Vampire Dragon

by Annette Blair

  Darkwyn turned to the apartment door opposite Bronte’s, and for the first time, he stepped into the “home” she assigned him. The minute he did, he found himself whisked into some kind of rope trap, trussed up to hang by his wrists and ankles in his own doorway.

  Zachary appeared in his living room and laughed like a boy should. Darkwyn almost didn’t mind being made the fool to hear it.

  Bronte appeared in her doorway, crossed her arms, and tapped a foot at the two of them.

  “Head rush, here,” Darkwyn said. He could be down in a blink on his own, but he liked Bronte’s attention.

  “Cut him down,” Bronte said, shutting herself back in her apartment.

  Zachary came at him with a knife.

  Darkwyn sighed. “You mean for me to land on my head, don’t you?”

  “Anybody ever say you’re a brilliant man?” Zachary asked. “I didn’t think so.”

  “I’m paying a high price to make you laugh,” Darkwyn admitted.

  The boy cut the rope, and Darkwyn hit the floor with a manly thud.

  “That’s for last night,” Zachary snapped, then he, too, went into Bronte’s apartment and shut him out.

  Darkwyn flexed his hands and ankles to get feeling back in them. Hardly any pain, hardly a blink from his inner dragon. He looked around. His apartment mirrored Bronte’s in almost every way, black and white, except that he had zebra stripes, an animal he’d read about. She’d thrown in some color with royal blue pillows.

  Pleasant, if tepid, after the color on the Island of Stars. Now he understood why Bastian and McKenna’s Dragon’s Lair bed-and-breakfast seemed so appealing. Bastian had recreated Island color in his wall murals.

  Darkwyn stepped to his balcony to gauge its proximity to Bronte’s. Perfect. Only two windows separated them. He’d retained his dragon leap, though he hadn’t used it the night he arrived so as not to frighten Bronte.

  Having Bastian and Jaydun come to earth before him kept him from committing the same mistakes they did. So far, he’d committed an entirely new set.

  He’d tested his leap on the second day, getting to and from Bastian’s roof with his brothers. Test two, coming up, or down.

  Yes, he could still leap, but farther than expected. He overshot Bronte’s balcony and hit the ground beyond it. Scumduggers.

  She rushed out to her balcony, still fastening her mask. “Anybody there?” she called, the room’s light showing through her nightgown. He fisted his hands at her clear silhouette, surprised at his soul-deep yearning.

  He wanted Bronte for more than sex, which had been incredible, and would be again. But he also wanted Bronte to walk beside, to sit beside in daily life, to kiss after breakfast and before work, to turn to in sleep, to hold and cherish.

  He watched her go inside, understood why she enjoyed the vampire movies, the underlying love stories, and wondered if he was good enough for her.

  As her light went out, he leapt to her balcony.

  She screamed and he switched on the light.

  A beauty sitting in bed, scrambling to fasten her mask, angry enough to beat him senseless.

  Zachary barged in and came right to the French doors where Darkwyn waited for an invite. “Dragonelli, again. You gonna make a habit of breaking into Bronte’s room?”

  “I was invited the first time.”

  Bronte slapped the covers. “Thanks, but I wouldn’t exactly call it an invite.”

  “Maybe not with words.”

  “Whatever,” she said, the fighting light in her eyes making him edgy on several levels. “Did you scale the building this time, too?”

  “I didn’t need to. I’ve retained my dragon leap, which I did not use the first night, so as not to frighten you.”

  “Zachary,” Bronte said, “take Mr. Dragonelli to his apartment, without tricks, if you please. There will be no more leaping between us.”

  “Sad,” Darkwyn said. “I could leap my heart out with you.”

  Bronte’s eyes got all big and needy, but she still let him go.

  Back in his apartment, he figured if he couldn’t have Bronte, for now, he would indulge in another earth vice, a bubble bath, the secret enjoyment of which he would take to his grave. Not even the bird knew how much he loved bubble baths.

  A short while later, settled in his bath, Darkwyn wished more than anything that Bronte could join him. He missed her. Not a week’s acquaintance, and his every heartbeat sought hers. Being heart mates must yield its own high-powered magick. Look at Bastian and McKenna, deep in love, and Jaydun and Vivica, deep in denial, but still.

  Darkwyn fell near to sleep in the bath, until he heard a scurrying in the wall. He remembered few things of earth, but rodents were one of them. Roman armies slept in mud and dirt and if they were lucky, hay, with rodents.

  As he put more hot water in his tub, the scurrying became a scrape, a groan, making him hope this rodent stood as tall as him.

  Then it happened. His shelves of towels and bath supplies moved. At first, he wasn’t sure he’d seen it, until they moved another inch more.

  “Hello?” He hoped his invader would answer.

  A hand slid through the opening and waved with a five-finger wiggle and purple fingernails. “Are you decent?”

  “Bronte, are you breaking into my apartment after you threw me out of yours?”

  “Yes, please. I’m rather fond of leaping . . . with you. Are you decent?”

  “Decent enough to leap.”

  She squeezed into his bathroom from behind his shelves, certainly hiding a connecting door. He covered himself in suds and tried not to gasp, the way she stood there, uncertain, in a pink mask and floaty pink night wisp, through which he glimpsed her beauty, except, of course, her face.

  “I will never tell another living soul that I am a former Roman warrior and dragon, if you promise, my leaping playmate, to keep my weakness for bubble baths a secret.”

  “Who are you really, Darkwyn Dragonelli?” she asked, standing there, tantalizing him.

  “Outwardly, I’m an alpha male, no matter my current species, wearing unseen scales and spikes like armor. Inside, I’m a dragon who naps in flower beds, likes bubble baths, and is looking for a lady dragon of my own. Deep down, despite the centuries, I’m a man, still, looking for a woman . . . to have sex with.”

  “In flower beds?”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Let’s do. Soon.” She dropped the pink gown and stepped into the tub with him, a delightful surprise, though he’d be twice as excited if she’d removed her mask.

  He made room, reached for her, and pulled her against him, so she could use his chest as a pillow. “Now, you will feel some festive gymnastics in the region of your lower back,” he warned. “Ignore it. It has good memories of last night and wants more.”

  “Your man brain has a memory?”

  “I fear so. Tell me why you were so upset about the truth of my past, tonight.”

  “The truth? It’s science fiction.”

  “Define—?”

  “Hold that question, because I’m freaked. Darkwyn?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know we talked about dragons, so maybe it’s the power of suggestion or I’m hallucinating, but I think I see a little green dragon, his knees on my midriff and his face between my breasts, one little hand plumping the right one like a pillow.”

  “Jagidy!” Darkwyn snapped, moving Bronte forward as he sat up, sliding Jagidy down her belly and into the water.

  The guardian dragon came up sputtering rainbow smoke, coughing, and spitting water at them, then he hung in the air, furious and insulted, arms crossed.

  “Jagidy, you do not invade a lady’s bath.”

  “No, you don’t,” Bronte said, “you let the lady invade yours, where . . . she imagines sex-starved mini dragons?”

  “Bronte, let me introduce you to Jagidy, my guardian dragon, also from the Island of Stars. Jagidy, this is Bronte, never again to be touched by you.”

 
Jagidy’s jaw dropped and he whistled as he shot from the bathroom into Darkwyn’s apartment, emitting a cloudy gray blue smoke.

  Darkwyn reached, from the comfort of the water, to slam the bathroom door beside the tub, and bar the pocket dragon’s reentry. “Don’t mind him. He’s having a tantrum.”

  Bronte turned in his arms. “You are from another world?”

  “Another plane, sweet. But a man, again.”

  “Oh, that I can tell. Do your sex parts never sleep?”

  “Not when you’re around.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Bronte turned in his arms so she could read his expression . “Darkwyn, if you really do have the power of a dragon, what did you mean by promising to make my goal of freedom your own?” Her heart raced awaiting his response.

  He settled her in his embrace so she could see his every expression.

  Meanwhile, his growing sex managed to slide between her legs and settle there. She liked it, all of it, including his dragon boner, an organ already proven for hours of . . . otherworldly? . . . pleasure. Which made a certain sense. She didn’t think a man could normally come as often as Darkwyn had.

  “Let me explain why you can trust me,” Darkwyn said. “One of my goals here on earth is to make your life quest my own. The other is to best an evil sorceress named Killian, Crone of Chaos. She’s the one who turned the Roman legion I belonged to into dragons. Following me so far?”

  “More or less. Suspending disbelief is the problem.”

  “What, guardian dragons are normal for you? Here,” he said, presenting his left hand, palm up. “What do you think of this?”

  Bronte traced a tattoo that looked like two Rs back to back with a line between. “It looks like the symbol of a fraternal organization.”

  “It does. It means I belonged to the Roman army. Killian, who uses lightning like confetti, turned us into dragons because we were trying to break her hold over a poor Scottish village.”

  “When did you get this tattoo?”

  “Centuries ago. This on my hand, and this phoenix rising from the ashes on my chest survived both transformations—from man to dragon, and back again.”

  “The palm tattoo is unusual, but it doesn’t prove anything.”

  “You suspend disbelief about me, and I will suspend it where Zachary is concerned.”

  She let her relief, despite his keen observation, calm her. “Deal.”

  “I am a Roman turned into a dragon, and now I am a man, again. Not a myth. I am here to stay, I think you should know. Both my tasks will help me reclaim the magick Andra expended sending me here.”

  “Makes a magick sort of sense,” Bronte said. “But who is Andra?”

  “The Sorceress of Hope. She kept us safe and took care of us after Killian banished us to the Island of Stars.”

  “Why did Andra send you here?”

  “The veil between the planes in Salem has been made thin by human magick, I have been told. It is easiest to come through the veil here. Coming was necessary because Killian made the volcano on the island erupt. The heat from it evaporated our endless deep blue sea. Lava replaced water, and now the island shrinks in a sea of boiling lava. Andra is getting us off the island, one by one, to save us.”

  “Why one by one?”

  “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “If I’m going to trust you, I need answers.”

  “Trust does not come easy to you.”

  “I trust only Zachary. For good reason.”

  “Killian makes it difficult for Andra to move us back to earth. But Andra found that when one moon covers another—you call that an eclipse—Andra’s white magick is shaded from Killian’s black.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Yes and no. ‘Shaded’ does not mean hidden. Killian caught Andra’s first spell, when she sent Bastian back. Killian tossed out a dark counterspell at a point where she was able to cause our ‘man lances’ to resemble our tails. Earth doctors have assured me and my brothers that this is an anomaly that belongs to us alone and will not affect our offspring.” Darkwyn paled. “Not that offspring is the point.”

  “Of course.” In another life, a safe life, she could have cared for this man.

  “Why doesn’t Andra change her spell, so you don’t suffer that blip? Though being the recipient of its attention, I wouldn’t want it any other way. Forget I suggested it.”

  Darkwyn rumbled deep in his chest, almost a chuckle, though no smile marred the perfection of his focused expression.

  “Andra dared not change the words for fear the spell would no longer work. It turns us back into men and gets us here, so every word stays the same, and every one of us will be, ah—”

  “Gifted?”

  “Why thank you. Yes, endowed, in that way. Now, where were we? Your questions distracted me, and your love of my, er, spell blip, turned my thoughts to, well, leaping.”

  “You were explaining why I can trust you, something to do with Andra’s magick.”

  “Ah.” He took to lathering her breasts, indicating that his turned thoughts remained, while his dancing dragon tail prodded her hip with sexual intent.

  He had to work harder now to focus on his story, and she, to ignore his tricky dick.

  “I remember where I was,” he said, not quite coming out of his sexual haze. “If I don’t get Andra’s magick back by helping you overcome your problems—”

  “Why me?”

  “Karma? Fate? Destiny? For Bastian, it was McKenna. For Jaydun, it is Vivica. For me, it is you. Why question the mandates of the universe? You need help, do you not?”

  “I need help like you wouldn’t believe, and not just for me.”

  “For Zachary, as well, I expect.”

  With a nod, Bronte swallowed her fear and refused to give in to the sob stuck in her throat.

  Darkwyn took her by her chin and raised her face to his for a kiss, deep and hungry, but sincere, his soul stripped, his vulnerability bared, even to her disdain, or worse, if she wished. “Bronte, you can trust me, because if Andra doesn’t get her magick back, she won’t be able to send the rest of our legion to earth the way she sent me, Bastian, and Jaydun. Now you see why I am to be trusted? I have the welfare of my brother dragons at heart. If I fail you, they will die.”

  “Your brothers would drown in hot lava, if you failed me?” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “I don’t want them to die, Darkwyn. My sense that you were someone I could get involved with that first day at the bar; it frightened me. Made me doubt my instincts. Life has been too dangerous for trust. I haven’t allowed myself to believe in anyone. I ran because I thought you were someone I selfishly wanted, for myself. And I must put Zachary first.”

  “What is at risk for Zachary?”

  “They’ll kill him, if we’re found.”

  “They, who?”

  “Bronte?” Zachary called. “Are you here?”

  “I’m in the bathroom. What is it?”

  “News trucks from as far away as Boston and Providence are lining up outside.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Darkwyn held Bronte tighter, saying without words he was there for her.

  “Bronte,” Zachary said. “This is serious. We have two hours until dawn to figure out what to tell them about dragon boy.”

  Zachary probably stood in Bronte’s bathroom, given the timbre of his voice.

  “Don’t come in here,” she warned.

  “I’m twelve. I’m not stupid.”

  Darkwyn kissed Bronte’s temple. “The news crews are here because I talked about myself? That is not good for staying hidden, is it?”

  “Zachary’s in more danger than I am.”

  “I’ll never forgive myself,” Darkwyn muttered. “Zachary, we will meet you in the living room in a few minutes.”

  Bronte rose from the tub, allowing him to admire the butterfly at the base of her spine, a reminder of freedom, her goal.

  “Zachary,” Bronte called. “Don’t go outside or crack a bli
nd.”

  “Sure. And Auntie dearest?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your bathroom door was open. I can see that it’s empty.”

  “Because you’re standing in it. I’m wise to you.”

  “Whatever.” The sound of the boy’s voice receded on the word.

  “He caught us together, again,” Darkwyn said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Who broke into whose place?”

  “But he is only a boy.”

  “He’s an old soul, is my Zachary.”

  Darkwyn sat forward. “What do you mean by that, exactly?”

  She wrapped a towel around herself. “I think Zachary should be the one to tell you.”

  “I looked up the ‘barn door’ thing,” Darkwyn said, following her from the tub, unembarrassed by his obvious physical interest. “I can tell you right now that it is entirely too late for you to shut that door.” He stroked her from her nose to her chin, along her swanlike neck, between her breasts, to the towel, which he grasped, yanked, and let fall. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

  A cat mewed, and they looked up to see Scorch curled atop the towel cupboard.

  “When did she get here?” Bronte asked.

  “I’m afraid she might have been here the whole time.” Very afraid. Killian should not know the details of their relationship or trust. She would use it against them. Then again, he might be wrong about Killian using the cat as a host. Right now, he could not see the cat’s wings. They must tuck back when the cat’s at rest.

  He reached up to scratch the kitten behind its ears as Bronte returned to her own bathroom.

  Scorch hissed and clawed his hand.

  He healed it with the other, then saluted. “Killian.”

  A few minutes later, he and Bronte met Zachary in the kitchen. The boy had cooked ham and eggs and French toast. “I thought we needed nourishment. It’s going to be a long day.” He gave Darkwyn a look. “Also, you two need to keep up your strength.”

  The double meaning hit Darkwyn as if Zachary were holding a gun. “Are you sure you’re only twelve?”