Vampire Dragon

by Annette Blair

“You undressed her,” Zachary said, seeing Bronte wrapped in the blanket he’d fetched, Darkwyn’s hand beneath the blanket, still on her heart.

  “I removed my wife’s wet clothes to keep her from catching a chill. Yes.”

  “Right. Your wife.” Zachary shoved a hand through his hair, and then his fist through the fire screen.

  Darkwyn understood. “Give me your hand. One minute only.”

  Zachary did, and Darkwyn covered it, until the bleeding stopped and the cut disappeared.

  “Thank you. I’m in control, again. I see that your pain is crippling, I know, because it’s Bronte’s pain, yes? Sorry I doubted you. I understand now that you’re putting your life force into healing her. Thank you.”

  “Zachary, you’re as psychic as Bronte is.”

  “A curse I inherited from my mother, her sister.”

  “Not always a curse,” Darkwyn said. “Thank you for understanding.”

  Zachary shrugged. “Now that we have electricity and heat, I’m going to find a hot shower and then a bed. I promise, though, it’ll be within roaring distance. Oh, and there’s quite a storm whipping up outside. Looks like there are even a couple of twisters brewing. Just thought you should know. Night.”

  The brewing storm had a name: Killian.

  Everyone else eventually slept, or appeared to, Jagidy tucked against Bronte’s left side, adding his elder healing power to his, while Darkwyn healed his hand to heal Bronte better, and he stayed awake thinking of ways to deal with the people who did this to his wife. Her people, more or less.

  When he finished with Sanguedolce, Zachary and Bronte would never have to run again.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Bronte’s sweaty back hurt something fierce, as if she’d awakened on a marble slab inside an oven. She threw off her blanket and turned on her side to let a wash of cool air bathe her.

  Despite the need, it hurt to move, the mattress didn’t give, and Jagidy’s squeal became amplified by his panic as he struggled for release. She rolled back to free him from beneath her left breast, both of them sticky with blood.

  Now her eyes were open.

  Leaving a trail of purple smoke behind, Jagidy gained his freedom, his escape bringing Bronte a jumble of unwanted fears and a jarring sense of shock. She sat up, memories coming to her in hazy bits—pain, anger, darkness, doubt, loss, and . . . defying death.

  No, she had not defied death, not entirely. For one equalizing moment of respite, she had wanted death, welcomed it. But Darkwyn, her savior and lover, would not let her go.

  Beside her now, his arms an anchor, his hands on her bloody breast, he did not sleep. He kept watch. The relief in his violet eyes eased her panic, almost made her feel foolish for her instant fear. How long had they been here? How long ago had she died?

  When did she come back to life?

  She no longer needed to fear the worst. It had happened. One of Sanguedolce’s finest had killed her. What would happen if she let her stepfather think that was true?

  “I died,” she said, “but I’m here.”

  Darkwyn released a shuddering breath. “Well, Vampiress. Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to work?”

  His joke did not lessen the tension in his arms and neck. She stroked each taut rope of muscle, hoping to soothe him, but he wouldn’t be comforted. She’d try another tack. “We’re naked. Darkwyn Dragonelli, did you have our honeymoon without me?”

  He pulled her gently toward him and buried his face against her, his silence speaking volumes, louder than any avowal she could crave. She kissed his dark wavy hair and finger combed it away from his temple, over and over again, giving him time to let go of his fear while she tried to come to terms with this business of rebirth.

  “How do you feel?” he asked without lifting his head, his hand absently tracing a trail across what appeared to be an angry scar.

  Ah, yes, she remembered now. Raven Shadow with a knife. But where, if anywhere, did Sanguedolce connect to Raven Shadow’s actions?

  Darkwyn had asked how she felt. Like she’d won over darkness, yet the light was not as bright as it should be. “I feel like . . . Persephone, ready to leave the underworld—the mob—as it applies to the fears I’ve been harboring for years and running from forever.”

  “Do you compare yourself to the Queen of the Underworld? Even dragons know that tale.”

  “I was a happy kid,” Bronte said. “Brianna and I both were, and then our mother married Sanguedolce. He’s the King of the Underworld who pulled us down to Hades with him. How about you, Darkwyn? Were you sent by Zeus to help me?”

  “No.” He wiped her sweaty brow and neck with the corner of a blanket. “I was sent by Andra, Goddess of Hope. Though making your goal my own is part of my mandate.”

  “Close enough. My mother’s marriage kept us in the underworld, where we collected our own personal demons and lived the dark side of life.”

  “Life is not a fairy tale, Bronte.”

  “I’m talking about hell on earth, Darkwyn. I know it’s not a fairy tale. I’ve simply seen the parallels in the myth—lived them—and I’m thinking about using the myth as a road map.”

  “How so?”

  “I have to stop running and ignoring my mistakes, like running in the first place. I need to rescue Zachary and myself. I can’t let you rescue me. I have to stop being a victim and take a stand.”

  “I ran tonight, and I took you with me,” he said. “We’re on Mount Washington in the state of New Hampshire, home to the world’s worst weather, according to Zachary.”

  “Fancy that. A New Hampshire honeymoon.”

  “Let me help you take a stand against Sanguedolce,” Darkwyn begged. “In doing that, you would help me save my brother dragons.”

  “In that case, yes. As long as I am helping you.”

  “I may be a magick dragon, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be rescued by a damsel, no longer in distress, thank the stars.”

  “Now who’s treating this like a fairy tale?” she asked, tracing his lips and getting her fingertips kissed.

  “This wound”—he indicated the angry scar—“is not child’s play. It is madness, ordered by the madman Sanguedolce, and unacceptable everywhere but in the underworld.”

  “Granted,” she said. “Absolutely. We have to take a stand. We strike, but how?”

  He shivered and pulled her blanket up to her neck. “As I see it, we have several steps to take, but first, you have to recover a bit more.”

  “And,” she said, allowing her hand to wander toward that sleepy but amazing part of him, “we have a honeymoon to enjoy.”

  “Not until you’re well.”

  “I died last night.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Thank you for bringing me back.”

  “My greatest moment; my greatest honor.”

  “I think we should celebrate life. My recovery is progressing by leaps and bounds. What I prescribe for the bride of Darkwyn,” she said, “is a gentle honeymoon, like a rejuvenation of sorts, before I go back to face my demons.”

  Darkwyn looked doubtful. “You will face your demons only with me by your side.”

  “Don’t sound so stern. Yes, from honeymoon to demon moon, we will go. Hey that could be a nursery rhyme.”

  “I think not,” he said. “Let us discuss this honeymoon.”

  “Let us have this honeymoon, you straitlaced man dragon. Who knew? A dragon draggin’ his tail.”

  “I protest.”

  “Say it with fire and I’ll believe you. I want to talk honeymoon in a bed,” she suggested, “after a bath. Wash off this blood.”

  “Speaking of blood,” Zachary snapped, sloshing into the vestibule wrapped in a towel, feet bare and wet. “Small green bloody thing? Whistles and shivers the air with yellow smoke? Resembles a dragon the size of Darkwyn’s fist?”

  Darkwyn gave Bronte a wink. She loved being flirted with by her husband. She also loved Zachary’s old-fashioned indignation. “Don’t tell me,” s
he said. “You took a bath and our Jagidy got into the tub with you? Dragon magick travels through water, didn’t you hear? Now you’ll see the wings on our cats and the warning smoke made by the pocket dragon sitting on your shoulder.”

  “What the puck?” The bird snapped, coming in for a landing and tilting his pretty bird head. “There’s a dragon on his shoulder?”

  THIRTY-SIX

  “By the way,” Zachary said. “My room’s near the foyer on this floor, if you need me.” Her nephew went mumbling back in that direction, dragging the blanket and leaving a wet trail.

  Jagidy seemed torn as to which of them he should spend the night with.

  “Let’s get a room upstairs, so I can scream all I want,” Bronte said as Darkwyn picked her up to carry her.

  “A gentle honeymoon,” Darkwyn said. “You’re not up to screaming, and I won’t do anything to make you.”

  She laid her head on his chest. “But what if I plan to make you sream?” She walked her fingers up the phoenix on his chest. “You can frown all you want but part of you is doing a happy dance whether you want it to or not. Get my drift?”

  “Cut out the verbal foreplay,” Darkwyn said, “until we’re out of earshot of the children. And there they go.” Slam. He shut the door before Jagidy and Puck made it inside.

  A thump and a whack followed, and Bronte winced.

  “Romance,” Puck squawked from the other side of the door. “Fiction that owes no allegiance to the ‘God of Things as They Are.’ ” Puck’s running commentary faded as both magick creatures changed direction.

  “Rude bird,” Darkwyn said. “Zachary is going to have company.”

  “Poor boy. Jagidy is a major cuddler.”

  “With you, maybe. And Puck swears in his sleep.” Darkwyn carried her right into the bathroom. “Let’s get you in a warm, but not hot, bath, to wash off the blood.”

  “Yes, yuck, out, out damn blood.”

  “Works for me.” He lowered her in his arms while he turned on the faucet to fill the Jacuzzi type tub. Then he lifted her higher in his arms, and took her into the shower to rinse the major blood away, with a handheld shower on a very soft spray.

  “Watch the mask,” she said.

  “I’d like to rip it off you.”

  “You could have removed it at any time since we left Salem. Thank you for respecting my wishes. If I could explain the mask without sounding certifiable, I’d try. Really I would. I can only promise that it’s not about you but about me, and sometimes I’m not certain I understand the depth of my need for it, not entirely, not beyond my obvious need to hide, that is. When I know the time is right to remove it, you’ll know, too. I promise.”

  “I can’t ask for more than that,” he said, kissing the mask near her mouth, then finding her mouth and losing track of the spray, so they got rained on.

  “You wilted my mask!” she said, not minding at all after that kiss.

  “Almost by accident,” he said, his wink filled with promise.

  She shivered, from more than the chill in the air.

  “Hold on. You’ll be warm in a second. I pronounce you clean enough for a bath. And after your bath, you’ll eat.”

  She opened her mouth to argue but he crossed her lips with a finger. “Food will bolster your strength, or no honeymoon.”

  “In that case, I’ll eat a little something.” She stuck her tongue out at him.

  He shook his head. “No foreplay until after dinner.”

  “I hate to protest,” she said, “but it’s three in the morning.”

  “You missed dinner, you were so busy dying. God, that makes my knees weak,” he admitted, setting her in the warm water.

  “Why is the water not hotter?”

  “I’m trying to take it easy on your system. Too hot and it’ll raise your blood pressure.”

  “With all you have to learn, you’ve taken up studying medicine?”

  “Zachary warned me not to make your bathwater too hot after your—”

  “Stabbing? Anyway,” she said. “I thought you would raise my blood pressure.”

  “We’ll see, if you’re up to it, but I don’t want any competition.” He knelt beside the tub and gently swished a soapy washcloth around her scar. “It looks like it happened last year,” he said, the tension in his shoulders easing.

  “Mmm. Feels that way.” Loving her husband’s ministrations, Bronte leaned against the back of the tub and closed her eyes to savor his touch and fantasize about the night to come.

  Darkwyn cleared his throat. “Watching you makes me think you’re too exhausted for a honeymoon.”

  She opened her eyes. “Not. I’m imagining it. And whether you want this to be foreplay or not, it’s workin’ for me.”

  “It’s working for me, too.”

  She reached over and shoved his shoulder. “Go get us a snack, then get in here with me so we can soak and nibble vitamin-rich food and each other. I’m a sucker for my multitasking dragon man.”

  Darkwyn grabbed one of their blankets off the bed to use as a robe and covered himself, in the event Zachary got hungry and went looking for food, too.

  When he got back to Bronte, he set down a small table beside the tub, dropped his blanket, and got in with her. “You’re having corned beef hash or Spam for breakfast, my lady’s choice, but for now, a light snack.”

  “Cream-filled chocolate cupcakes? Yes! Where did you get these?”

  “From a robot that didn’t give them up easily, but I won the fight.”

  “You beat up a vending machine?”

  “When I finished with it, it did look quite defeated. A machine, heh?”

  “You’re supposed to put money in them.”

  “Ah. I did not know that.”

  She opened the package and took a bite, letting her new husband see how much she enjoyed the treat he brought. “Now, this is what I call a feast.” She made a sound that visibly affected him, then tested the sound twice more before giving in to a fit of the giggles. “This coming back to life,” she said, licking the frosting off the cupcake, “is quite exhilarating.”

  “You won’t get anywhere near as much pleasure from eating me up with your eyes as you will from chocolate icing,” he warned.

  “Hah,” she said. “I beg to differ. You don’t care about my body, do you?” she asked, sitting forward, his answer and expression especially important to her.

  “I care a great deal about your body, every delectable inch. I just haven’t had enough time to show you.”

  “No, I mean the fact that I have a pretty full figure.”

  “You have a pretty perfect figure. Were I still a dragon, and I caught you, after skipping lunch and dinner, I would not eat you, just so I could look at your amazing curves any time I wanted.”

  “That’s serious.”

  “I love your height—it is a match to mine—I adore your shape, every arc and bend, and you are so graceful that I feel like a clumsy oaf beside you. You, Bronte Dragonelli, are magickally, seriously, delicious.”

  “I’m not a breakfast cereal.”

  “Good, because I want to eat you up all day long. Man or beast, I worship your figure. If my hands were not occupied with healing right now, they would be testing the artistic flow of each and every dip and hollow, until you screamed your delight, or you shouted, ‘Enough already.’ You make other women look like their bones will poke through their skin. Not for me, baby.”

  She experienced a moment of perfect joy, rare for her, halved the second cupcake, and shoved one piece into Darkwyn’s mouth while his gaze was otherwise occupied with her nipples bobbing in the water.

  His mouth overflowing, he raised his brows with dire inquiry.

  “Hey, I got screwed out of shoving wedding cake down your throat after the ceremony. Indulge me. Eat cake on our wedding day. Chew for Goddess’s sake.”

  Darkwyn obeyed, his eyes still on the prize: wet nipple a la chill.

  Bronte rose on her knees, smeared cupcake filling on her
undamaged breast, and aimed the creamy thing at her new husband’s mouth.

  “No fair,” he said, pupils dilating, irises brightening to all the violet shades in a perfect seaside sunset.

  While he was otherwise mesmerized by her offering, she took him by surprise and impaled herself on his firm interest, so slick and ready herself, she swallowed his perfect beast with ease.

  Darkwyn’s eyes widened.

  Her sex pulsed. His did, too.

  “No freaking fair,” he rasped. “No f-fairrrrrr.”

  Darkwyn controlled his hips with every muscle, even the ones in his neck, arms, chest, and back. She felt every taut cord beneath her wandering palms. She moved, and he released a groan, and came for her mouth. He took it hostage, brutalizing her lips with his kiss, and she couldn’t get enough. He used his lips and tongue the way he wanted to use his sex, and she welcomed the invasion, his rough hunger a contrast to the gentle pleasure he brought her.

  Eventually, his head came up, both of them breathing heavy, and while she read a certain resentment in his expression, probably at her taking charge, she saw enlightenment, as well, before he came for her cream-covered breast. He licked the cream and woke every nerve ending, nipped at her, laved her with enthusiasm, then he tugged and suckled her, pulling nourishment and pleasure from her at one and the same time.

  When she moaned, he let go. “I got carried away and you’re hurt. I’m sorry, damn it. I did not want you to exert yourself.”

  “Hey, I’m not moving. Your mouth is doing all the work, thanks, and tricky dick’s pretty frisky, too. I’ve come several times. You?”

  Darkwyn swore, pulled her close, and went back to ravaging her mouth while adoring her with his touch. His right hand did wondrous things, nearly as amazing as his acrobatic tongue. Even his left hand performed a kind of magick as he cupped the side of her scarred breast, radiating warmth and a soothing—

  She pulled back. “Are you healing me while you have your beastly way with me?”

  “I’m not a beast, you see, because I am not moving or making you move.”

  She kept her inner smile from her expression. She could not afford to care for this man. “Between the two of us,” she said, “throbbing and pulsing against each other, you hung like a bull, my horn sucking your plenty, we’re going to have a fi—a fine—honey . . .”