chose the firestorm, the darkfire would defend his back and see to Rafferty’s survival.

  He had to trust the darkfire, as completely as he once had.

  He wished he could ask Rafferty for advice, but any other Pyr within proximity would hear his old-speak, never mind anything spoken aloud. He had to think that Rafferty wouldn’t reply, or would answer enigmatically, compelling Marco to make the choice in his own heart.

/>   He mouthed a request for Pwyll to forgive him, then reached for the darkfire crystal. As soon as his fingers touched it, the darkfire flashed, the brilliant blue-green light erupting between his fingers. Marco closed his eyes against the light and felt the air move. When he opened his eyes, Rafferty had shifted to his salamander form. His eyes were open and he was watching Marco, as if to encourage him to act.

  To act in favor of the firestorm.

  The darkfire was supporting his choice and so was Rafferty. Marco lifted Rafferty with care and tucked the opal and gold salamander into his shirt pocket. He felt the slight weight settle into the bottom of his pocket, and the pressure of Rafferty resting against his heart. He thought he heard the Pyr sigh with contentment.

  He knew he heard Rafferty murmur in old-speak. “The firestorm.”

  The darkfire flashed. Marco stood and chose to return to Jac.

  He heard a slight sound just as the darkfire surrounded him and spun to find Melissa watching him from the doorway, her hands raised to her mouth. She opened her mouth to scream, but Marco was gone by the time the sound passed her lips.

  * * *

  Sloane was in his lab when he felt the prickle of another Pyr’s arrival in his home. He didn’t rush to find out who it was, because the last thing he needed was another guest.

  Especially a wounded one.

  His sense of triumph had faded, only to be replaced by the sense that he was, once more, falling short. Rafferty had stabilized, but hadn’t healed. He hadn’t even opened his eyes, although at least the darkfire had moved back into the crystal. Veronica had improved, but the virus—as far as Sloane could tell—had returned to the latent phase. He’d hoped to eradicate it completely from her system, but his antidote had failed to do that. He wished he had Sam’s expertise or her assistance, but that would mean telling her the truth of his nature and he could guess how she’d respond to that.

  Quinn and Sara had taken the boys to town earlier in the day to do some shopping. There was nothing like a houseful of dragons—almost two housefuls, actually—to clean out provisions. Sloane was glad that Lee was running the store. Eileen and Lee were taking turns with the cooking, too. Erik was pacing troughs in the floor of the house, sufficiently recovered that Sloane wished he’d go back to Chicago. Thorolf hadn’t lingered when he’d brought the Boris Vassily clone, but Sloane hadn’t had time to do much more than stuff the body into a refrigerator with a lock.