Kiss of Fire

by Deborah Cooke

  “You’d just rather work alone,” Sara accused as she slid out of the truck.

  “It’s worked pretty well so far.”

  “No. Working alone never works for the duration.” Sara tapped a fingertip on Quinn’s chest, sending little jolts of electricity over his skin. “You get better results working as a team. You should share information with Erik and strategize with him.”

  The very idea made everything in Quinn tighten with dread. He looked down at his coffee, knowing he wasn’t getting anywhere fast.

  “Will you try?” Sara asked. “Will you talk to him?”

  He looked at her, letting her see the depths of his animosity for the other Pyr.

  She didn’t flinch. “Maybe he knows more than you do.”

  Quinn felt his eyes narrow. “Maybe I’m having a hard time letting the past go.”

  Sara studied him, then turned away. The street was becoming busy but he knew she wasn’t really looking at the pedestrians. He followed her gaze to the bell tower and could have done without the reminder of the night before. The last thing he wanted to do was set up his booth and try to be charming to potential customers, let alone leave Sara alone in her shop all day.

  “How many Pyr friends have you had?” she asked quietly.

  Quinn was startled. “One. Why?”

  She turned to face him. “The Slayer who tried to kill me yesterday, the golden one, he acted as if he knew you.”

  Quinn’s heart clenched, but Sara was going to tell him what she thought he needed to hear.

  “He said he had taught you, that you had always been a good fighter but that you had learned to be calculating from him. He said you two had history.”

  Quinn looked away and his throat clenched.

  It was true. Ambrose was alive and intent on killing Sara.

  Quinn had been foolish and trusted the enemy once. There was no reason to make the same mistake twice—and Erik Sorensson was the last Pyr Quinn would let cross his smoke to be alone with Sara.

  If he told her that, of course, she’d want to know why. Quinn was tired of meddling details. The most important thing was that his firestorm was here. He had to move fast, or risk being cheated again.

  It was time to kindle the flame.

  Sara knew she’d hit a nerve. She suspected that Quinn knew who her assailant was, but she didn’t think he was going to tell her.

  Yet.

  “I’d prefer to walk you to your store,” he said grimly.

  Sara smiled to lighten the mood. “Lair to lair delivery?”

  Quinn was obviously reassured that she wasn’t going to argue with him. A wary twinkle lit in his eyes. “Something like that. Indulge me?”

  “I think you’re indulging me,” she said. “Thanks for the ride and the coffee, too. I’m feeling quite spoiled this morning.”

  Quinn caught her hand in his. “Aren’t princesses supposed to be spoiled?” he murmured, in that low voice she found so seductive.

  She looked up as a sizzle danced over her skin, emanating from their interlaced fingers. Quinn studied her as if she were the most gorgeous woman in the world. His eyes darkened to indigo as his smile slowly faded. Sara could only stare back as her mouth went dry.

  He touched her jaw with his other hand, a line of fire following the gentle caress of his fingertip. Sara’s knees weakened as he cupped her chin in his hand. She knew what he was going to do, right in the middle of State Street, and couldn’t decide whether she wanted him to hurry to the kiss or be leisurely about it.

  He was watching her, seeking some hint that she didn’t want him to kiss her. Sara held his gaze and smiled up at him. There was no one in her world but Quinn, nothing but the blaze of desire in his eyes. His thumb eased across her lips, a slow, steady caress that set her aflame. Sara felt hot and she couldn’t quite catch her breath.

  Quinn leaned closer, giving her time to evade him if she wanted, but Sara didn’t move. She waited. He had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. He had the longest and darkest lashes imaginable, but they made him look only more masculine. His lips were firm with a sensuous curve, one that curved an increment more as he studied her.

  “I want you safe,” he murmured. “First and foremost.”

  “Ditto,” she whispered. Sara pushed back his straw fedora with a playful fingertip and curved one hand around his face. She could feel the slight stubble of his whiskers even though he’d shaved, and could feel the determination in his jaw. His throat was muscled and tanned and she liked that he was both taller and stronger than she. “You make me feel safe,” she admitted.

  He turned his head and kissed the palm of her hand, sending fire through her veins with that fleeting touch.

  “More,” Sara whispered and he smiled.

  It was the only encouragement he needed. He inclined his head and his lips brushed across hers once, tantalizing and teasing; then his mouth closed over hers with resolve.

  Sara closed her eyes with satisfaction. His was a slow and powerful kiss, a leisurely kiss that explored and tempted and teased. Sara leaned against his chest and let her fingers tangle in his hair, closed her eyes, and surrendered to sensation. There were only Quinn and his fiery touch, only Quinn and his caress.

  It was a kiss that melted the barriers between them. She tasted his fear and his desire, understood that his reluctance to seek the Wyvern was out of concern for her safety. She felt the mingling of strength and gentleness that she already appreciated in him; she savored the certainty that he was content to spend half a day on a single kiss.

  If that was what it took to make it right. His kiss was by turns gentle and demanding. It was hot and sweet and powerful. It was a first kiss to eliminate all other kisses from Sara’s thoughts. It was thorough and languorous and altogether fabulous.

  She didn’t want it to end, and neither, apparently, did Quinn.

  Quinn’s kiss was a more effective way to jump-start her system than a cup of strong coffee and a whole lot more pleasurable. Sara could have kissed Quinn all morning long. She knew that she was being savored, and appreciated, and admired—just for being who she was.

  If that wasn’t seductive, she didn’t know what was.

  No one had ever made Sara forget where she was. No one had ever made her burn and yearn. No man had ever persuaded Sara with one kiss to slide her tongue between his teeth, much less to make her want to drag him home and have her way with him.

  Immediately.

  With chocolate sauce.

  No one had ever kissed Sara the way Quinn did.

  Someone honked impatiently and both Quinn and Sara jumped. The other driver wanted to park in the next spot, but couldn’t because they were standing there, necking like teenagers. Sara eased away from Quinn with reluctance, her breath coming fast. He let her go, but not far. His eyes gleamed brightly when he joined her on the sidewalk.

  “The firestorm,” she whispered, unable to stop from touching her burning lips with her fingertips. Was the firestorm about more than physical attraction? Sara wanted to know but didn’t know how to ask.

  Quinn swallowed and nodded as they turned toward her shop. “The start of it, anyway.”

  Sara stared at him. “You mean it gets stronger?”

  “From what I understand.”

  “You’ve never felt it before?”

  He smiled that slow smile, the one that melted her bones and made her want to do things with him that weren’t particularly sensible. “I’ve never met you before, Sara.”

  “No, I think I’d remember if we had.”

  Quinn chuckled, and she found herself laughing with him. He knotted their fingers together with purpose, the strength of his hand around hers making Sara feel sexy and safe.

  She could feel his pulse, hammering against her own palm, and liked the evidence of his arousal. At least she wasn’t the only one whose universe had been shaken by that kiss.

  She wanted to do more than rattle Quinn, though, or at least she wanted to shake his world on an ongoing
basis. She turned her morning newspaper as they walked into the arcade, halfway expecting to see headlines about Ann Arbor having been invaded by dragons. Instead, the front cover story was about the art fair. She eyeballed the index in confusion.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “How can it be that no one saw that dragon fight last night? I thought it would be in the paper.”

  Quinn smiled. “They saw it but they don’t remember.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they were beguiled.”

  Sara thought about that for a minute. “Erik said something like that. When he wanted us to come to his hotel room.”

  “Yes. They had to do the beguiling first.”

  Sara waited but Quinn didn’t say anything more. “And?” she prompted when he didn’t say more. For the first time, she sensed that he was evading one of her questions and she wondered why.

  “And what?”

  “What’s beguiling?”

  Quinn frowned. “It’s a way of making humans believe things that aren’t true.”

  “Like casting a spell?” Sara didn’t like the sound of that, and it probably showed in her tone. Why didn’t Quinn want to tell her about this power?

  He wasn’t using it on her, was he?

  “More like hypnosis,” Quinn said, his tone terse. “I don’t like it. I don’t do it. That doesn’t mean that other Pyr don’t find it useful sometimes.”

  “Like with controlling crowds or public sightings.”

  “That’s not what I do. I run a solo game.”

  “Wouldn’t you have beguiled people last night?”

  Quinn shook his head without hesitation. “I’d leave them to create their own explanations. People aren’t prepared to believe that they’ve actually seen a dragon, let alone half a dozen of us. They’ll come up with a rationalization quickly enough.” His frown deepened. “I’d rather just be careful about showing myself publicly, and deal with any consequences when I do.”

  “It’s more honest that way,” Sara guessed. They reached the shop and she eyed the mermaid door knocker, relieved to see it cold and black.

  “I am what I am, and Pyr is what I am.” Quinn said with pride. “I’m not going to hide from the truth.”

  Sara understood what he didn’t say. “You mean you’re not really afraid of humans.”

  “Why should I be? The major threats to our survival are other Pyr.” Quinn seemed to be checking his territory mark, then gave her a simmering glance that made her heart jump. He looked so intense that she was half-afraid of what he would say. His words surprised her all the same. “I’d appreciate it if you’d call me when you want to leave the shop.”

  Sara unlocked the shop door. “I can’t bother you every time I go for a coffee.”

  “Yes, you can,” Quinn insisted, his eyes blazing. “It’s not safe for you to leave a protected area.”

  Sara took one look at him and surrendered the fight. She was never going to persuade him that she was safe alone, no matter how much she doubted the threat to her person in broad daylight.

  Once he had seen her safely inside the store and gone back to his booth, Sara looked around with dissatisfaction. She couldn’t live her life, only able to move around in Quinn’s presence. Every problem had a solution: she just had to find it.

  She had a feeling it had something to do with Quinn’s past.

  And maybe something to do with the Wyvern.

  Either way, she needed expert help. Sara surveyed the silent store, then took a chance. “Go ahead: help me, Magda,” she invited.

  “Please,” she added when nothing happened.

  Sara had two beats to feel silly, then the air conditioner whirred to life.

  And a book fell to the floor in the back of the shop.

  As she headed toward it, she had to admit that it was handy to have a ghost on her side.

  Chapter 9

  Quinn didn’t believe that Sara was going to do what he asked, but short of parking outside of her shop for the day—and earning her animosity—he didn’t know what to do. He set up his booth in poor humor, taking pride in lining up his wares in an orderly fashion. It was going to be another hot day and he was too short of sleep to be amiable.

  He had just arranged the drawer pulls and door hardware to his satisfaction when a coin fell and rolled.

  Quinn froze.

  The silver coin rolled between his feet, spiraled, and fell heads-up right in front of him. He glanced over his shoulder, not really surprised to find Donovan leaning on one pole that supported the awning over Quinn’s booth.

  “Blood duel,” Donovan murmured in old-speak.

  Quinn snorted. He bent down and picked up the coin. It was a silver dollar, one of the old ones with a higher silver content.

  “I save them for special occasions,” Donovan said.

  “Glad to know that I’m special,” Quinn replied and put the coin down on his display table.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” Donovan demanded. “I challenged you to a blood duel. Or maybe you’ve been away from our kind so long that you’ve forgotten how things are done.”

  “I haven’t forgotten anything.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  Quinn slanted a glance at the other Pyr. “You really don’t want to do this.”

  “Wrong, Smith. I really do want to do this.”

  Quinn picked up the silver dollar, his gaze locked with Donovan’s, and closed his fist around the coin. He blew into his closed hand and willed the coin to change. He opened his hand a moment later and tossed the coin to Donovan, who caught it despite his surprise.

  It had been transformed to show Quinn’s hammer on one side and his mermaid on the other.

  “So, you really are the Smith,” Donovan said without admiration. “And you really do have a clue what you’re doing.” He looked Quinn up and down, his attitude unchanged. “That only makes it worse, in my opinion.”

  “Makes what worse?”

  “Delaney was hit years ago and he never healed right. I used to look out for him; I thought Erik would look out for him.”

  “Your argument is with Erik. Call him out for your blood feud.”

  Donovan laughed. “My argument is with you, Smith, and we both know it. What’s the matter? Afraid you’ll lose before you’ve secured your legacy with your mate?”

  Quinn met the other Pyr’s gaze steadily, giving him one last chance to let it go. “You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

  “Then let’s find out.” Donovan tossed the coin back and this time Quinn snatched it out of the air.

  “You’re on,” he said, knowing there was only one way to solve this dispute. “But don’t come whining to me when you get hurt.”

  Donovan laughed but Quinn had learned a lot since the last time they had seen each other fight. Sara was safe in her shop, with his territory mark around her.

  The mermaid was stone cold.

  And this wouldn’t take long.

  Sara glanced down the aisles and quickly spotted the fallen book. It was splayed open on the floor. Sara picked it up, fearing that one of the pages had been bent. The Cathars. Who were they? She hadn’t reached this section in her reading yet and didn’t have any idea what the book was about.

  The book had opened to a double page spread entitled “The Massacre at Béziers.” Sara might have thought she had the wrong book, at least until she noticed the photo at the bottom of the right page.

  It was a photo of a coin, one that was identical to the one left in her purse. It was labeled as being the coinage of Raymond-Roger Trencavel, Viscount of Béziers and Car-cassonne.

  Sara took the book to the cash desk, sat down, and started to read. In half an hour, she knew that the house of Trencavel had controlled much of an area that had been associated with a heretical sect known as the Cathars. The Cathars had also been known as the Albigensians, a name taken from the Languedoc town of Albi where many of them had resided.

  The Cathars did
n’t seem very shocking at eight centuries removal, but in those times, their presence and their teachings had been considered a threat to nearby Christians.

  The Cathars had believed in a kind of reincarnation, by which a soul could be reborn in any life form. They did not consider plants or fish to have souls, so those foodstuffs composed their diet. They were essentially vegetarians, in a time during which most people relied heavily upon meat for sustenance.

  They read the Bible for themselves and discussed its lessons among themselves, instead of letting priests read and interpret it for them. Again, after the Reformation and establishment of Christian denominations that promoted exactly that teaching model, Sara couldn’t find the practice very awful.

  Certainly not worth a death sentence.

  Finally, and perhaps worst of all, the Cathars tithed to their own priests instead of to the Roman Church. Sara tapped her finger on the book. The language of money was one that she spoke fluently and she suspected that this item was the real root of the issue.

  The house of Trencavel, it seemed, had been remarkably tolerant in terms of religion. As long as the secular tithes were paid, they didn’t worry much about ecclesiastical tithes being collected. Perhaps predictably, in time the Papacy took exception to that policy.

  In the early thirteenth century, the crusading fervor that had gripped Europe turned from the Middle East to battlefields closer to home. It was expensive to travel—there was the financial side of things again—and matters had turned against the crusaders in Palestine. After the conquest of Spain and Portugal from the Muslims, the crusaders looked within Europe for new objectives. There were crusades in the Baltics, in the Italian peninsula, and the Albigensian Crusade in Languedoc.

  The Cathars had to be exterminated, by thirteenth century logic, for the good of the faith, the protection of orthodoxy, and the uninterrupted flow of ecclesiastical tithes.

  A town ruled by the tolerant Raymond-Roger, Béziers had been targeted by the approaching army, despite Raymond-Roger’s attempts to negotiate at the last minute. It was believed that some two hundred Cathars were among Béziers’s population of twenty thousand.