Darkfire Kiss

by Deborah Cooke

  Ethics were so inconvenient.

  Melissa Smith had worked with many people who either had no ethics or could easily ignore them. She’d never been that way, even in pursuit of a story.

  No matter how much was at stake.

  She parked her car on the street, not too close to the house she’d driven past a hundred times, and took a deep breath. It didn’t help. She was still freaked out. She closed her eyes and saw the wreckage of Daphne’s body, as vividly as if she were still standing in the morgue.

  She wondered whether it was time for a change. In a real sense, her principles were all she had left. Melissa had lost her husband, her house, her dream job, her health, and her future. Her confidence had taken a pretty big hit, too. All she had left was the chance of restarting her career, in the hope of bringing truth to light. A legacy of truth was the only thing she could hope to build.

  And maybe those ethics were the only thing standing in her way.

  Did she want justice for Daphne enough to bend her own rules?

  Daphne, Melissa knew, would have told her to make her own luck.

  Melissa frowned, unhappy with the available options. She pulled out the note from Daphne one more time. It was terse, just as Daphne had always been, and just reading it made her feel her obligation to the girl.

  It was her fault….

  The note had come two days before, in the mail as if it were no more important than a credit card bill. Enclosed with the note had been a key—a numbered key, likely to a storage locker.

  Melissa had spent the whole day trying to guess where that storage locker might be. She hadn’t really believed that Daphne was dead. The girl was a consummate liar, albeit one with a good heart. She’d had to deceive to survive on the streets of Baghdad, which was where Melissa had first met the engaging, pretty, opportunistic girl. Daphne had had a charm about her, and she’d been reliable in unexpected moments.

  Melissa had lost track of Daphne when she’d returned stateside again. She’d thought of the beggar girl often, worrying about her when she should have been worrying about herself.

  No one had been more surprised than Melissa to encounter Daphne again three years later in the most unlikely of places—right in DC, dressed to the nines and on the arm of an affluent older man.

  Magnus Montmorency.

  It couldn’t have been a coincidence; Melissa had known that immediately. Montmorency had been the rumored power behind illicit arms deals in Baghdad—every trail led to his vicinity and stopped cold. Melissa had wanted to get that story more than anything. She had wanted to reveal Montmorency for the villain he was, but she’d run out of time.

  In more ways than one.

  Still, she would have known him anywhere. Seeing Daphne with Montmorency hadn’t reassured Melissa at all. She didn’t like that Daphne had become his mistress; that she had used Montmorency as her ticket to the future.

  And it really didn’t help that Melissa had once asked Daphne in Baghdad to find out more about Montmorency’s connections. That had been before she’d realized how brutal he was.

  She had a responsibility….

  The sight of Daphne’s body flicked through her thoughts again, as if the dead girl would taunt Melissa with her obligation. Montmorency must have killed Daphne. Melissa suspected as much but couldn’t prove a thing. It was the past all over again—the trail led to Montmorency’s vicinity and stopped cold.

  But Daphne had provided the inside intelligence Melissa needed. If she had the guts to use it. She eyed the letter and tried to summon her resolve.

  Melissa had done her homework, checking all the angles before she leapt into trouble. She’d always been thorough, instead of running with half a story. She’d gone to the morgue first, halfway suspecting that Daphne had been putting her on. No one could have been more astonished than Melissa when she found Daphne there, labeled as a Jane Doe. Not just dead. Fried. Only half of her face had remained intact enough to identify her remains.

  Melissa would never forget that sight.

  She’d then hunted down the lock that fit the numbered key, working her way through train stations and airports. She’d found the match at Washington Dulles. There’d been a duffel bag in it, one filled with Daphne’s apparent necessities. It confirmed that Daphne had been poised to run; that she’d known she was taking a big risk. She hadn’t lied about that.

  The stuffed puppy Melissa had first given Daphne in Baghdad was in the bag, now well loved. The sight nearly stopped Melissa’s heart.

  Deeper in the bag, she found Daphne’s diary.

  It was a riveting read. The girl was a good reporter, thorough and detailed. If she’d survived, though, her story would have created questions. She was, after all, a beggar girl saved from the streets by Montmorency—her word against his wouldn’t stand a chance.

  But in her diary, Daphne had documented where correlating evidence could be found against Montmorency.

  It was in a small blue leather-bound book, one that was always in a certain place in the top right drawer of a desk in Montmorency’s fortified DC residence. Everything—everything—was documented there, according to Daphne.

  It was the evidence Melissa needed.

  The evidence she had wanted all those years ago.

  She just had to break into the house to get it.

  It wouldn’t be hard—Daphne had also provided the security codes to the house.

  Melissa hesitated. It was a crime to break and enter. It was wrong. Even though Montmorency was suspected of being an arms dealer, even though he made sure nothing ever stuck to him and nothing could be traced to him, even though bringing him to justice would tip the balance in favor of good guys everywhere and would fulfill a personal goal of Melissa’s, it was still wrong to break into his home.

  Dangerous, too.

  Melissa swallowed and considered the house. She could almost hear Daphne calling her bluff. That girl would never have worried about a comparatively minor infraction, especially one in the pursuit of a greater good.

  She’d taught Daphne to record the evidence, follow a trail, and build a story. Maybe Daphne was teaching her to take a chance.

  What, really, did she have left to lose?

  Headlights swept over Melissa’s car, and she instinctively hunched down in the seat. A large black armored Mercedes sedan pulled out of Montmorency’s driveway, the engine gunning as it headed downtown. Where was it going at this hour?

  Melissa checked her watch. Ten past midnight.

  Maybe the car was going to pick up Montmorency. The windows were tinted dark, so Melissa could see only the silhouette of a driver when it passed. She was sure its departure was a sign, if not an invitation. If the house was empty, this was her chance. Who knew how soon the car would return?

  Daphne deserved justice….

  Melissa knew a person couldn’t always count on getting a second chance. She wouldn’t damage anything. She wouldn’t take much, just that little blue book from Montmorency’s desk. It wouldn’t take five minutes.

  It would be easy.

  It was a moral infraction that wouldn’t matter in the greater scheme of things.

  Melissa didn’t believe that for a minute, but she got out of her car anyway. It was snowing lightly, the snow melting on contact with the pavement. There would be no mark of her footsteps—another sign.

  She pulled on her leather gloves and turned up her collar. She wrapped her scarf across her face as if she were cold, even though she was perspiring in her anxiety. After all, she wasn’t in the habit of breaking the law. She reminded herself of the power of the greater good. She reminded herself of her debt to a little beggar girl who deserved justice.

  Then Melissa marched across the street toward Montmorency’s house, as if she had every right to be there.

  In a way, she did.

  Daphne would have insisted as much.

  Rafferty was once again stymied in his efforts to spontaneously manifest elsewhere.

  His archenemy
, Magnus, could perform this feat, one traditionally claimed by the Wyvern alone, which rankled. Rafferty had managed it twice, and it would have been useful on this night. He stood outside Magnus’s securely barricaded home and considered his options. There were few. Although he suspected that Magnus was home, the alarms would still be armed. Magnus would not take chances with his security. Spontaneous manifestation inside the house was the only choice that would have ensured that Rafferty didn’t trip any alarms.

  But he couldn’t do it. No matter how hard he tried, he remained lodged in the shadows of the garden.

  He began to wonder why he had been unable to master the skill beyond those two instances. During his successful attempts he had wished to be in Magnus’s presence, just as he did now.

  But both of those times, Magnus had wanted something of Rafferty. On this night, however, Magnus would not welcome Rafferty’s company.

  Rafferty wondered whether he had truly moved on those occasions—or whether Magnus had summoned him. It was Magnus who had drunk the Elixir, and it seemed that only those who had consumed the Elixir could assume the Wyvern’s powers.

  Could he do this? Doubt gnawed at Rafferty, even as he tried again.

  Rafferty’s pursuit of Magnus had led the Pyr through dark passages and hollows, deep into the earth and under the ocean. That the old Slayer was wounded hadn’t slowed his passage that much, apparently. That Magnus had the ability to disguise his scent, at least at intervals, meant that Rafferty had taken many wrong turns. Magnus’s talent for disappearing and appearing elsewhere at will only made pursuit more challenging.

  The trail ended at the most obvious location of all—Magnus’s lair in Washington, DC.

  Rafferty hadn’t expected his enemy to be so brazen. Maybe he should have known better. Maybe it was a trap. Either way, Rafferty was tired of the unfinished business that lingered between the two of them. He and Magnus had exchanged challenge coins, which meant a fight to the death—until one was dead, the duel continued. Rafferty had thought Magnus dead several times.

  This time he would be certain.

  He’d guessed that Magnus had restored his own strength from Niall’s firestorm—with Chen’s assistance and maybe a last hidden increment of the Dragon’s Blood Elixir. He’d wanted to corner his old foe before the lunar eclipse that would occur in the wee hours of the morning, but he hadn’t been sure of Magnus’s location until this day.

  Rafferty would have bet Magnus had planned it that way.

  It hadn’t helped that Rafferty had been distracted by the chaos in the earth. It hadn’t helped that he’d felt compelled to halt his hunt and sing to Gaia, to calm her and try to soothe her. Recent months had seen earthquakes, tsunamis, and mud slides mar the surface of the planet. There had been blizzards, droughts, monsoons, and tornadoes. The weather had gone wild, and humans were suffering on every continent. Rafferty had tried to help, but he grew exhausted from his efforts.

  He was beginning to think that it wasn’t just Gaia under duress, but that she had been incited to violence by someone else.

  Was it Magnus? The old Slayer could sing the songs of the earth, as well. Rafferty wouldn’t have believed Magnus to be so strong, but his old adversary had secrets Rafferty hadn’t begun to guess.

  Rafferty had only one, one that had been hidden from Magnus with complete success. Each passing day made Rafferty fear that truth would be revealed and all would be lost.

  It was time to finish their blood challenge, to see Magnus dead. Rafferty didn’t have the gift of foresight, but he had a bad feeling about the chaotic changes in the earth. Could that awaken the Sleeper? He feared what Magnus would do if he ever learned of the existence of the hidden one.

  Rafferty had come to Magnus’s lair, determined to do the deed before the eclipse. He was lurking in the shadows of the garden as Balthasar left the house to start the car.

  The big sedan departed, which meant that at least one of Magnus’s staff was gone—probably two. Was Jorge here? Mallory? No one had sensed their presences since Delaney’s firestorm, almost two years ago. Rafferty didn’t like when Slayers were quiet—it usually meant they were scheming something.

  Maybe they were terrorized by Chen.

  Or controlled by him. That Slayer was a new variable, one impossible to predict or pursue. He was older and stronger than any had guessed, and he had drunk the Elixir. Rafferty inhaled deeply but couldn’t sense any of his kind. He wasn’t fooled.

  Magnus’s lair was in a quiet neighborhood, one with large houses and discreet entrances, beautiful landscaping, and high-tech security systems. Rafferty could see the stars overhead and smell a storm coming off the ocean. Snow. It was beginning to fall already in soft white flakes.

  He felt something else, too, something nameless that resonated deep in his marrow. Was he becoming more sensitive to the eclipses as he grew older? Or was it the influence of the Dragon’s Tail, the cycle of karmic retribution and the last chance for the Pyr to defeat the Slayers? Rafferty wasn’t sure, but he felt tingly and agitated in a way that wasn’t characteristic of him. He was the temperate member of the Pyr, but in this moment, he felt audacious. Impulsive.

  Edgy.

  Maybe that was a trick of Magnus, intended to set him off guard—or to compel him to make a mistake. Rafferty gritted his teeth and fought the quiver deep inside himself. He would be as resolute and controlled as ever.

  The house was dark, its windows gleaming squares of impenetrable darkness. Rafferty smelled malice, but he couldn’t hear a dragonsmoke perimeter mark.

  It made sense that Magnus would abandon that tradition, since he could cross it himself. Also, the resonance of a dragonsmoke ring might draw the attention of the Pyr.

  Attention Magnus wouldn’t want.

  No, he wanted everyone to believe he wasn’t at home. The absence of a dragonsmoke ring implied the house was unoccupied.

  Rafferty wasn’t persuaded. He couldn’t sense or smell anything that told him Magnus was in the house, but he believed he was with every fiber of his being. Tonight was the night.

  Rafferty turned the black and white ring on his finger one last time. This would be a fight to the death, and he wouldn’t necessarily be victorious. Right didn’t always prevail, unfortunately. Rafferty prepared himself for the possibility of his own death, then stepped out of the shadows of the cedar hedge.

  He saw the woman then, and the sight of her stopped him cold.

  Rafferty stared, but she was no illusion. She marched up the driveway, with all the force of a hurricane hurtling toward the shore. She was slender and tall, her skirt swinging as she moved, her features hidden by her scarf. Her hair was short but as dark as a raven’s wing.

  Ebony curls.

  Her skin was golden, the hue of buckwheat honey. She had terrific legs, lean and muscled, and she walked with a purposeful femininity. Rafferty was snared by the sight of her, by the fluid way she moved. She could have been dancing.

  And her perfume, so feminine, so faint, enthralled him with one whiff. His body responded to her presence with such enthusiasm that he was startled, startled enough to ease back into the shadows.

  Lust at one sight? That wasn’t like him. Was it the influence of the moon? He didn’t know; he only felt himself harden as he watched the sweet sway of her hips.

  And wanted.

  How long had it been?

  He forced himself to think rationally. Could Magnus have a guest? At this hour? Was she a mistress? She didn’t appear to be Magnus’s type—he favored flashy women, whereas this one was dressed simply in dark colors. She was older than the usual jailbait Magnus chose, as well.

  A woman, not a girl.

  And that perfume. Not sweet so much as seductive. Musk instead of honeysuckle. It was the perfume of a woman who knew her powers, knew her allure, and wasn’t afraid of either. Confident and potent. Forthright.

  Rafferty’s mouth went dry. He was intrigued when she went directly to the back door. Was she visiting someone else
in the house? Presumably Magnus had staff.

  It couldn’t be a coincidence that she came right after the big sedan’s departure. Not at this hour.

  Rafferty eased closer to watch her. He narrowed his eyes, his Pyr vision enabling him to see the silhouette of her gloved hand. She raised her fingers to the pad of the security system, the leather pulling to reveal an increment of skin. Rafferty could see the bone of her wrist, fine and delicate. He was certain it would be soft, scented with that intriguing perfume.

  When had a glimpse of a woman’s skin aroused him so?

  She didn’t knock or ring the bell. Instead, she cast a furtive glance over her shoulder, then punched a sequence of codes into the security system. Though she had the codes, her every gesture revealed her conviction that she wouldn’t be welcome.

  Not staff, then.

  Not a mistress.

  But she had the codes right. The door opened, revealing a slice of deeper darkness. Rafferty was sure he saw her hesitate for a moment before she slipped into the shadows of the house.

  Then he was horrified. He couldn’t begin to imagine how Magnus would treat an intruder in his lair.

  Well, he could imagine—that was the problem.

  The woman was either incredibly brave or stupid. Either way, she was a human who would shortly be in need of his protection.

  Rafferty was across the property in a heartbeat, refusing to think further than that. He moved quickly enough to catch the lip of the closing door with his fingertips. That lingering perfume taunted him, teased him, beckoned to him.

  And he followed the woman into the house, wondering all the while at her audacity.

  Instead of thinking about Magnus, Rafferty Powell wanted to see the face of the woman who dared to take such a chance.

  No, he wanted more than that.

  Melissa had done it.

  Well, she’d done the first part. She was in Montmorency’s house.

  Her heart was thumping so loudly, she was sure someone would hear it. The house was so quiet, so still, so dark. She had to stop for a minute, only eight or ten steps into the back hall, to let her eyes adjust. It felt as if it took an eternity.