In a London hotel, Eileen Grosvenor awakened with a start. She looked around the bedroom, shocked to find it exactly as it should be.
Instead of filled with water.
She’d dreamed of swimming underwater, swimming so far underwater that she might have been a fish. It had been wonderful; she’d felt strong and agile, the muscles in her body moving in perfect concert.
That had been strange. She hated the water and had never learned to swim. In her dream, though, she had enjoyed it.
What had changed? She lay back and recalled the details of her dream, struck again by the sense that she had forgotten something important. That sense had been growing, driving her choices, as if a forgotten experience demanded her attention.
It had brought her to England. It had taken her to Ironbridge. And now it was infiltrating her dreams, pushing her to recall a memory that lurked just out of reach.
Eileen was going to unravel it, if it was the last thing she did.
She thought of her dream, savoring the details even as they fled her thoughts. The water had been warm, turquoise, welcoming. There had been light. A warm light, like that cast by a candle. She’d moved directly to it, unable to resist its allure. She’d moved with confidence and ease.
And he had been there.
Her heart skipped.
Eileen closed her eyes and saw again the face of the man who had been bent over the surface of the water, looking down at her. She remembered raising a finger and seeing him reach out with one hand. She saw again the spark that had leapt between their fingers, illuminating the surface of the water.
There was something in his eyes that melted her heart. It could have been a memory of pain or of some old injury. He looked haunted and wounded. Eileen had been sure that she could heal him, even though he was beyond the water and she was beneath it. She had had a conviction that he was the elusive memory she sought.
Maybe it was a portent. Maybe she was finally going to meet a man who was worth the trouble. She’d certainly know him again if she saw him. She focused on his image, sharpening it in her thoughts. Oh, yes, she’d recognize him anywhere.
Then she felt silly for giving a dream so much credence.
Maybe the dream was just a result of the stress of being away from home, apparently for no good reason.
Maybe it meant she should take swimming lessons.
The dream made Eileen happy, though, made her feel strong and sexy and optimistic. She had a strange, irrational conviction that she was going to meet the man of her dreams.
So to speak.
That didn’t sound like Eileen, ultimate pragmatist and skeptical romantic. It sounded more like her sister. She scoffed and got out of bed for a drink of water. Eileen was standing in the bathroom, drinking, when she saw in the mirror that her hair was wet.
And there was a leaf from a water plant tangled in the ends.
But Eileen didn’t swim; she never had. She had a fear of the water, one she’d struggled to overcome because it was without any basis in her history.
If her hair was wet, then it couldn’t have been a dream.
She met her own gaze in the mirror, recalled the man’s face, and knew she wouldn’t sleep any more that night.
Chapter 1
London, England
February 29, 2008
Erik and Rafferty avoided each other in Rafferty’s London home, meeting only for dinner each night. Tension was high between the two Pyr, a situation that Erik could have done without. They waited, restlessly, for Erik’s firestorm to declare itself. After one week, the air between them could have been cut with a knife. Erik missed the easy alliance he had shared with Rafferty.
It didn’t help that they both wished they were waiting for Rafferty’s firestorm.
Erik was in the kitchen, dicing onions, when Rafferty returned home. The older Pyr was smiling and looked inclined to chat. It could have been a return to old times.
“You won’t believe what happened today,” Rafferty said as he shrugged out of his coat.
“You felt the firestorm?” Erik teased.
“I wish!” Rafferty laughed as he got a pair of wineglasses from the cupboard. “But this is worth celebrating. I had an appointment today to assess some artifacts being auctioned off. Routine stuff. The government claims all historical finds as treasure, then often sells the less interesting pieces.”
Erik returned to his chopping, thinking that Rafferty had made a find for his antiquities shop. “And you found hidden treasure?” he teased, trying to restore their former camaraderie.
“Ha!” Rafferty chortled. “These people, this Fonthill-Fergusson Foundation, actually have the Dragon’s Teeth.”
Erik dropped the knife and stared at the older Pyr.
“Yes! All ninety-nine of them, just as Nikolas said there would be.” Rafferty opened a bottle of wine with a flourish and splashed the red wine into the glasses. He was unusually animated. “I saw them. I touched them. I can’t believe it.”
“Are you sure?”
Rafferty gave Erik a hard look. “They could hardly be anything else.”
“They could be fake.”
Rafferty shook his head. “No. They have the same deep vibration as the tooth that became Nikolas. No scent, just as before, but they resonate deeply of the earth. It’s them.”
Excited as he was, Erik doubted it would be easy to claim the Dragon’s Teeth. There had to be a catch. “Where were they found? And how?”
“A hoard was unearthed during the excavation for the extension of the Jubilee tube line.” Rafferty touched his glass to Erik’s and took a sip. “The new stations are in Greenwich and Deptford.”
“Greenwich? Where the observatory is?”
“Where the O2 is.” Rafferty held Erik’s gaze. “The route passes very close to the Palace of Placentia, where Elizabeth I kept her court.”
“Magnus’s hoard,” Erik guessed, seeing the link.
“Right. The ceiling fell in on the cavern when Donovan and I fought Magnus all those years ago. I guess he had collected all of the Dragon’s Teeth, but lost most of them in the collapse.”
“No wonder he hates you and Donovan.”
Rafferty nodded and leaned on the counter, grinning as he seldom did. “Imagine—they plan to sell them. Sell them! We can buy the Dragon’s Teeth and build an army of Pyr!” Rafferty took a swig of wine. “Things are finally going our way.”
Erik felt the need to be realistic. “I doubt it’ll be that easy. That’s not the Great Wyvern’s style.”
Rafferty took a step back and surveyed Erik. “You sound bitter, even for you.”
“I’m not sleeping well.” That was the least of his issues. Erik’s gift of foresight was gone, utterly gone, and he felt lost without its constant input. It was startling to realize how much he had come to rely upon it, and troubling to realize that once it was gone.
Gone. As surely as if he had never had it. His hand shook as he diced more onions. How could he lead the Pyr without his foresight?
Was that the only thing the firestorm would demand of him?
Or just the first thing?
“I noticed.” Rafferty’s tone was wry and Erik glanced up to find his old friend watching him closely. “You’re going to pace a trough in my hardwood floors.”
“Sorry to have disturbed you.”
“Just stay off the Persian carpets, please. The old ones are more fragile.” Rafferty refilled his wineglass, looking thoughtful, then frowned. “I could liquidate some assets,” he mused.
Erik knew that wasn’t what he had intended to say. He was a bit tired of not having the argument that threatened to erupt between them and was prepared to call Rafferty on it.
But the firestorm struck then, jolting Erik as surely as if he had shoved his finger into a light socket. He caught his breath and straightened, then felt the telltale heat of it slide over his skin and kindle his desire. His heart was leaping and he was sure his hair stood on end.
He chopp
ed onions so savagely that he nearly lost a finger.
“What’s wrong?” Rafferty asked.
Erik felt his lips tighten. “Guess.”
There was a beat of silence between them, a tense silence. Then Rafferty braced both hands on the counter, his gaze incisive. “And you’re going to cook dinner as if nothing special is happening at all?” For once Rafferty couldn’t hide his resentment. “It’s wrong to not pursue a firestorm!”
Erik understood that Rafferty’s patience had finally expired. “I don’t have to jump like a lapdog to the summons.”
“So speaks one who doesn’t appreciate the gift he’s been given,” Rafferty retorted. “Two firestorms in one lifetime!”
“You would have been welcome to one of them.”
“You’re lucky but you just take it for granted,” Rafferty scoffed. “You don’t make the most of opportunity.”
Erik heard his voice rise. “I don’t want this opportunity. . . .”
“And maybe that’s the problem.” Rafferty’s eyes were flashing. He slammed his glass down on the counter, nearly breaking the stem. “Maybe that’s why we’re in such a predicament. Maybe you did lead the Pyr astray.”
“No one knew this challenge from the Slayers would come—”
Rafferty interrupted Erik decisively. “Everyone who heeded the old tales knew.” His gaze was cold. “But you never had time for old tales, prophecies, and myths, did you? What kind of leadership is that? And now you don’t want a firestorm.” He almost snarled. “Are you Pyr or not?”
“I would much rather this firestorm were yours,” Erik retorted.
“But it isn’t,” Rafferty snapped. “Which leaves the question of what you’re going to do about it.”
“Mate and be done with it.”
Rafferty scowled. “You did that before, didn’t you? And it worked out so very well, didn’t it?”
The Pyr eyed each other across the kitchen, a new and unwelcome tinge of animosity between them.
“I don’t owe you an explanation.”
“Maybe you do.” Rafferty’s eyes narrowed and he began to chant in a low voice.
“Third match of three demands sacrifice,
A blood cost of enormous price.
Then King and Consort in union complete
Choose trust over ancient deceit;
Shed blood alone can give the power
To aid the Pyr in their darkest hour.”
“I’ve never heard that before,” Erik admitted quietly. The hair was prickling on the back of his scalp, and he understood intuitively what his role in all of this would be.
He would be the sacrifice; his would be the blood shed to aid the Pyr. His foresight was only the first loss.
It made perfect sense. The firestorm beckoned him to his destruction. And Erik would go, for he cared more about the triumph of the Pyr than anything else.
Even his own life.
“Would you have listened if you had?” Rafferty challenged, his eyes bright.
“Probably not.” Erik began to clean up the kitchen, grimly putting away the onions that he had just chopped.
Rafferty watched, his expression forbidding. Erik sensed that his friend was going to drink a lot of wine on this night.
Erik realized belatedly that his gift of foresight might have nothing to show him because he had no future. That shook him to his core, but he’d never been one to flinch from his responsibilities. He might not have always succeeded, but at least he had tried.
And he would try to consummate his firestorm before he died.
“What are you going to do?” Rafferty asked with quiet force.
“Answer the summons.” Erik pulled on his leather jacket and paused on the threshold to look back at his old friend. “Whatever the price.” He reached for the door handle, uncertain whether he’d ever be back or see Rafferty again. He sensed that he should make amends, but didn’t know where to start. The rift between them seemed too wide.
Rafferty’s hard expression didn’t help. “Most Pyr get only one firestorm, Erik. Remember how lucky you are.”
Lucky. Erik declined to comment on that.
Instead, he strode into the night to meet whatever fate awaited him.
Erik let his instincts guide him. The firestorm summoned him like a beacon, the light of a distant bonfire drawing him to warmth and heat and the object of his desire.
Downtown. He shouldn’t have been surprised. Erik chose to walk, knowing it would take more time, knowing that he couldn’t truly thwart the Great Wyvern’s intention.
But Erik was fed up with destiny. He didn’t want to have a firestorm. He didn’t want to have another son, not after his first son had chosen to turn Slayer.
He knew, though, that the Great Wyvern wouldn’t give him a choice. He’d seen how the odds could be stacked against any given Pyr, using his character and values to compel him to partake of the firestorm.
She’d already found his Achilles’ heel in his determination to lead the Pyr to triumph regardless of the cost to himself. This firestorm—his firestorm—would be the critical third step in the Pyr’s preparation for the pending war with the Slayers. He had to follow the firestorm’s call, regardless of where it led him.
He had to focus on the greater good and put his own aside.
The firestorm drew Erik steadily deeper into the city, toward the part he had known the best. The heat drew him to Fleet Street, increasing with every step he took. Erik could see the Temple Bar Memorial farther down the street, that large griffin marking the boundary between London and Westminster. It didn’t take much imagination to see it as a dragon.
Erik felt the firestorm’s glow become brighter, felt his body begin to respond more keenly to the proximity of his mate. She was close. He looked for her, curious despite himself.
Beyond the memorial was St. Clement Danes, a church Erik had known all too well in its earlier form. He could feel the vibration of silver in the vaults on Chancery Lane, and hear the song of old stone from the Temple.
But most important, the firestorm heated to a sizzle.
She was very close.
Erik slipped into the shadow of an alleyway and checked his watch. It was almost midnight. The street was quiet, and he wondered whether his mate was working somewhere late, wondering how he would find her, how he would introduce himself to her.
Eileen Grosvenor had been the name Louisa had given.
But what did she look like in this life? Curiosity caught and snared him.
Erik’s heart changed rhythm, matching its beat to that of another heart in a way he had almost forgotten. The sensation left him dizzy, yet excited, just as it had once before. He found himself scanning the street with anticipation. A yearning he had never expected to feel again filled him with a warm glow.
It was both sensuous and bittersweet, the promise of the firestorm tainted by his own past experience, colored by the threat in Rafferty’s rhyme. He felt that old rage of lust, that quickening in his body, and wanted with an ardor he’d forgotten.
The bells rang at St. Clement Danes and Erik frowned. Midnight. They shouldn’t have rung at this hour. He knew it, but the tune of “Oranges and Lemons” echoed through the quiet street all the same. He turned to look at the church and then he saw her.
Walking alone toward him.
His heart stopped cold, then raced.
She was just passing the memorial, a feminine sway to her steps. She was tall and walked with purpose—as she should, given the hour and the location. She was slim, but athletically built. Erik was greedy for details, but it was hard to see more, given that she wore a heavy sheepskin coat.
A purple one.
If she was worried about her personal safety, she hid it well. She moved with confidence, her dark skirt swinging with her steps. She had a large knit scarf wrapped around her neck and carried a leather satchel on one shoulder. She spared an upward glance at the griffin as she strode past it. The streetlight illuminated her fleeting smile an
d danced in the copper curl of her hair.
Erik’s chest tightened. He knew that mysterious smile. It was strange to see it on different lips, on a mouth that curved in another way, on a face of such different coloring from Louisa’s.
But it was Louisa’s smile, the smile that had made him forget himself. It was a smile both mischievous and secretive, a smile that hinted of mystery and promised pleasure. On this woman’s lips, it seemed to be a more daring smile. Confident. Erik caught his breath and clenched his hands as he watched her.
She surveyed addresses, unsure of her destination, and Erik wondered why she was here. She couldn’t be seeking him—he was following her.
To his dismay, she paused suddenly. She scanned the street, sensing something. He had a moment to realize that she could feel the firestorm; then she pivoted abruptly to face him.
Their gazes locked and Erik couldn’t move.
He was in the shadows, motionless and dressed in black. She shouldn’t have seen him, but she did. She didn’t run. She didn’t scream. She just stared back at him, as astonished as he was.
Had she had the same dream?
Did she remember it?
The heat surged through his veins as their gazes held. This firestorm wasn’t content with half measures—it raged through him, setting his desire burning so hot that he couldn’t think of anything other than possessing her. Erik was on fire and she was still twenty steps away. Her lips tightened and she took a purposeful step toward him, as if she’d speak to him.
She was bolder than Louisa and she moved with a determination that Erik liked more than he should have. He was aroused beyond belief, his desire raging as vehemently as his need to protect her.
All of that got worse when he caught a whiff of Slayer.
Two of them.
Closing fast.
It wasn’t a coincidence.
Erik cursed the Great Wyvern under his breath. He spun and marched away, uncertain what his body would do and not wanting the sight of his change to be their first encounter.
Once had been enough for that scenario.
Kiss of Fate Page 2