Fire Song (City of Dragons)

by St. Crowe, Val

  Ace tripped over his feet and went sprawling on his backside.

  I hadn’t even singed him. Unfortunately. But I couldn’t risk the hotel, so I’d held back. I stepped over him, staring down at his stunned face. “You know what? I think maybe I’m tired of hiding. You tell Alastair anything you want. I don’t care. Now get out of my hotel and don’t come back.”

  *

  “Where’s your gargoyle?” said Flint, looking around the lobby of the hotel.

  “Stone,” I said. “It’s daylight.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Right. I forgot about that.”

  I shook my head at him. “How have you survived this long working as a police officer in this city without knowing this stuff?”

  “Don’t know,” he said. “That’s why I’m lucky to have you.”

  “You here to ask me questions about Alastair?”

  “Actually, yes. I’m hoping to go and interview him today, and I want to know everything I can about him.”

  I took a deep breath. “I think I’d like to come when you interview him.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “I’m sick of hiding,” I said. “And besides, Alastair has ruined my life for too long. I need to move forward. If he did this, I want him locked up.”

  Flint nodded slowly, putting his hands in his pockets. “I guess that makes sense. And I think having you along might throw him off guard. Seeing you could affect him emotionally. I might be able to use that. But I don’t know if it would be good for you.”

  “I didn’t know you cared,” I muttered. “A few days ago, you were convinced I was a murder suspect.”

  He gave me a funny look. “Of course I’m concerned about your welfare.”

  “Whatever.” I logged out of the computer at the desk. “Let me find someone to cover the front desk. I’ll meet you out front.”

  He didn’t argue with me.

  In about fifteen minutes, I was pulling the passenger door of Flint’s car shut after me. It was midmorning, a nice spring day, with the sun shining and the temperatures in the upper fifties. The forecast promised that they’d climb into the low seventies. I rolled down the window a crack to get the smell of the sea air.

  He put his sunglasses on and started the car. He pulled out of the parking lot and back onto Atlantic Avenue, heading north.

  There was no traffic this time of year, this time of day, so it would only take us about fifteen minutes to get up to the north side of the city.

  “I assume you have confirmation that Alastair is in town?” I said.

  “Yeah, I wasn’t going to interview him in Connecticut,” he said.

  “So, he’s staying up north in one of those new housing developments.”

  “It appears so.”

  I felt my throat tighten. Had he known that I was here? “He hates the ocean,” I said softly.

  “What do I need to know?” said Flint. “You don’t have to go into too much detail if it’s painful, but what kind of hitting are we talking about here?”

  “There are different kinds?”

  He gripped the steering wheel. “You ever read Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “Well, it’s a story about a man who goes insane in Africa, all the while making a tribe of natives worship him as a god. The man’s name is Kurtz, and he’s psychotic. He thinks he’s right about everything, thinks he’s God’s gift to Africa, but he’s nothing more than a sad bully. Anyway, it starts out simple for Kurtz. But as time goes on, he starts to assert his dominance more and more. By the time the narrator in the book finds the guy, he’s got a ring of heads on sticks around his house. He’s not only killing people, he’s displaying their heads like trophies.”

  I made a face. “That’s… disgusting. What kind of book is this?”

  “Look, the point is, a man like that, a man who enjoys dominating people, he works his way up to it. So, what kind of hitting are we talking about? How far did he go?”

  I was quiet.

  “If you don’t want to talk about it—”

  “It wasn’t so much the hitting,” I said. “It was what he did to my head, how he made me doubt myself, how me made me feel worthless.”

  “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I get that.”

  We were silent for a bit, and the air coming through the window was too cold. I shivered, and then I rolled up my window.

  “The reason I ask,” said Flint in the voice he’d used on the beach, the intimate, soothing one that made me want to spill all my secrets, “is because I need to know if he takes pleasure in inflicting violence or not. If he’s the one doing this to those girls, then I need to know what gets him going.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Right.”

  “Did he slap you?”

  “He never… cut me like the girls are cut,” I said.

  “No,” said Flint. “But you were his mate. He valued you. These girls… they’re disposable. Playthings to be used for a bit and tossed aside.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “He just used his fists. We dragons, we can heal fast if we shift into dragon form, and it was like… if I did that and erased the damage, then it didn’t matter what he did to me.”

  “He made you bleed then.”

  “Yes,” I said softly.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’m sorry it happened. I’m sorry I made you talk about it.”

  “It’s okay,” I said.

  “We can talk about something else.”

  “No,” I said. “There are things you need to understand about how it all works. The mating bond. When we see each other, it might be…” I bit my lip, trying to think about how to explain this.

  “If you’re trying to tell me that you still have feelings for him, I understand. That’s typical, you know, even without this mating bond you’re talking about.”

  “It’s different,” I said. “It manifests as a strong… physical attraction. Basically, the first time a dragon sees his or her mate, both of them are swept away by a very intense physical reaction. It’s hard not to give in to that. It’s hard to keep from…”

  He waited.

  I chewed on my bottom lip.

  “From what?”

  I winced. “Jumping each other’s bones.” I couldn’t figure out a less crude way to put it.

  He shot a glance across the car, eyebrows raised.

  “I’m wearing a talisman,” I said. “It dampens it, so I should be able to resist any… urges I might have.” I was blushing now. My face felt incredibly hot.

  “That’s very interesting,” he said.

  “It is?”

  “It’s all sexual, then? This epic dragon bond is just instant, overwhelming lust?”

  “That’s not all it is,” I said.

  “What else is it?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  He laughed. “And everyone says sex isn’t the most important thing in a relationship.”

  “Sex is not the most important thing to dragons,” I insisted, and my face was still burning. “It’s not the most important thing to me.”

  “Obviously not. You left.”

  “It was not easy to leave. It was the hardest thing I ever did.”

  “Of course. I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “How did you mean it?”

  “The dragon couples always seem so happy when you see the pictures of them on the news at the charity functions. They’re smiling and they’ve got their arms wound around each other. And in the human world, there’s all this speculation about how it is that dragons maintain such loving, enduring relationships. And it turns out it’s just sex. That’s funny to me.”

  “I don’t think it’s just sex,” I said. “And I didn’t know that there was speculation about dragons.” Why had I never spent any time thinking about how dragons were viewed by other creatures? “Look, I think we should change the subject now.”

  He was still laughing.

  “Or maybe you want t
o discuss your sex life?”

  “Nothing to discuss,” he said. “And were we discussing your sex life? I think we were talking about dragons in general.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’re infuriating.”

  “Sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry. “You sure you want to go through with this? You don’t have to see him.”

  “I can handle it,” I snapped. Never show weakness.

  *

  I met Alastair when I was twenty-eight, which was relatively young for a person to find a mate. Dragons live around three hundred years on average, so it’s not uncommon for dragons to spend fifty or even a hundred years single and searching. Lots of times, our mates live far away, across the ocean in other countries. Seems to be the way nature keeps us from getting too inbred, I suppose.

  It can go the other way, of course. There have been cases in which dragons have known their mates all their lives, have grown up together. In that case, they tend to pair bond from puberty.

  I came of age at sixteen, like all dragons, and I only had twelve years to myself before I became utterly consumed by Alastair.

  I like to think that I was a hopeful sort of girl, that I was becoming someone with a good heart before he came into my life. After all, I helped Felicity. I had a good heart.

  At least, I think I did.

  It’s hard to know anything anymore. Alastair made me question everything about myself. He made me feel guilty all the time. That was how he justified what he did to me. I was asking for it. If I could just stop being such a horrible person, then maybe he would be able to stop hurting me.

  He used to admit that what he did was wrong.

  But, he’d say, I didn’t make it easy for him, what with the way I behaved. I was so selfish and shallow that he could barely control himself.

  And there were things about me that might have been shallow, might have been selfish.

  I lost my parents when I was a small girl, only ten or twelve. They were out flying together, and they were both taken by a slayer.

  At least, that’s what we think.

  They were never found, because slayers don’t leave anything behind. They kill dragons and then sell them off piecemeal.

  I was raised by grandparents after that, and they were grieving themselves and also worried about me, and grandparents on top of everything. Maybe I was spoiled. Maybe I was overly indulged. Maybe I spent my life thinking that I was entitled to anything that I wanted.

  But I never wished any harm on anyone else, and if I thought I was entitled, I also thought everyone else was entitled too. I didn’t want anyone to suffer.

  Maybe I’m protesting too much.

  But I get confused sometimes, I have to admit. There are things that I used to think about myself, and then things that I came to think of myself because of what Alastair drilled into me. Sometimes, I can’t tell the difference. I don’t know what I think of myself.

  When we first met, it was perfect, the way everyone said it would be.

  He was older than me by about ten years, but that wasn’t much of a big deal. He was still young, too. And he was the heir to a fortune. He had been made CEO of a big insurance company, and we were a golden couple. Young and beautiful and rich.

  We had a lavish wedding, a honeymoon in paradise, and a blissful first six months of lovemaking and closeness.

  When I look back now, I see how he was planting the seeds for what would come, but at the time, I was clueless.

  I remember the first night that I cooked for him. I wasn’t really very good at cooking, because I’d always had someone to do it for me, but I wanted to impress him, do something sweet and intimate for my husband, who I adored.

  I made fettuccine Alfredo, and I made the Alfredo sauce from scratch with cream and freshly grated Parmesan.

  At least I tried. It didn’t quite come together. I had the heat too high on the skillet, and the Parmesan separated and the sauce got oily, and Alastair laughed at me and refused to eat it, and said that I was the worst cook he’d ever seen.

  And when I cried, he said he was only teasing and what the hell was wrong with me to get so upset over nothing. He said I was a big baby.

  It hurt, because I wanted to please him, and I hadn’t.

  But I figured he must be right. After all, I had totally ruined the sauce. Although I tasted it and it tasted divine. It looked bad, but it was positively scrumptious. Didn’t matter, though. He had been teasing me. I had been too sensitive. It was all my fault.

  It wasn’t a big deal, honestly. Not being nice about my failed cooking attempt didn’t mean he was an abusive asshole, of course.

  But it was the beginning of the way he berated me and the way he put me down.

  By the time he did hit me, he had already convinced me I deserved it.

  Sometimes, when I looked back on my life with him, when I thought about how far under his thumb I had actually been, I thought it was a miracle that I had ever gotten away from him at all.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Alastair’s house was a beige color. It was three stories and it was up on stilts on the bay, west of Atlantic Avenue, instead of east on the ocean. There was a dock behind the house and a speedboat was attached, floating in the water. It gleamed in the morning sunlight.

  Detective Flint got out of the car and took off his sunglasses. He tucked them inside his suit jacket and surveyed the house.

  I swallowed and put my hand on the car door.

  Flint peered the through windshield at me. “You want to stay here?”

  I flung the door open. “I’m coming with you.”

  He shrugged. “Okay.” Without waiting to see if I was following, he strode over the driveway, up the sidewalk, and began climbing the steps to the front door.

  I hurried after him. The breeze seemed cold now, and it was cutting through the light sweater I was wearing. I huddled inside it, hunching up my shoulders as I went up the steps behind Flint.

  Flint rang the doorbell.

  We waited.

  My heart started to beat so loudly and so fast, I was sure everyone in the whole city could hear it.

  Flint inspected his jacket. He flicked a piece of lint off the sleeve. He looked me over. “You cold?”

  “No,” I said, my voice too high.

  He shrugged again. He pressed the doorbell again. He banged a few times on the door. “SCPD,” he called. “Anyone home?”

  Oh, God. I hadn’t even thought of that. What if he wasn’t home? What if I was getting all nervous here for nothing, and he wouldn’t come to the door after all? Then we’d have to come back, wouldn’t we?

  I didn’t know if I could handle coming back.

  Overhead, a seagull squawked as it flew by us.

  I became aware of the sound of the traffic in the distance. The rushing sound of cars going past, a horn blaring.

  I looked up at the sky above us. It was bright blue, dotted with fluffy clouds that looked like cotton balls.

  I didn’t think I owned any cotton balls. Alastair would probably call that carelessness. He’d say that not having cotton balls was not being prepared. He’d say that there was no way that a spoiled brat like me could possibly take care of herself on her own, and that I was already screwing up my household so much—

  The door opened.

  My heart stopped beating.

  But it was only the housekeeper. She had headphones around her neck. She smiled cheerfully. “I was listening to music. Almost didn’t hear you. Can I help you?”

  Flint showed her his badge. “We’re here to see Alastair Cooper.”

  The housekeeper’s eyes widened. “Wow. Okay. Well, let me see if he’s available, I guess.” She looked behind herself into the house for a second and then turned back to us. “Come in.” She stepped aside.

  We entered a foyer area with a set of steps to the right and bamboo wardrobe to the left. Ahead of us, hanging on the wall, was a large circular mirror, ringed by glass dolphins.

  The housekeeper held up a f
inger. “Wait here.” She disappeared up the steps.

  I still felt cold. I burrowed under my sweater.

  Flint opened the wardrobe. There were several windbreakers hanging inside.

  A fishing pole rested against one side. Next to the fishing pole were a pair of black galoshes. They looked too clean to have ever been worn.

  I shivered. This place didn’t look like Alastair at all. It was too warm and beachy. Alastair liked things cool and clean and sleek, with sharp angles.

  Maybe he’d had the place decorated by someone else? Paid a decorator to do it?

  I couldn’t picture him relinquishing control in that way.

  Footsteps.

  Coming down the steps.

  Suddenly, I wasn’t cold. I was hot. I was sweating and the sweater was cutting off my circulation. I had to get it off. Now.

  I struggled with it, yanking it off of my sleeves, pulling it away from my body.

  And when I looked up, there he was.

  He saw me and he froze on the stairs there. He was wearing a pair of well-worn jeans and a linen shirt. His feet were bare. He looked the way he always had. Too beautiful for words.

  My heart stopped.

  My mouth got dry.

  My nipples pebbled against my bra and heat started to gather between my thighs.

  He was tall with wide shoulders and a little bit of dark hair scattered over his upper chest. It peeked out where his shirt was unbuttoned. He had some dark stubble on his chin and cheeks. It made him look tousled and male and gorgeous. His eyes were green and open and twinkling.

  I thought about the way he kissed.

  I thought about the way he fucked.

  I thought about riding him, his hands on my breasts, his thick cock spearing me as I bucked against him and cried out and came and came and came and—

  “Mr. Cooper, my name is Detective Lachlan Flint. I’d like to ask you some questions.”

  “Penny?” Alastair’s voice was hoarse.

  “Mr. Cooper,” said Flint.

  Alastair started toward me.

  I held up both hands to ward him off. “Don’t,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. There was the sex, sure, but there were other memories too. Him standing over me, my blood smearing his fists, sneering, Don’t get up. If you get up, it means you want more. Do you want more, Penny?