But he didn’t do long-term connections. He didn’t do intimacy and he didn’t do entanglement.
Lorenzo did sex.
Then Lorenzo moved on.
That was Caterina’s lesson to him, that expecting more—given what he was—was impossible. He wasn’t going to forget that simple truth now.
Lorenzo had worked his system for centuries and it was fine. No, it was good. It gave him what he needed from humans and risked nothing. Every few decades, he staged a disappearance, preparing with his usual care, then started over again with a new identity. It worked.
Even if this time, he meant to slide even deeper into obscurity than ever before.
Why a firestorm now? Lorenzo had the startling thought that Cassie could have been sent to distract him right before his big spectacle. Could Balthasar or the other Slayers deliberately spark a firestorm?
No, that was nonsense.
It wasn’t encouraging that he was getting paranoid.
He paused, glanced out the window. He was being manipulated. The firestorm had occurred of its own volition, but other dragon shifters were using it against him—each for his own agenda.
Lorenzo didn’t like that Balthasar had arrived, that Erik had come to nag him, that JP had made Cassie’s acquaintance already. He felt as if the entire Pyr world—the one to which he vehemently didn’t want to belong—was gathering around him, conspiring against him.
But it was just that. It was a conspiracy, a plan to throw his game right before he disappeared forever. Everyone was gathering to take one last shot at cornering Lorenzo. Perhaps somehow they sensed his intent, even though he had confided in no one.
And somehow, Cassie was a pawn in that game.
Well, Lorenzo had never done what was predictable. He’d never been malleable, and he’d never subscribed to the Pyr perspective.
He would not create a partnership out of his firestorm.
He would not change his plan.
He could still hear Caterina spitting that word.
Routine was key. He had to get home. He had to check on his plans. He had to secure his perimeter and guard his valuables. He had to persuade his father to pack, and he had to get some sleep. He had to continue with his scheme and not be distracted.
Cassie had made her choice. She had left this morning.
And Lorenzo told himself that that suited him just fine.
It was perfect, in fact.
Best for everyone.
Even though he guessed that, this time, the person he was trying to persuade was himself.
There was someone in Lorenzo’s car.
The valets had been sleepy and disorganized. Lorenzo had demanded his keys when his impatience reached the tipping point, then marched out in the early morning to the valet lot. His car was distinctive enough—with the custom paint job done at the factory, there couldn’t be two.
He’d paid to ensure the specific shade of orange was never used again.
He was just acknowledging that he was going to miss this car after it was destroyed, when he saw the silhouette in the passenger seat.
Lorenzo tried the driver’s side door, but it was still locked. The man in the passenger seat glanced idly in Lorenzo’s direction, as if he broke into locked cars, sat in them, and locked them again all the time.
One breath proved that he was Pyr.
Of course.
Lorenzo should start an appointment calendar. Or a waiting list. A convention, maybe. If nothing else, they could form a line. Pyr to the right; Slayers to the left. He wasn’t joining either team, and the sooner he disappeared from their view, the better.
Lorenzo disengaged the alarm—which apparently hadn’t noticed this intruder—unlocked the door and opened it with somewhat less than his usual smooth style.
“What the fuck do you want?” he demanded by way of greeting. He flung himself into the car, took a deep breath, then glared at his unwelcome companion.
A stranger.
The dark-haired, dark-eyed Pyr smiled serenely at Lorenzo. “The darkfire crystal,” he said and Lorenzo’s heart sank.
The reckoning had come.
He’d feared it would, but had hoped otherwise.
There was a glitter in this dragon’s eyes, though, a glitter that belied his easygoing manner.
Despite his apparent serenity, this Pyr understood force.
And persuasion. He put out his hand, as if expecting Lorenzo to surrender the crystal immediately.
As if he carried it around all the time.
As if he still had it.
While Lorenzo respected that his guest didn’t beat around the bush, he still couldn’t give him what he wanted. He was terrified at what this stranger might demand in exchange.
This did nothing to improve his mood. He went with an aggressive tone. It couldn’t hurt, and he had been known to intimidate some of his kind. “I don’t have it.”
“Of course you do. You have been its custodian for centuries.”
“Well, it’s gone.” Lorenzo started the engine. “I can’t help you. Get out of the car.”
His companion didn’t move. He merely blinked at Lorenzo. “Gone where?”
“I don’t know.” When his companion said nothing, Lorenzo gave voice to the most plausible theory. “Someone must have stolen it.”
“Your lair doesn’t have locks and alarms?”
“My car has locks and alarms, but that apparently didn’t stop you.”
The other Pyr smiled fleetingly at that. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“This is not a cocktail party. I’m sorry the gem is gone, but I don’t know where it is and I’m late.”
“Marcus Maximus,” the other Pyr continued as if Lorenzo hadn’t spoken. “They call me Marco.” He shrugged. “They used to call me the Sleeper.”
Lorenzo recognized the title with a pang. This was not good news. The Sleeper was the one Pyr who had a legitimate claim to the darkfire crystal, as the heir to the Cantor. He didn’t just have a rightful claim, but potentially some of the Cantor’s powers.
He’d have to bluff.
“You’re wasting your breath and my time,” Lorenzo said. “I don’t have what you want and even if I did, I know it’s too precious to just hand over to the first Pyr who asks for it.”
Marco frowned. “Am I really only the first?”
Lorenzo pinched the bridge of his nose and wished heartily that at least one of his fellows could take a hint. “Get out of my car.”
“I could prove my claim to it, if you showed it to me. The darkfire trapped within it will respond to my presence.”
That was the test Lorenzo had been taught, but with the crystal vanished, it didn’t much matter. It was imperative that he ensure this Marco never demanded the flashfire song—maybe he didn’t even know about it. Lorenzo could hope.
And terminate the exchange as quickly as possible.
“I told you. It’s gone. I’m sorry. That’s that.”
“No.” Marco looked out the window. “I’ll ride to your lair with you and check.”
Lorenzo’s temper—and his terror—flared. “My word should suffice. I am not going to permit you to search my lair. . . .”
“I won’t have to,” Marco said mildly. “I’ll be able to feel whether it’s there or not.”
“If that were true, you would have known already that I don’t have it.”
“I did.” Marco smiled, unsurprised. “But it could have been an illusion.”
Lorenzo exhaled, practically ready to breathe fire and smoke. “Fine. You’ll come to my lair; then you’ll get out of my car and leave me alone.”
Marco’s smile didn’t falter. “If I don’t sense the crystal, yes.”
It was the best of
fer Lorenzo was likely to get. He put the car into gear and shot out of the parking lot.
The sooner he was home, the sooner he could get rid of this particular Pyr. In an ideal universe, he would have been happy to keep his promise and surrender the stone to its rightful keeper.
Lorenzo was increasingly aware that he did not live in an ideal universe.
What could Salvatore have done with the crystal?
He drove fast, really fast, but Marco didn’t seem troubled by the speed. The other Pyr looked out the window, his expression serene.
Lorenzo was not serene. In fact, he couldn’t recall ever having been so riled up. Two Pyr and two Slayers had poked into his life in less than twelve hours. It defied probability. How many more of them were going to show up to waste his time?
What could he do to stop them?
Why hadn’t he disappeared sooner?
And what about Cassie? What about her future? Letting her leave him was precisely what Lorenzo had wanted to happen, but now it felt wrong. Lorenzo took the curve into the driveway hard and fast, disliking the sense that he was making a mistake.
A big mistake.
“Diavolo,” Marco murmured softly and Lorenzo nearly drove off the road.
Chapter 7
Thorolf decided he liked Bangkok.
The city’s hustle, bustle, and color reminded him of the market cities he’d known centuries ago, places where you could buy or sell pretty much anything.
For the moment, he stuck to beer and shooters.
And eye candy.
Thorolf didn’t realize that he offered a kind of eye candy himself. Well over six feet tall with dark blond dreadlocks, several tattoos, and the raw muscle of a dragon shape shifter, Thorolf was unlikely to blend into the wallpaper in any city. He did better at being overlooked in Manhattan than in Bangkok—at least he had until he’d been filmed shifting shape in DC during another Pyr’s firestorm.
When that video had appeared on YouTube, Erik had hit the proverbial roof. Thorolf had decided to make himself scarce for a while. Bangkok seemed like a good choice, if only because he had never been there and he had heard that it was a good place to party.
Thorolf pretty much lived to party.
He sat at the end of a bar in a disreputable part of town and watched the action in the street. It was late, but far from dark where he sat, given all the sparkling lights and neon signs. He listened to the hawkers and smelled the street food and watched the parade of people looking for someplace to party.
It was hot, the smell of the jungle underlying everything. His T-shirt was stuck to his back and he could taste sweat on his upper lip. The skin of the women surrounding him glistened in a way that he liked.
The beer was cold. He didn’t understand much of what the bartender said to him, but the shooter had been recommended with sign language. Thorolf didn’t know what it was and didn’t much care—it had a kick like lightning. That worked for him.
This bar was noisy and crowded, which was why he had chosen it. The music was loud, familiar, and its beat had him tapping his toe. The women were gorgeous, independent of their prices.
Thorolf was in his element.
This was his kind of place.
Even though he was theoretically hunting the Slayer Chen, Thorolf wasn’t in a hurry to get started on that quest for vengeance. He wasn’t sure exactly where to start anyway. Chen was in Asia somewhere. That didn’t exactly narrow things down. And Chen had made it clear he didn’t want to be found.
Each beer made hunting Chen sound more like work. Each shooter made Thorolf more convinced to just hang out for a while. He’d told his friend Rox for years that he was allergic to work, and in this place, he could believe it himself.
Thorolf ordered another round. He decided he’d begin with the vacation part and get to the quest bit later.
That was when he noticed her.
How could he not have noticed her? A slim woman with ivory skin and red hair was sitting at the opposite end of the bar. She ordered a glass of wine, so she must have just arrived.
Thorolf listened to her voice over the din of the bar, glad of his keen senses. He liked that she had a husky voice. That was sexy. Her hair was cut really short, but she was so pretty that it just emphasized her femininity. The dangling silver earrings and eyeliner didn’t hurt either.
She had curves in all the right places.
Thorolf straightened a bit, tugging at the hem of his T-shirt. Her gaze danced over the occupants of the bar, then landed on him.
He smiled.
She looked.
She smiled.
He looked.
And when her glass of wine came, she lifted it toward Thorolf in a silent toast. She smiled a little bit more before she sipped.
Definitely his kind of place.
Thorolf echoed her salute with his beer. He was thinking of sauntering over there, but she glanced away, speaking to the guy who was sitting beside her. That guy laughed at whatever she said—it wasn’t in English—and then she laughed, too.
But she smiled at Thorolf again as she sipped. Her eyes half closed, showing off her long lashes. The gesture made her features look exotic.
Oh yeah.
Her gaze slid away coyly, then back to Thorolf, as if she hoped she’d catch a look at him while his gaze was averted. Thorolf was perfectly willing to be checked out. He stood, flexed his muscles, and lifted his beer, peering over the crowd as if he were expecting a friend.
He felt her watching him. He smiled, knowing that he was premium goods himself.
The night, in fact, was showing unexpected promise.
When he sat down again—apparently resigned that his friend was delayed—he glanced her way once more. What he saw had him on his feet once again.
A guy was behind her, like a shadow against the night. There was something furtive about the guy, who had his hood pulled over his head and tugged over his forehead. It was way too hot for such a thick sweatshirt, never mind a hood.
The woman was oblivious to the guy’s presence, just nodding to the music. The guy eased closer. He looked left and right. He reached.
Thorolf knew instantly what was happening. He saw the flap of the woman’s bag move and shouted.
“Hey!” he roared, his call lost in the music.
Sure enough, the guy flitted away, something in his hand.
“Thief!” Thorolf bellowed and lunged out into the street after him. He knocked over three chairs but kept on going.
It was a lanky kid, dressed all in black, and he was fast.
Thorolf was right behind the kid, fury giving him speed.
He would have loved to shift shape, but he knew Erik would be angry if he revealed his dragon form. Instead, he used his dragon senses to ensure he didn’t lose the thief.
The kid ducked through stalls and Thorolf followed.
The kid slipped down dark alleys and Thorolf followed.
The kid leapt over a fence, raced through a tiny yard, and catapulted into the street beyond. Thorolf followed.
The kid also knew the streets in the area, which was like a rabbit warren to Thorolf. Thorolf realized that the thief was trying to make his way to the left. He guessed that the kid had a partner, and wanted to drop the goods.
Thorolf ensured that the kid couldn’t turn left. He drove him steadily to the right, heading off every attempt to veer left.
He heard the kid start to panic. His breath hitched and his heart was thundering.
Good. He’d make a mistake if he was freaked. Thorolf stayed close.
The kid jumped to a roof, scrabbling for a grip on the corrugated metal before hauling himself up.
Thorolf followed.
The kid leapt to the next roof, Thorolf hot on his heels.
They raced across a series of roofs, each slanted in a different direction, some metal, some wood, some plastic.
Then suddenly the kid skidded to a halt, arms windmilling to keep himself from falling forward.
There was a gap ahead and Thorolf smelled water.
A canal.
Nowhere to jump.
Oops.
Thorolf stopped to stalk his prey more quietly. He wasn’t entirely sure the kid still had the wallet. He might have to interrogate him.
It was dark here, quiet. Every window was shuttered against the night, despite the heat. Not a safe area, then.
The kid was panting, scanning his surroundings in desperation, his fingers moving on the wallet. So he did have it. Thorolf respected that the kid was still trying to figure out a way to save the situation.
Not stupid, then.
Just desperate. Thorolf noticed now how thin the kid was and how dirty his clothes were. He probably needed the money, and that realization sent a pang through Thorolf.
Been there and done that. In a place not that different from Bangkok. Thorolf could remember being that hungry and that reckless.
He could remember having nothing left to lose.
The kid pivoted, catching his breath when he saw Thorolf still behind him. Thorolf smiled. He took slow steps closer, then extended his hand for the woman’s wallet. The kid’s hood was still up, against all expectation, his face in shadows. The kid looked left and right. He checked out the canal. He watched Thorolf nervously and backed to the lip of the roof.
Thorolf took another step, then let his eyes change to dragon eyes.
The kid gasped.
He flung the wallet at Thorolf. In the same moment, he took a flying leap off the roof.
As if he were diving into a pool, an Olympic contender.
Thorolf snatched the wallet out of the air. He lunged after the kid, peering over the side of the roof. He halfway thought he’d see the kid turn three graceful somersaults in the air, but instead he saw a splash into the dark canal.
The kid sank and Thorolf gripped the edge of the roof in fear. A wallet wasn’t worth dying for.
Unfortunately, Thorolf couldn’t swim, so he’d be of no help.
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