Kiss of Fate

by Deborah Cooke

But she wasn’t alone. A man’s strong fingers appeared suddenly in her peripheral vision.

  “Careful,” Erik said. “It’s slippery here.”

  Eileen looked into the steady green of his eyes and put her hand in his, trusting him not to let her slip. She had a moment to feel his grip close securely over her fingers, to feel his solid tug as she stepped out of the water; then the dream faded as abruptly as the woman had disappeared.

  Eileen awakened in a lovely hotel room to the sound of rain pattering against the windows. What did her dream mean? She thought of recurring stories of reincarnation and past lives, myths that had always intrigued her, although she didn’t believe in them.

  Did she have some kind of connection to Erik’s Louisa? It was a whimsical thought, the kind of idea Eileen could entertain only when she awakened from a powerful dream. It was the kind of idea, though, that she’d like to discuss with Erik.

  He was a man who dealt with what seemed irrational or impossible, and did it all the time. She reached across the sheets for his heat, intending to awaken him slowly.

  But the sheets were cold.

  The bed was empty.

  Erik was gone and Eileen was alone again.

  This time solitude left her feeling lonely and incomplete.

  Magnus shot into the overcast sky. The rain rolled over the jade of his scales, the muted light revealing the myriad swirling hues of pale green. The gold edges on his scales shone and his golden claws gleamed.

  Erik flew right behind him, his gaze fixed on the prize of the wooden chest that Magnus had seized. He was impressed as always by the ancient Slayer’s vigor.

  Where were Magnus’s minions?

  Erik felt a rush of air and realized that two of the younger Slayers had closed ranks on either side of him. Jorge was on Erik’s right, a glow of topaz and gold. Mallory—Erik had to think of him as “Frenchie” after Eileen’s comments—was on Erik’s left, his scales a resplendent combination of garnet red and gold with pearls. He still had a scar on his chest from the slash Erik had given him the night before, and Erik found the sight of the wound reassuring.

  “No turning back,” Jorge said in old-speak.

  Erik had no intention of leaving Magnus in possession of the trunk, regardless of how many Slayers were allied against him. The Dragon’s Teeth were the key to the Pyr’s future, and if he had to die in retrieving them, so be it.

  Erik thought he understood how the blood sacrifice would work.

  He was glad that he hadn’t tricked Eileen, even though it meant that he had left his firestorm unsatisfied. Maybe, just maybe, he had redressed the imbalance between the two of them by not betraying her this time.

  Maybe that was why he had had a second chance.

  Maybe Eileen’s memories were the only place he’d survive.

  Maybe that was good enough.

  Magnus pivoted in midair and laughed. They were high over the hills, which still bore the scars of centuries of iron-work. “And so, the ancient prophecy will be fulfilled,” he said with obvious glee. “Come on, Erik. Meet your destiny.”

  Magnus tossed the wooden trunk to Jorge, who lunged forward to seize it. The box swung heavily on its leather handles in Jorge’s grip, and Erik imagined that the teeth jostled inside. Magnus raised his claws in the traditional fighting pose and Erik followed suit.

  Then he dove for Jorge. The Slayers were so surprised by his move that Erik managed to land a solid strike on Jorge. His talons dug deeply into Jorge’s shoulder as that Slayer turned, and his claws ripped beneath the scales. Black blood dripped from the gaping wound as Erik breathed fire to take the Slayer down. Jorge bellowed in pain and faltered.

  In that same moment, Mallory dug his claws into Erik’s back. Jorge attacked Erik from the front, slashing across Erik’s chest. Red blood flowed and the Slayers laughed, sure their prey was beaten. The pain was excruciating and Erik feared he had already lost.

  Without claiming the Dragon’s Teeth.

  The possibility infuriated Erik. It invigorated him. He roared and twisted, turning to attack the Slayers with new vigor.

  He was not quite ready to die.

  He had goals to achieve.

  More important, a taste of death had convinced Erik that he wasn’t ready to abandon Eileen.

  Eileen sat up in bed, considering the late-afternoon light. She dismissed the last shards of her dream from her thoughts and focused on the practical. She knew there was no chance that Erik was in the bathroom or that he had simply stepped out.

  He was gone. There was no sense of another presence and, even more important, the firestorm’s heat had died to that of embers. His clothes were gone, which meant he’d gone with them.

  The wooden trunk was missing, too.

  Eileen fell back against the pillows and stared at the canopy over the bed. She felt betrayed and irritated, and this despite a half dozen fabulous orgasms in rapid succession. It was illogical and undeniable.

  She was hungry, too.

  On the upside, Erik hadn’t lied. He’d said what he wanted. They’d made a deal and he’d kept his end of the bargain.

  Still . . .

  Eileen scowled and rolled out of bed. He’d given her the real name of Shadow—Louisa Guthrie—which gave her another detail to search. He hadn’t made any vows of the “together forever” variety, and had been clear that the firestorm was about sex. Eileen reminded herself that he’d been honest with her, but she wasn’t any less annoyed.

  She wanted more.

  She wanted to be with Erik.

  She wanted to talk to him. Right now.

  But she was out of luck.

  Eileen showered and dressed, attributing her irritability to hunger. Somehow, though, she doubted a sandwich was going to make everything better.

  Lynne wasn’t right about sex being a half measure, and she certainly hadn’t been right about Eileen’s needing to follow her intuition with men. And the woman in her dream had talked about water meaning trust. Eileen trusted lots of people—associates and acquaintances and family.

  She had to admit that she’d never really trusted a man.

  She’d worked with the assumption that each one would let her down, sooner or later. Did her assumption shape the results? Eileen had to wonder. She could have trusted Erik if he’d hung around—would that have changed their relationship? She liked that she had been learning to read him, and liked when she caught a glimpse of the passionate nature he kept so well hidden.

  Of course, Erik had left.

  Eileen snarled at her reflection. So much for the new plan. She needed food. Nothing more and nothing less.

  On her way downstairs, Eileen met the owner of the inn. She asked for directions to a sandwich shop and the location of the town’s archive. Hot food would have been better, but she wanted to get to the archive before it closed. She knew she was lucky that it was even open on Saturday. She tightened her scarf around her neck and headed out into the relentless gray of the rain.

  It was cold in the absence of the firestorm.

  In the absence of Erik’s unexpected smile.

  She was going to think about Shadow, not about Erik Sorensson. She was going to research a local myth, not recall the pain in a man’s eyes when he talked about his wife’s suicide. She was going to think about sustenance, not protective dragonsmoke she couldn’t see or big teeth that dragon shape-shifters would do anything to possess.

  The teeth were gone, the wooden trunk was gone, and apparently Erik Sorensson was gone, too.

  But Eileen was going to blame her sour mood on the weather.

  Too bad she knew a lie when she heard one.

  When Erik turned to fight, Jorge breathed dragonfire at him.

  Erik faltered as if fatally injured by Jorge’s dragonfire. He took the bulk of the fire on his back, gritting his teeth and closing his eyes. Orange flames surrounded him on all sides, their heat searing his skin and burning his scales.

  Through the pain, he forced himself to recall ho
w Quinn had taught the Pyr to use dragonfire to build their own strength. The trick was to embrace the dragonfire’s heat, to take it into himself, instead of flinching from it and fearing it. Erik didn’t have the same mastery over the element of fire as the Smith, but he had to try.

  He gritted his teeth as the flames leapt orange around him and willed the fire to be his ally instead of his foe. He welcomed its heat. Immediately, he felt a tingle of energy from the flame.

  Erik followed his impulse, trusting the fire, embracing it, calling it on. It surged through him, heating his scales to become stronger and smoother. Erik felt himself grow larger and more powerful. He felt more in tune with the element of fire, emboldened and strengthened by it.

  Jorge made a sound of astonishment in old-speak; then both Slayers breathed dragonfire upon Erik in unison. He twisted in the flames, reveling in their heat and power, drawing the Slayers’ force into himself. Erik glanced down to find his onyx scales gleaming, hardened by the fire instead of charred by it.

  “Well done,” Magnus commented.

  Jorge fell back in surprise, not sharing his leader’s admiration. Erik seized the handles of the wooden trunk from Jorge. It was easy to rip the leather straps from the Slayer’s grip. Jorge pivoted to retreat and Erik struck a heavy blow on him from behind, strong enough that Jorge faltered in his flight.

  Mallory fell on Erik in a flurry of talons and teeth, snatching at the wooden trunk. They locked claws and twined their tails around each other, tumbling end over end as they battled for the wooden chest. Mallory bit Erik’s arm with savage force, hard enough to make Erik’s blood run scarlet. The Slayer was young and virile, lithe and strong.

  Erik was outnumbered. He saw that he would have to eliminate one of the Slayers to give himself the chance to rest. Otherwise, they would gradually wear him down, even with the surge from the flames.

  Erik remembered what he had learned from that last fight with Boris and knew where he would get the strength he needed.

  When he and Mallory parted again, Erik exhaled dragonsmoke with power. He breathed it in one endless stream as he hovered, the dragonsmoke maintaining a conduit between Mallory and Erik. Mallory yelped and twitched as the smoke wound beneath his scales. It slipped into the wound on Mallory’s chest, finding a way beneath the scabs to sting raw flesh. Mallory fought on despite the pain, but Erik kept breathing dragonsmoke.

  The dragonsmoke stole vitality; that was its treacherous power. A Slayer or Pyr ensnared in smoke would be eroded to nothing but skin, his life force cheated away by the smoke. But by keeping the link and breathing one continuous stream of dragonsmoke, Boris had used the smoke as a conduit to steal Erik’s strength for himself.

  Erik had to be able to do the same thing. Just as it had with Boris, the dragonsmoke cheated Mallory of his power, feeding it directly to Erik. To his delight, Erik felt himself grow stronger even as Mallory was weakened. The Slayer fought valiantly, his eyes widening in terror as he felt his strength slipping away, but his was a losing battle.

  “You will leave me an empty shell!” Mallory cried.

  “Without remorse,” Erik agreed, not breaking the stream of dragonsmoke. “The world would benefit from one less Slayer.”

  With a curse and a bellow, Mallory retreated, his flight pattern erratic as he struggled to outrun the smoke in his weakened state. Erik concentrated on maintaining the connection with his target, breathing more smoke to lengthen the link between them. It was heady to have this strength infuse him, to heal his wounds and increase his power.

  It was exhilarating and liberating.

  Then Jorge buried his claws into Erik’s shoulders and Erik cried out in pain. His shout broke the line of dragonsmoke. Jorge dug his talons in deep, trying to rip the tendons to Erik’s wings, but Mallory’s strength had invigorated Erik.

  Erik spun abruptly, loosing a torrent of dragonfire on the golden Slayer. Jorge flinched. He might have tried to turn the dragonfire to his own advantage as Erik had, but Erik hit him in the head with the wooden trunk. Jorge retreated, dazed; then Erik struck him out of the sky with his tail.

  The topaz Slayer fell.

  Erik spun in the air, his talons raised, ready. There was no sign of Mallory.

  There was only Magnus, his cold smile, and the incessant rain. “You are a worthier opponent than I recall,” the ancient Slayer murmured. He raised his claws. “But even with your new abilities, you cannot conquer me.”

  “Why don’t we let the battle decide that?” Erik suggested, confident in his new strength.

  Magnus’s smile broadened. “But I have one trick more than you, one that trumps all the others.” Magnus dropped his voice to a hiss of old-speak. “The Dragon’s Blood Elixir.”

  Erik recoiled. “That’s a myth. The Elixir doesn’t exist.”

  Magnus laughed. “Then what makes me immortal, Erik Sorensson, while you will be so very easy to kill?”

  Magnus’s eyes flashed with conviction. He wasn’t lying. Erik struggled to accept that a fable had come to life; then the old Slayer attacked.

  Chapter 15

  Eileen drove the rental car into town, since Erik had left it behind and she had the keys in her satchel. It was a better choice than walking in the rain.

  Was that why he had left it for her? It would have been the type of gentlemanly gesture she was beginning to associate with him. She thought of him offering her a hand in her dream, as solid and reliable as he’d seemed in real life, and sighed.

  She had a hard time thinking of Erik as a mercenary opportunist, even though he had taken the wooden chest in exchange for great sex. That was especially true now that she had the rental car he’d paid for, never mind those half a dozen great orgasms.

  Eileen wished she’d had a chance to thank him.

  Maybe with more than just words.

  She bought a sandwich and a cup of tea, neither of which filled the emptiness within her. She sat in the car and ate in the parking lot of the museum where the town archive was stored. She knew she should have been happy to see the rain turn to snow. She’d missed snow, but these flurries didn’t lighten her heart.

  They just made her feel more cold.

  More solitary.

  More lonely. Eileen locked the car, slung her satchel over her shoulder, and went to work. Maybe finding out about Louisa Guthrie would improve her mood.

  Maybe not.

  The archive was kept in a dusty overlooked corner in the back of the museum, the kind of space Eileen found reassuringly familiar. The furniture was old and the computer was a certifiable antique, but the woman working there was friendly.

  When Eileen explained that she was seeking records of a woman from some era of the past, the archivist nodded with efficiency. She indicated a number of possibilities, pointed Eileen to some digitized photographs, and enthused about the record of social history that this museum had preserved.

  She reluctantly left Eileen to search the files—or to do the dirty work, as they laughingly agreed—when she was summoned back to the museum proper.

  Eileen quickly ran through the digitized twentieth-century records with no sign of a Louisa Guthrie. That would have been too easy a victory. She settled in to search the incomplete nineteenth-century records on the computer, making careful notes of the obvious omissions.

  It could take every hour of every day she had left in England to find Louisa. These archives weren’t all digitized or online, so Eileen focused on the local ones. If she had to go to the paper records and microfiche, she wanted to get to it as soon as possible. Eileen hunted and clicked, explored records and discarded them. Years of experience in this kind of research made her as efficient as was humanly possible.

  She didn’t know how long she’d been there when a man cleared his throat. Eileen jumped in surprise.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  Eileen found a sandy-haired man in the doorway. He was stocky, looked about thirty, and his trousers were soaked to the knees. He had the rumpled, sleep
ing-in-the-stacks look of the most committed graduate student. Eileen assumed that she was in his favorite space and that his offer was really an attempt to evict her.

  “I’ll only be a few minutes,” she said, turning back to the computer. “But thanks.”

  “I’m sure I could help you,” he said, his tone more insistent. “I know the history of Ironbridge like the back of my hand.”

  Eileen realized that his accent was American. She assumed that he was working for the museum on an exchange of some kind or had come to do in-depth research for his thesis.

  She still wasn’t moving.

  “I don’t think I need help, but thanks again for the offer.” She eyed the screen, expecting him to go away.

  He stepped into the room instead. “I’m a very good researcher.”

  “So am I,” Eileen said with a less friendly smile. She glared at him, that smile still in place, and was surprised that he didn’t avert his gaze.

  There was an assessing glint in his eyes, one that was also familiar. Eileen knew she could die a happy woman without another grad student hitting on her in a deserted archive. She realized belatedly that it was getting dark outside and the museum had fallen quiet. It hadn’t closed, but there weren’t many people around.

  This kid was younger than Eileen, though, shorter and softer. She could deck him if she had to. She looked him up and down, then returned to her database, certain that even the most socially backward man couldn’t miss her implication.

  Instead, she felt his presence at her elbow. He smelled of wet wool, of rain and wind.

  Come to think of it, it was odd that an avid student had stepped outside of his favorite research space for any reason. Most of them never left the library. Or their computers. Eileen had often wondered when the truly dedicated went to the washroom.

  She felt a quiver of warning.

  “What are you looking for?” He eased even closer.

  Eileen bristled despite herself. “Why should I tell you?” She kept her tone light, not wanting to provoke him. She just wanted him to go away.