by Kim Harrison
“Next time I ignore your instincts, feel free to knock me over the head with a baseball bat,” he said, after a while.
I laughed shakily, and pulled back. “I need to shift shape to stop the bleeding.”
He nodded and sat back. I shifted to wolf form, healing the wound enough to stop the bleeding, then shifted back to my human shape. “Well, at least that’s over with.”
“You sure?”
I nodded. “I only felt one other presence. How long do you think they were living in that house?”
“Probably as long as the house has been around, if the bodies and bones are anything to go by.”
“But how could so many deaths go unreported?”
“I’m betting they mostly snatched tourists, or teenagers who were on their own.”
I guess as towns like this got built up, there were fewer drifters and farmhands that could be taken unnoticed—and that only left the unwary. “But why go after kids with families? Especially if they were trying to avoid notice?”
“Who knows? Maybe the lone tourists have been scarce and they had no other choice. Maybe the boys were simply easy prey.”
He shrugged and reached out, cupping my cheek with his palm, letting his thumb brush my lips. Heat slithered through me, an aching that was mind and body. And as I stared into his bright, watchful eyes, I knew that whatever the consequences to my heart, I had to see this thing through. Had to see where we went.
“Ethan—”
“I’m not asking for commitment, Grace,” he cut in. “I just want you to stop running and give me some time.”
I smiled and kissed his fingertips. “Time I can give.”
“Good,” he said, as that dangerously sexy light came back into his eyes. “So now, we can get back to our report making.”
I grinned. “Is this going to become a standard feature of our working together?”
“Totally.” His breath washed heat across my lips, sending anticipation and desire racing through my limbs. “Can’t think of a better way to get over the tedium of writing a report.”
Neither could I.
CURSE OF THE DRAGON’S TEARS
Heidi Betts
CHAPTER 1
HE WATCHED HER FROM THE SHADOWS, HIS BREATH speeding up, the blood pumping hard through his veins.
It had been years since anyone had set foot inside the walls of his refuge. Anyone other than juveniles up to no good, daring each other to cross the threshold of the eerie and reportedly haunted Castle MacKay.
But this one…this woman…was no adolescent bent on mischief. She was up to something.
He could tell by the way she glanced around, slowly and with great interest. And by the bags she was carrying, one thrown over her shoulder, the other clutched in her hand at knee level.
Long shafts of evening sunlight shone through the tall, thin windows, illuminating the specks of dust in the air and sending wavering slivers of blue and violet through the woman’s otherwise inky black hair.
She wore a loose pink top with some type of picture and writing on it, and a small golden cross that hung to just between her full, rounded breasts. Her legs were covered in denim, a thin black belt at her slim waist and sturdy brown hiking boots on her feet.
With a sigh, she let the duffle in her hand fall to the dirt floor, lowering the bag on her shoulder much more gently.
“This should be fun,” she muttered.
She twisted around, looking for a moment in his direction, and he jerked back, standing even tighter against the wall.
From the corner of his eye, he could still see her, but he didn’t think she’d seen him. If she had, she wouldn’t even now be walking back outside at a leisurely pace.
No, if she’d seen him, she would be running. And screaming in fear.
Only a few minutes after she’d disappeared through the castle’s main, if crumbling, entrance, she returned with a rolled-up sleeping bag, a worn leather satchel, and a large silver thermos.
His heart thrummed in his ears, pounding hard against his ribcage as she began spreading out the sleeping bag and he realized she meant to stay. Here. Overnight. In his secret lair.
Fists clenching at his sides, he watched her, torn between fury at having his private sanctuary invaded and acute interest at being so close to another human being—a woman—for the first time in a hundred years.
Stifling a yawn, Laura Tomescu finished spreading out her things and creating a space on the ground to both sleep and work. Though she wasn’t entirely sure where to begin, she was itching to get started on the undertaking that had brought her here in the first place, and to explore Castle MacKay, which had apparently been abandoned nearly a century ago.
From the dirt on the floor and the cobwebs coating the ceiling, she could believe it. She shuddered at the thought of what was likely crawling around in this shadowed room. But she knew in her bones that this would be where she’d find the answers to all of her questions, and so she was ready to face almost anything…even the creepy crawlies living in this abandoned keep.
But it was late, and she’d already had a long day of traveling and talking with townspeople from the village below. It seemed that everyone in this part of Scotland knew of the half-man, half-beast who was said to haunt the area.
Whether he truly lived in Castle MacKay, no one could say for sure. What they would say, depending on who she’d asked, was that he was either a saint or a monster. Some claimed that he butchered sheep or stole children from their beds. Others swore that he left gifts of food or clothing on their doorsteps, or had saved them from harm in one way or another.
Laura didn’t know what to believe, and she wasn’t sure it mattered. She was here because of her family’s part in the legend of Dougal MacKay…or perhaps she should say her family’s part in the curse.
And because of the dreams she’d been having about him for the past several years. Dreams that were growing stronger and more vivid with each passing day.
So she would bunk down here for the night, then wake up early to begin her exploration. As eager as she was to solve the mystery eating up such a large chunk of her life, she wasn’t quite as enthusiastic about poking around a dark, dingy, supposedly haunted castle by herself, with nothing to light her way but a flashlight.
Better to wait until morning when she could see, and maybe, if she was lucky, when there would be less chance of running into things that went bump in the night.
Kicking off her boots and jeans, she shook out the hem of her t-shirt until it fell to mid-thigh. As sleepwear went, it was sorely lacking, but it would do for a single night, alone on a dirt floor.
Shoving her feet into the opening of her sleeping bag, she scrunched down and made herself as comfortable as possible. She closed her eyes and yawned again, a faint trace of uneasiness skittering down her spine.
Not for the first time, she felt as though she was being watched, and if her dreams and research could be believed, she had a pretty good idea what—or rather, who—her observer might be. The good news was, she didn’t think it—or he—would hurt her.
But since she couldn’t be positive, that was one more reason to put off her search until tomorrow. Confrontations of this sort were better left for the bright light of day.
Screwing her eyes tightly shut, she gave a slight shiver and snuggled deeper beneath the folds of her sleeping bag. If she started thinking about him, and rats, and all the other creepy-crawly things that might be sneaking around this place, she’d never get any rest.
And the sooner she fell asleep, the sooner it would be morning, so she could wake up and get started on her quest for—literally—the man of her dreams.
She’d been asleep only a few minutes when the dream began. And she knew it was a dream, knew it was one of those dreams, even as she drifted through that delicate space between slumber and reality.
She was in Castle MacKay, curled up in her sleeping bag, but she wasn’t alone. It was no rat or spider keeping her company, either, bu
t a man.
Dougal.
He stepped out of the shadows, all six-plus-feet of him, and walked toward her.
He moved slowly, making no sound as he crossed the earthen floor, giving her a chance to study him. He was bare-chested, wearing nothing more than a kilt and soft-soled, worn leather boots. His hair was black, tousled, and long enough to brush his broad, well-formed shoulders. His green eyes glowed, looking serpentine in the dark, with their thin, vertical pupils.
And his flesh…every inch of that strong, impressive chest that she could see…was covered with a beautiful, almost iridescent sort of tattoo. But not of any picture or form she could make out. Instead, it looked like layer after layer of lovely, colorful…scales.
That might have seemed odd to her, probably had in the beginning, but after so many dreams of this man, she was not only used to the unique markings, but found them attractive and erotic to the extreme.
Even as that thought flitted through her brain, he was upon her, kneeling down and flipping back the top fold of the sleeping bag. Heat radiated from every pore of his body as he stared down at her, taking in her pale pink t-shirt with its hibiscus flowers and hula girl, advertising Hawaii as “a great place to get leied.” The hem had ridden up around her hips, leaving her stark white, French-cut bikini panties in full view.
He murmured a single word, low and emphatic, but in a language she didn’t understand, had never heard before she’d begun having these dreams. And then he was loosening the wide belt at his waist, kicking off his calf-high boots, and letting the blue, black, and green fabric of his family tartan fall to the floor. A second later, he was stretched out full length on top of her.
His mouth covered hers, furnace hot, sending flickering flames down her throat and to her very center. He bit, licked, sucked, devoured her like a starving man at an all-you-can-eat buffet. The firm contours of his muscled chest and arms pressed in on her, his legs straddling her own, the rigid length of his arousal rubbing against the soft material at the apex of her thighs.
She had been wet long before he touched her. One glance at his rippling, masculine body towering over her, and she’d turned liquid with fiery lust. Her nipples were puckered and jutting beneath the cotton of her top as she writhed beneath him.
His lips and teeth burned her flesh, tugged at her lips, skimming her cheek, trailing down the line of her throat. He lifted up only long enough to grab the bottom of her shirt in his large, long-fingered hands and strip it off over her head. Then he lowered his head again and feasted at her breast.
Her back arched on a moan, her fingers threading through his black hair as his tongue circled her areola, the budded tip, and then drew her fully into his mouth.
“Yes, please.” She scratched at his back with her nails, lifting, reaching for more.
The heat of his long, seeking member brushing between her legs made her want him inside her now. Hard, hot, fast. She rotated her hips, trying to hurry him, trying to take him in, even before she was fully naked.
And—thank you, Jesus—he took the hint. His rough, callused fingers traced her waist, and then her legs, taking her underwear with them. Without ceremony, he shoved her legs apart, settled himself between them, and thrust home.
Laura gasped at the feel of him embedded so deeply and stretching her to accommodate his incredible size. She took a moment to concentrate on her breathing, and before she knew it, her body relaxed, going soft and loose around him.
He gave her only a moment to recover before lifting her legs over the crooks of his elbows, growling low in his throat, and beginning to pump.
Her back arched at the intensity of sensations racing through her blood. He was a demon, pounding into her like a jackhammer, harder, faster. And she responded, rising to meet his rapid movements, raking his back with her nails, emitting high-pitched keens of delight from the back of her throat that she’d never heard herself make before.
Almost without warning, the orgasm ripped over her, sharp and powerful. She screamed her pleasure, clutching at him more tightly as he continued to thrust frantically.
And then he stopped, going still above her as he came with a roar, spilling inside her.
As quickly as the dream had begun, it faded away, and she drifted more deeply into sleep. She was exhausted, and now—thanks to one of the most violent orgasms of her life—thoroughly sated.
Long after the woman had crawled under the blankets and gone to sleep, Dougal watched her. Watched her chest rise and fall with her deep, even breathing. Watched her mouth drift open and her eyelids flutter as she slipped further into slumber.
He wished that he could show himself, go to her and coax her slowly awake with passionate kisses and a slow caress. He imagined stripping her of blankets and that fitted shirt, devouring her as he hadn’t had the chance to devour a woman in a century or more.
When she moaned and rolled to her back, he straightened away from the wall, afraid she may have sensed his presence. He shouldn’t have to hide in his own castle, but nor could he risk discovery.
A moment later, it became obvious she was still asleep, but the moans continued. Perhaps she was dreaming. Of monsters and ghouls and other things that went bump in the night, he was sure. Any woman spending the night alone in an abandoned Scottish castle was likely to be skittish.
His brows crossed, though, when she threw off half of the thick red sleeping bag as he’d pictured himself doing, revealing her torso and the tops of her smooth, shapely legs. And then his brows arched, shooting high up on his forehead as one hand, with its softly painted nails, lifted to cup her own breast through the material of her form-fitting top. The other slid over her waist and under the small wisp of material that covered her private areas.
His erection, which had already been at half-mast simply from observing her for the past few hours, shot to full attention. In his mind, he pictured where he wanted her hands to go, the areas he wished his own hands could explore, and to his amazement, she seemed to follow his silent commands.
She continued to touch herself, making tiny mewling sounds of need, and arching up as though meeting a lover’s caress. The hand at her breast moved beneath the shirt to tease bare flesh. Her nipples hardened to swollen, pointing peaks, sending a lightning bolt of lust straight to his groin.
Clenching his teeth to keep from groaning aloud, he lifted his kilt and wrapped his hand firmly around his shaft. It had been a hundred years since he’d touched a woman, and though he wasn’t shy about relieving his own pent-up desires when the need grew too great, he hadn’t had the luxury of watching a woman in the throes of passion to help himself along for a hundred years, either.
He was hot and heavy, his erection pointing skyward with an arousal he hadn’t felt in recent—or extended—memory. Several feet away, the woman began to thrash, spreading her legs wider, driving her hand deeper into what he knew would be full, slick, pink folds. It took every ounce of his control not to stalk forward, remove her hand and replace it with his eager, raging erection.
What would it feel like to bury himself inside a woman again? To kiss and fondle and thrust his way to completion.
Of all the things he missed from his former life, he thought perhaps he missed fucking a willing lass most.
Her cries threatening to send him over the brink, he tightened his hold on himself, his fingers dancing and tugging on the rigid length. His own breathing grew ragged as he continued to watch the woman pleasuring herself, as his movements sped up and his legs turned weak with impending climax.
It was all he could do not to close his eyes in ecstasy, but he wanted to see her, wanted to watch the muscles in her thighs tighten, her back bow, her face contort as she reached her peak.
When she did, her shout echoed off the stone walls and through the keep, sending his blood past the boiling point. With it went the last of his control as he came in great, wracking spasms. If he’d ever had an orgasm such as that before in his misbegotten life, he certainly couldn’t recall it. I
t made him almost glad the woman had come to his castle, encroaching upon his invisible but private boundaries.
It even made a part of him wish she might stay a while.
CHAPTER 2
LAURA AWOKE BRIGHT AND EARLY, FEELING RELAXED, loose-limbed, and happy, as she always did after one of her erotic dreams about the mysterious Dougal MacKay. As she dressed and gathered her things, she found herself smiling for no particular reason and actually looking forward to the task ahead of exploring this intimidating, rundown keep.
Also typical of the mornings after having one of her bizarre dreams about a man she’d never met, she wondered how much of them might be true and how much was simply her imagination running wild.
Did Dougal MacKay really exist? According to family stories and journals left behind by her great-grandmother Cosmina, he had at one time, but that didn’t mean that the legends of his continued existence were true. He could have died years ago; many, many years ago, if his age at the time of her great-grandmother Cosmina’s curse was any indication. If the curse had worked, however, he would still be alive and may not have aged a day since the enthralling words were spoken.
She also wondered at the scales that covered his body in her dreams, and the breath that was hot as lava. Were those, too, a result of the hex her great-grandmother had thrust upon him, or merely the way her subconscious chose to picture a man who would have been cursed in such a way.
She didn’t know, but she prayed she would find out. After all, she hadn’t made the trip all the way from the United States to Scotland for nothing.
Outside, the day was glorious, with the sun shining and a gentle breeze ruffling the tall green grass surrounding the castle. To document her search, she’d brought along a number of notebooks, as well as her camera.
She snapped several pictures inside the first initial room of the keep, then walked around outside to do the same. The landscape really was beautiful, and she could understand why someone, hundreds of years ago, had decided to build their castle here, overlooking both the ocean and the valley below.