Dragon Bound

by Thea Harrison

  The door to his bedroom slammed open. He whipped around, almost faster than sight, teeth bared. Rune and Aryal entered like twin cyclones, half-dressed bodies aimed like weapons. His First was armed with a sword while Aryal carried a semiautomatic. Rune went left and the six-foot harpy dove right before they both realized he was not under attack. They slowed to a stop.

  To give his sentinels credit, they didn’t run when faced with the nude figure of their enraged lord. In fact, Dragos had to admit it was brave of them to enter his bedroom in the first place. That thought was the thread that helped him to gain enough control so that he didn’t tear their heads from their shoulders.

  “Bad dream?” Rune said, keen gaze steady as he straightened from a fighting crouch and let the tip of his sword fall to the floor.

  “I’ve got her human name,” he said. They all knew who he meant. “Pia Giovanni. Find out what you can about her, quickly, and get me the witch. I need a tracking spell.”

  The harpy Aryal’s sleek brows lifted as she glanced from his ruined room to the predawn sky. For a moment her life trembled by the merest thread. If she had spoken a single word just then, she would have died in flames.

  “DAMN YOU, MOVE!”

  The floor of the penthouse shuddered at his roar. They raced out the door. So they were smart as well as brave.

  The lingering traces of the beguilement clawed at him. He yanked clothes on and stalked outside to pace the balcony. The penthouse was a prison. Even the vast, spread-out, noisy panorama of the city felt like a cage. He wanted to lunge into the air. He felt the impulse to slaughter something but he was trapped and flightless until the witch arrived.

  The dragon stood at the edge of the ledge, fists clenched, and with narrowed eyes he watched the small quick-moving humans in the street eighty floors below.

  A short time later, Rune said telepathically, My lord, the witch is here.

  My office, he said. He moved along the penthouse balcony until he stood one floor above his office. Then he leaped to the ledge below.

  Rune and the witch had already entered the room. The gryphon was unaffected by his sudden appearance but the witch stared as he straightened to his full height. A human Hispanic woman with a tall imperious beauty, she was quick to lower her gaze when he opened the French door and strode inside.

  Cuelebre Enterprises had for some years contracted with the best witch in the city. Dragos had never bothered to learn her name but he recognized her. She was afraid of him, which he ignored. All humans were afraid of him. They should be.

  He growled, “I need a tracking spell put on a woman.”

  The witch inclined her head. She said, “Certainly, my lord. Of course, no doubt you already know that the more information I can be given on a target, the better I can craft a tracking spell for it.”

  “Her name is Pia Giovanni,” Dragos said. He handed her the stack of photos from the 7-Eleven security footage. “This is what she looks like.”

  The witch went still, her eyes on the top photo. Her expression was a perfect blank, but something, some minuscule change in her posture or breathing, roused the predator in him. A smooth, fluid shift of his body brought him closer to her. He could sense her body heat and the pulse at her neck and wrists, which beat more rapid at his proximity. He scanned her with truthsense as he asked, “Do you know this woman?”

  The witch’s dark gaze lifted to his. She said, “I have seen her in the Magic District. I didn’t know her name.”

  Her face remained that perfect blank, revealing nothing. It was not, he thought, the blithe calm of innocence but one of educated discipline. Still, she did speak the truth. The predator in him eased back. He nodded at the photos. “Is her name and a photo enough for you?”

  The witch said, “I could cast a spell with these things. But it would be more durable, and it would last longer, if you had something of hers that I could use as an anchor. A good tracking spell is more complicated than a finding. It must shift and move as the object changes direction.”

  Unsurprised, he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a Ziploc bag that held a battered receipt. “It just so happens I do have something we can use.”

  FOUR

  Shaken by such a rude awakening, Pia rolled off the bed and lurched into the bathroom to take a shower. She hadn’t carried any toiletries in her backpack beyond hand lotion and Chap-Stick so she had to make do with the motel’s paper-wrapped sliver of plain soap. It took forever to work some through her long hair and lather a washcloth, but at least the water was hot and plentiful. The skin at the side of her neck felt tender as she scrubbed herself.

  She paused and rubbed at the tender area. What was that?

  After a quick final rinse, she wrapped her tangled hair in a towel, grabbed another towel to dry off and then wiped the fogged sink mirror to peer at her neck.

  Bite. It was a bite mark. She fingered the area at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. The skin wasn’t broken but there was an impression of teeth, and a suck-bruise was already forming.

  She whispered, “The bastard gave me a hickey?” In a dream?

  Goose bumps rose on her skin. She rubbed her arms and avoided looking at her white face with the dark-circled eyes.

  Somehow that horrible dream had been real. His magic had found her. He knew what she looked like. She told him her name.

  Get out now.

  Good thing she had three other names, with picture IDs that said so, because she had to hit delete on the one she’d lived with her whole life. Pia Alessandra Giovanni had to go. She felt another pang, another loss. Her mother had given her that name from long-held fondness for the time she had spent in medieval Florence. How much more did Pia have to lose? Apparently everything.

  It was too much for her tired mind. She yanked a brush through her hair, miserable at how it had snarled without conditioner, and then she dressed in her dirty clothes.

  When she started the Honda, the dashboard clock said 6:30 A.M. She had slept just under two hours.

  She went through another drive-through and bought juice, more coffee and apple slices, although she could only choke down a few bites. She drove south as the sky grew pastel and brightened into full day. The temperature warmed the farther she went until she rolled down the windows and opened the Honda’s moon roof.

  If she’d been making the trip for any other reason, she would have enjoyed herself. The sky was cloudless. The scenery in South Carolina was different from what she was used to. The foliage was a couple weeks farther along in bloom than in New York, and the land felt strange to her senses. She began to pass properties vivid with greenery and profuse with camellias, roses, azaleas, and magnolia trees blanketed in pink blossoms. Silvery Spanish moss draped along the branches of old oak trees like fashion stoles adorning beautiful women. Charleston and the surrounding area had a grace and beauty that was quite different from the brisk urban setting she had just left.

  She had given an ironic chuckle when Quentin had handed her directions to a beach house in a place called Folly Beach. Folly. Ha. It was about twenty minutes south of Charleston. Most of the houses, he told her, were vacation rentals. He had owned his for over thirty years and kept it furnished and stocked with linens and kitchenware.

  When she got close to her destination, she stopped at a superstore to buy clothing essentials and toiletries, aspirin, a prepaid cell phone and food supplies. When she reached the checkout lane by the liquor aisle, she caved and bought a bottle of scotch as well. A girl’s got to have priorities. If she didn’t deserve a drink after the nightmare week she had just suffered, she didn’t know who did.

  She threw her purchases in the Honda’s trunk. Soon after, she drove at a slow pace down a small coastal road on Folly Beach. She stared at the glimpses of the Atlantic Ocean she could see between cottages. The smell of the ocean gusted into the car.

  The sunlight was different here, clearer and thinner, and she got the sense of a nearby place drenched in magic. There was a dimension
al passageway somewhere near to Other lands. She wasn’t surprised, given that the seat of the Elven Court was located either in or near Charleston.

  Quentin’s house was at the end of the road, on the beach side. It was larger than many of the cottages she had passed, with its own short off-street driveway and garage. After parking, she shouldered her packages and entered the house, which had an empty feel to it, although thanks to a monthly cleaning service, it was at least fresh and clean.

  There were three bedrooms to choose from. She put away the food and then picked the largest bedroom with an en suite bathroom. She threw the toiletries on the bathroom counter and piled her new clothes and underwear on top of a dresser. She found towels and bed linens and made the bed, moving slowly and methodically. As soon as the bed was made, she took off her jeans, climbed under the covers and curled up as she hugged a pillow.

  Soon she would start thinking about her next steps and try to make a plan. Even if Cuelebre couldn’t come this deep into the Elven demesne, he had more money than God and probably more employees too. She didn’t dare stay too long.

  She would close her eyes for just a little while.

  She woke with a start several hours later. For several bleary moments she couldn’t remember where she was or why. Then memory flooded in, and she sagged back against the pillows.

  Okay. Life sucked. But at least she didn’t have another freaky sex dream where she got bitten.

  The room felt sticky and overwarm. Though the curtains were drawn, it seemed from the diffuse light that the sun was at a much lower angle than when she had first lain down. She pushed out of bed and dressed in some of her new clothes, lowhipped capris, sandals and a red tank with spaghetti straps. Her breasts were high, rather small and firm, so she didn’t bother with a bra.

  She peered outside. It was early evening, maybe around five o’clock. She went to the bathroom to splash her face with cold water. After dragging a brush again through her recalcitrant hair, she pulled it back in another ponytail. Then she went to the kitchen/dining room area, which was separated by a counter and bar stools. The dining area had sliding glass doors that opened to a large deck with a few simple pieces of patio furniture. Stairs led to the beach.

  She went down the stairs. She stood on the sun-warmed sand and breathed deep for several minutes as she gazed at a limitless horizon and listened to the murmurous dance of a calm ocean as it played against the shore. Kicking off her sandals, she walked close to the water’s edge and let sea foam surge across her toes. It was very cold. The tension that had taken up residence between her shoulder blades eased. She watched a seagull hover over the water and let herself exist in the moment. Then she walked along the water’s edge.

  With the onset of early evening, there were few people on the beach. A woman with two children wandered along the water’s edge about fifty yards away, picking up shells and rocks, until someone shouted from a cottage and they went inside.

  She sighed and tried to think through the obstacle course in her head. She bounced from idea to idea like a pinball in an arcade machine. At least the sleep had helped to clear her mind.

  She wondered if Keith were still alive. She was surprised to find she felt sadness at the thought. She wondered at the shadowy Power that had given her an artifact strong enough to get past Cuelebre’s aversion wards. She shied away. Don’t think about that.

  Then she thought about Quentin’s fierce protectiveness, his stubborn insistence on helping her and the bone-cracking hug he had given her. Her eyes watered. Okay. Don’t think about that either. Keith was gone. Quentin was gone. Her life was gone.

  She scowled and scrubbed at her eyes. So what did she know? Cuelebre knew her name. Got that problem covered. He knew what she looked like. He might even know what she smelled like, so she could change her appearance, maybe dye her hair and cut it short, but she would have to be extra smart to obscure her scent trail.

  I can’t stay here, and I need to ditch the Honda. I need to get new wheels and make it an arbitrary switch, difficult to trace, maybe change rides a couple of times fast. It might slow him down. I need to move in a random way and disconnect completely from Quentin and my past. And I need to find a way to block that bastard from my dreams.

  To do that, she would need more magical expertise than she could muster. Her mother could have kept herself obscured, in both a psychic and physical sense, but her blood didn’t run as strong in Pia. While she had a highly educated sense for magic, she couldn’t do half the things her mother could have done.

  The last gift Quentin had given her the night before had been an 800 number that he had made her memorize. I know people in Charleston, he’d said. If you need help, call them.

  Did she dare? Who were these people? She turned north and started walking back to the beach house. And did she dare stay here another night?

  She glanced at the sky and paused. In the distance over the water, a patch of the sky rippled. It looked like the watery shimmer of heat waves off an asphalt highway on a hot summer day. But the May evening was cooling down, the sky just starting to darken in the east and there was no asphalt anywhere near that ripple.

  She shaded her eyes. What was it? It was big and seemed to be getting bigger fast. She watched the patch grow, her stomach clenching. She’d never seen anything like it before, but she knew it was wrong.

  Wait a minute. That shimmering patch of air wasn’t growing bigger. It was getting closer.

  Oh shit.

  Pia’s thinking splintered into raw instinct. She whirled and sprinted. She may not have inherited many of her mother’s abilities, but if there was one thing she could do with an extravagance of talent, it was run. Her bare toes dug into the sand and she nearly flew down the beach.

  But nearly flying isn’t the same as really flying. Even as she pushed with all the speed she had in her, she knew she wasn’t going to be able to outrun what hurtled toward her.

  A shadow engulfed her from behind. She caught just a glimpse on the sand in front of her of an enormous winged shape with a serpentine neck and a long wicked head. Then the shadow collapsed in on itself and a split second later, a mountain slammed into her back.

  She crashed into the sand so hard it knocked the breath out of her. The mountain resolved itself into the hard, heavy body of a male. Muscle-corded arms came down on either side of her. Huge hands latched onto her slim wrists while a long thigh crossed over the backs of her legs.

  She wheezed, struggling to get her bruised rib cage to expand so her lungs could function, her palms and knees abraded from the impact. She stared at those imprisoning hands. Like the arms, they were powerful, colored a dark bronze that looked very dramatic against her pale skin.

  Her mind wailed. She was so dead.

  The male put his nose in her hair and took a deep breath. A convulsive shiver racked her body in response. He was sniffing her. She felt his nose at the back of her neck. He rubbed his face in her hair. A whimper was born and died at the back of her throat.

  “Good chase,” he growled, his voice a dark rumble at her back.

  She coughed and sand puffed up in front of her. “Not long enough.”

  The weight lifted from her back, and he flipped her with mind-numbing swiftness. She slammed back into the sand, arms spread-eagled as he held her by the wrists again.

  He bared his teeth at her in a machete smile. “We could always do it again.”

  She thought of him letting her go and pouncing again, playing with her like a great cat, and shuddered.

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” she whispered. Her eyes had gone watery from the force of the impact that knocked her down. She tried to focus on the dark, fierce face bent over her. Then her vision came clear.

  Cuelebre was breathtaking. Energy and Power boiled from him; he radiated it like a dark sun. He had a handsome brutality, facial features cut into bold lines and angles as if a sculptor had hewn him from granite. His skin was a dark brown with a bronze hue, and those brilliant dra
gon’s eyes were hot gold. In his human form he was almost seven feet tall, three hundred pounds of dominant Wyr male sprawled like an avalanche across her body. In comparison she felt delicate, very breakable.

  His hair was inky black. Just like in the dream. It had slipped through her fingers like silk.

  The shock of his assault had not begun to pass, but through it she noticed one astonishing thing. He had thrown his thigh over hers again. He stared at her neck. Realization pulsed. He was looking at the bite he had given her. A hard length was growing against her hip.

  “So, is that your long, scaly, reptilian tail, or are you just happy to see me?”

  No, she did not just say that.

  Did she? She cringed in mortification, screwed her eyes shut and waited to be splattered all over the beach.

  Nothing happened, good or bad. Yet. Maybe if she kept her eyes closed it wouldn’t.

  She whispered through shaking lips, “I didn’t mean to say that. Um, pay no attention to the lunatic inhabiting this body.”

  As silence continued she opened one cautious eye. He studied her, lava gaze alert with interest. “Are you possessed?” he asked.

  She had to clear her throat twice before she could answer. “You would think so, wouldn’t you, with all the dumbass moves I’ve made over the last couple of months. I’ve been acting out a lot with all the stress. This stranger seems to have taken over my mouth. She doesn’t seem to come installed with a brake. No offense.” The corners of her lips lifted in a tremulous smile. “I bet you want your penny back, huh?”

  He shifted with sinuous grace, letting go of her hands to kneel over her. His predator’s stare narrowed further. “What do you think?”

  Her hands fluttered up and, unable to help herself, she straightened his shirt collar with shaky fingers. Her fingers looked like delicate white twigs against the thick column of his neck.

  Dragos stared down at her hands. She let them fall to her chest and clasped her hands together. “I think,” she said in a low voice, “that you would do anything to get your property back. No matter what was taken, no matter what it took, no matter where you would have to go to find it.”