Vampire Dragon

by Annette Blair

  He embraced her from behind, pulled her firm against him, her back to his front, his hands poised oh so carefully, almost beneath her breasts. “Away from you I will wither and die,” he whispered, warming her ear with his hot breath, her dear dragon, “and I do not just mean that my physical need will wither. The rest of me will, too. My heart especially. And my soul.”

  “At the moment,” she said, her voice cracking, “I rather doubt your ability to wither.” Bronte half sobbed, half laughed. “There’s another problem, and this is the worst of it: Darkwyn, I can never really love you.”

  “I do not ask you to. I do not know the meaning of love. We are alike, you and I, bruised hearts encased in stone. Love? What is that? How can you miss what you never had? I accept the lack. You should, too.”

  “No, I’m dangerous. Seriously. Everyone I love dies. Dad. Mom. My sister, Brianna, even Gina, who was like a grandmother to me when I was little.”

  Darkwyn cupped her face. “You still have Zachary.”

  “And sometimes I’m afraid to love him, too, but I do love that boy, and, Darkwyn, Zachary comes first always, before you I mean, even if you and I marry. Do you understand?”

  He tilted his head, even his mouth tilted, his eyes bright and all for her. Eating her up with his gaze, she would say, and liking it, the dolt. She huffed. “Why are you still standing there? Most men would have run by now.”

  “I understand you better than you think. I see no problem. And there is the leaping, which is very fine, indeed. Can we get married now?”

  “Dumb damned dragon!” She stepped into his arms, and he brought her high so he could bury his face between her breasts. She wrapped her legs around his waist to hold on and revel in the touch of his tongue against the tender skin of her breasts. “My best feature, my breasts,” she said. “I call them Sugar and Spice, because they’re everything nice.”

  “Mmm.” He came away with glazed eyes. “You are everything nice. You are your best feature. Wedding now, please?” His eyes opened wide. “And Bastian has been telling me about something called a honeymoon. I cannot wait.”

  “You looked that word up, didn’t you?” Did he ever look like an old-world rake right now. If she were a Regency virgin, she’d swoon at the sight.

  He slid her down his body until their lips were inches apart, and he kissed her with ravenous hunger, almost as hungry as she was for him. His gentling of her, so tender and sweet, made her forget why they weren’t outside getting married already.

  He set her down. “May I have the honor of escorting you to the high priestess who will perform our wedding ceremony?”

  “I don’t want to put your life at risk, and I don’t need you, I don’t.” She fisted her hands against his chest.

  “Yes, you do, and what’s more, you want me. You need me and you want me. I am grateful.”

  “More importantly, Zachary needs you. I am marrying you for Zachary’s safety, and for no other reason. Just remember that.”

  “Whatever you choose to believe, and choose to deny, especially to yourself, is fine with me, as long as your answer is yes.” His kiss calmed all her doubts, disappeared them in a magick more powerful than she’d known, more powerful than Jagidy and flying cats, until only they existed, and they must be together . . . for Zachary.

  She toyed with a button on his vest. “In a physical way, I guess I do want you,” she admitted, “but, Goddess help me, I shouldn’t be so weak.”

  “Are you finished fighting with yourself now, my Bronte?”

  “You should know that I can be weak and stubborn.”

  “I think I knew that.” He offered her his arm. “Wedding anyone?”

  “Don’t say you haven’t been warned.”

  “I never will.”

  They stepped outside, arm in arm, and the carousel music began. “Smile, Smile, Smile,” came the Wurlitzer organ recording. “Pack up your troubles . . . and smile . . .”

  If only she were certain this wedding wouldn’t make all their troubles that much worse.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Bronte screamed when they got outside, and Darkwyn went on alert, until his bride threw herself into the arms of the woman waiting to marry them.

  “Vickie, you’re our high priestess?”

  “Surprise!” Vickie said, embracing his bride a second time.

  “Darkwyn.” Bronte took his hand. “Vickie is one of my dearest friends. This is her husband, Rory MacKenzie. He carved our mythical carousel figures.”

  Darkwyn shook hands with the husband of the high priestess, not pretending to understand the rules of this place, this Salem, where he landed, just happy to have Bronte in it.

  “My sisters,” Vickie said, “insist on giving you a wedding reception at Paxton Castle on a date to be determined, with Melody, Kira, Vivica, all their families, and Darkwyn’s.”

  Bronte bit her lip, her eyes bright.

  Lots of emotion at a wedding, Darkwyn thought.

  “How kind,” Bronte said, her voice wobbly.

  Vickie arranged him and his bride to stand side by side facing the water while lightning played over the cove—a reminder of Killian’s power, of her hold on him—maybe on Bronte, too, with them married.

  As Vickie prepared to begin the wedding ceremony, Darkwyn held up a hand. “A minute,” he said, pulling Bronte from the center of their guests and toward the carousel. “Killian, my enemy, I just realized, will likely become yours, now, too, if we marry. You have to know that before we take another step.”

  Bronte cupped his cheek. “An even playing field, both of us with dangerous baggage. I suppose we could join forces and fight our enemies side by side.”

  “As it is meant to be,” Darkwyn said.

  “Destiny,” she agreed. “I have never been surer.”

  They returned to stand before Victoria Cartwright MacKenzie, high priestess.

  Enhanced winds brought a swirl of autumn leaves that appeared to bless them with a wash of color like confetti.

  Scorch sat in a tree not too far distant and hissed when Darkwyn glanced her way.

  Lila, on the other hand, stood between them wearing a collar of glistening flowers. And why they glistened, Darkwyn had no idea. Unless . . . Andra, Sorceress of Hope, chose to inhabit the lilac point for her stay on earth, as Andra had come as the faery Dewcup to Bastian. It followed that she could have chosen a cat because Killian did. He might never know for certain, but, in this case, Lila’s, or Andra’s, location and stance at this crucial time could be a matter of seeing them through the ceremony and protecting them from Killian’s tricks.

  Almost on cue, as if the kitten read his thoughts—which Andra could—she meowed and licked a paw. Well, if his white magick sorceress guardian was using that cat as a guise, she was not giving herself away.

  Victoria straightened, her full-length gold robe reminding him of Roman royalty. In his honor, Darkwyn imagined, she wore ancient gold dragon jewelry, and in Bronte’s, she donned a gold mask before opening her book. “Let us begin.”

  Puck, on a branch well above Scorch, fluffed his feathers. “Marriage,” the bird squawked. “The state or condition of a community consisting of a master, a mistress, and two slaves, making in all, two.”

  Vickie raised her head toward the bird, and blinked. After that, Puck’s beak worked but no sound emerged.

  “Darkwyn,” the high priestess said, “please raise Bronte’s veil.”

  Darkwyn did, wishing he could remove her mask as well, but he pushed negativity aside. If a mask added to her comfort and security, so be it. “Wait,” he said, requesting his gold mask from Zachary and putting it on. “A mask for the Master Vampire to show his bride that he accepts her in every way.”

  Bronte grabbed his hand and squeezed.

  What did she really mean by the “mob,” the “mafia,” and so forth? he wondered, planning to look on the computer, later. After the honeymoon.

  At Vivica’s suggestion, he wore his tux, without the cape, while his br
ide looked gorgeous, as always, and lovable and kissable and—

  Later. He would think about that later.

  He took Zachary’s hand and brought the boy to stand beside them. “You belong here. We’re family now.”

  Zachary’s nod revealed a vulnerability Darkwyn had never seen, as if a true twelve-year-old peeked through. After the ceremony, he would talk to the boy and clarify his plan to make life better for all of them.

  Colored lights behind them, and lightning claws before them, almost dancing above Cat Cove, made the ceremony memorable and blessed, despite the threat, which Killian the evil sorceress must despise.

  As Vickie spoke about the depth of their commitment, a short-lived spray of rain brought the moon from behind the clouds to reveal an evening rainbow, brighter with lightning—odd that—while the mist glistened like stars and dissipated so fast, they stayed dry. Magick, no doubt—enough magick to make a grown dragon shiver in his man shoes. Enchantment all around, from Andra or Lila, or even Bronte, or Victoria the high priestess.

  The lightning danced closer, until Lila the kitten stood on two feet, turned in a circle between them, and the bright threat dropped back, far into the distance.

  Scorch hissed and circled their legs, but Lila hissed, too, showed her claws, and Scorch howled and ran.

  Darkwyn turned his attention to the ceremony.

  Every interruption, whether white magick or black, or somewhere in between, made him fear this wedding would never take place.

  Worry not, my Darkwyn, came a telepathic comment. Andra!

  You will have your heart mate. It lies only with you as to how long you can keep her.

  THIRTY

  How long he could keep her. The words echoed in Darkwyn’s head and put an ache in his heart as, with a trembling hand, he slipped a ring swirled with diamonds on Bronte’s finger.

  A ring bought with part of the proceeds from the raw diamond he’d brought from the Island of Stars. For the necessities, according to Vivica. He would have picked a plainer ring but he appreciated her purchase on his behalf. “The ring is nearly as beautiful as its wearer,” he whispered, knuckling Bronte’s cheek.

  What mattered was their marriage, not their possessions. He did not want to become a human collector of objects. He would rather collect people. Friends. Family. Like his brothers and their heart mates, and most important, Bronte and Zachary. Perhaps even children of their own . . . if he could manage to keep her.

  He would move heaven and earth, do everything and anything in his power to keep her, he vowed.

  No longer trembling, but comforted by the prospect of their future together, he looked into Bronte’s violet eyes before he spoke the words that would unite them, husband and wife for eternity. He meant each from the bottom of his heart. But Bronte’s eyes overflowed.

  “This cannot be good. Do not cry,” Darkwyn whispered, bending to kiss his bride’s tears away.

  “I’m crying from happiness,” she responded, a chuckle rattling through her raspy words.

  He kissed her ear. “Is that not human contrariness? ‘Crying from happiness?’ ”

  “Yes,” she said, letting him dab at her tears with a tissue from Vivica.

  “Still, give me the honor of claiming your happy tears,” he said. “There. All dry. Now, say the words that will make you mine.”

  She spoke them, and beautifully, her eyes bright with joy. He said nothing because his throat seemed clogged with her tears. How odd.

  “By the power vested in me by the State of Massachusetts and the Life Wisdom Circle of Salem, Massachusetts, and Caperglen, Scotland, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

  Guests and fairgrounds workers applauded, and the Bite Me chef produced a wedding cake, as people surrounded them with congratulations. They accepted thanks, shook hands, hugged, and Darkwyn made new friends.

  “I never imagined you could make it so special, Vivica,” Bronte said, “and to have Vickie officiate when I didn’t know she was home from Scotland. Well, it was perfect.”

  “And so will your Paxton Castle reception be as soon as you’re ready,” Vickie said. “Harmony, Destiny, and Storm forced my promise to make you agree.”

  Bronte slipped her hand in his, Darkwyn noticed. “We agree,” she said. “Don’t we, Darkwyn?”

  Bastian laughed. “She’s already speaking for you, brother.” His McKenna, smiling, too, shoved his arm.

  “We agree with thanks,” Darkwyn said, planning to look up the meaning of “reception.”

  Zachary whispered something in Bronte’s ear, and she nodded. “Absolutely.” She removed her hand from Darkwyn’s as easily as she’d placed it there. “This is a celebration after all. I’d love to see the two of you go up together.”

  Zachary slipped his hands in his pockets and toed the dirt like a real kid. “Darkwyn, do you want to come for a ride on the coffin wheel with me? I always personally escort VIPs.”

  “Is that another word for vampire?”

  Zachary chuckled. “It means: very important people.”

  Ah, a gesture of welcome and acceptance from Zachary without the proud boy having to speak the words. “I’d be honored to ride your invention with you.”

  They got on the coffin wheel with Zachary explaining that he’d turned twenty eco-caskets into seats for up to four people each, to conform to amusement ride codes. “Real caskets would have been too heavy and we couldn’t have fit them properly with crash bars.”

  “I see.” Darkwyn did not miss a word, because he had the sense that the boy had something of great import to impart and not only about this modified amusement ride.

  “When Bronte called you back to the house right before the service, I figure she told you about Sanguedolce and the mob, right? I knew she couldn’t bring you into the circle of fear—by that I mean, we have targets on our backs— without giving you a chance to run. She’s worried about you. She warned you away, didn’t she?”

  “She did. For my own safety, she wanted to let me go.”

  “She wasn’t kidding. They’re killers, you know.”

  “Why are they after you? You and Bronte are family, are you not?”

  Zachary chuckled. “Everybody is family to the mob except, maybe, relatives. I became one of them, twice, both times as a child.”

  Darkwyn tilted his head, and Zachary held up a staying hand, so Darkwyn held the many questions tumbling around in his head.

  “My father,” Zachary said, “worked for them, so I got the job by default when I became a man—”

  “But you are only a—”

  “Ever heard of reincarnation?”

  Zachary was born an old soul.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Zachary watched him closely, Darkwyn noted, so he tried not to show his reactions.

  “Do you understand the concept of reincarnation?” the boy repeated.

  “Yes. I find it fascinating.” Shocking but fascinating. “Tell me more.” Darkwyn waited, glad for a chance to listen and fit the pieces together.

  “I had a hard time stomaching my position working for the mob. I knew about every kill, and I don’t mean for food.”

  “What job did you do?”

  “Little bit of everything. I became the record-keeper, like my father before me, but soon they caught on to my inventive talents and I fabricated, well, torture devices, for lack of a better word, and for me, things got worse. Sanguedolce is ruthless. He’s got an insatiable taste for blood, and not to drink like vamps. He needs to spill it to get high. I started taking pictures of my inventions, and when I could, I took pictures of the bodies, to keep with my personal set of records, and I hid them away.”

  “Sounds like a dangerous game you were playing.”

  “When I got approached by the RCMP—those are the good guys, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police—I agreed to spy on the family.”

  “That must have put you in grave danger.” Darkwyn wondered how Bronte and this twelve-year-old boy fit into a story being told as if by an
adult, and someone other than the boy before him, but he could wait.

  “One night everything came to a head,” Zachary said. “The family, also known as the mob—the killers to be precise—were on to me. That was the night I had planned to turn everything over to the RCMP. Bronte’s sister, Brianna, had walked in on me pulling the evidence from the attic rafters. She was nine months pregnant with, well, me—the twelve-year-old you’re looking at.”

  Darkwyn sat forward, feeling a frightening tension radiate through him. “What happened?”

  “They didn’t care that Brianna, soon to be my mother, was in the room. I was a traitor, they said, and though they never saw the evidence, which I’d slipped back into the rafters, they slaughtered me right there. Brianna witnessed my death and was so traumatized, she went into labor.

  “I died a slow death, but I passed a split second before Bronte delivered Brianna’s baby. One minute I was looking down at my dead body, the next, I was in Brianna’s weak arms, being told how much she loved me. People who study reincarnation call the process from which a soul leaves one earth suit to enter another ‘ensoulment.’ Before long, Bronte took me from Brianna and held me while she cradled us both, and watched her sister die.”

  Darkwyn swallowed hard. Here was a boy talking about witnessing his mother’s death at his birth.

  Darkwyn had never known Brianna, but he hurt for what Bronte—his wife—must have gone through at losing her sister. “How and when did you and Bronte get away from them?”

  “Oh, not for years. Bronte raised me as her own, but before long, she figured out that I knew things a kid shouldn’t. She told me to keep quiet, but toddlers ramble. After I wised up to the reactions I was getting from Sanguedolce and his men, I shut up. Most people don’t keep the memories of the people they once were, but I did, big-time. I built this coffin wheel with his knowledge, not my own.”

  Darkwyn squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “How does it work? Do you have two people in your head?”