Somehow Darkwyn knew how to make the unexpected cliffhanger last, so she rode the crest evenly, no sharp edges or fast falls, just the slow blossoming wonder of a perpetual orgasm, pleasure roiling through her, no muscles to stretch, just ecstasy everlasting.
And into the silent bliss . . .
A tree fell through the window, starry shards of glass raining down on them, the prickly, pointy top of a Christmas pine like a knife at Darkwyn’s throat.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Bronte froze, in more ways than one, but her scream carried no sound while a blizzard rushed in at them through a broken window, sprinkling them with snow as well as glass.
“Gee, you think Killian is trying to tell me something?” Darkwyn got out of the tub, icy air curling around them, but she couldn’t seem to move on her own. He lifted her again, like a babe, dusted glass and snow off her, wrapped her in a body towel, and carried her out through the cozy blue striped bedroom she’d been looking forward to sharing with her sexy dragon man.
Silly detail. “Brr,” she said, shivering in his arms, hers as bare as his.
He nixed a corner suite because it had “too many windows.” But he grabbed blankets from every room he rejected. They settled in a cozy purple room, so lush the walls looked velvet, with a homey quilt to match, and only one narrow casement window near the far wall, opposite side of the room from their king-sized bed.
He sat her in a chair, toweled her completely dry, then wrapped her in a blanket and placed her between the sheets, covering her to her neck with the quilt.
“I should set you free,” she said. “I put your life in danger and I swore—”
“I put my life in danger by stealing you and flying away with you. This is not your enemy stalking us, but mine. No setting me free.”
“You make a confused kind of sense.”
“Warm the bed,” he said. “I’ll be back to wrap myself around you as soon as I’m sure Zachary is okay.”
Moments, or hours, later, he slipped into bed beside her. “Zachary?” she asked, groggy and ashamed of herself for falling asleep, though his relaxed body told her all was well.
“Is fine. You were right about Jagidy. He’s a cuddler. When I tiptoed in, Puck the bird started rattling off dragon jokes but Zachary and Jagidy slept through the monologue.”
Feeling frisky after her rest, she snuggled into him. “What dragon joke was he telling?”
“What happens when a dragon gets mad?”
“I don’t know. What?”
“He gets all fired up.”
“Fire when ready,” she said, curling his chest hair around a finger. “Darkwyn, were you—you know—as satisfied in the tub as I was?”
“How could I help myself watching you?”
“But was it as good for you as for me? Because, ‘incredible’ hardly explains it.”
He kissed her temple and covered her hand to stop its southbound wanderlust. “I got all fired up. Lay on your back.”
“Oh, goodie. Time to play?”
He placed his healing hand on her chest, above her wound, and tucked his face into her neck. “Time to heal.”
Before she worked up a good pout, he fell swiftly into a deep sleep, his snore rather growly—perfect for a dragon. He must be tired after flying so far, carrying her in hellacious weather, dodging trees, expending healing energy, worrying about her, Zachary, Jagidy, and Puck. What a honeymoon. “Rest,” she whispered. “We have the mob and an evil sorceress to fight. Together.”
Her poor husband.
Husband—shocking word. Forever. Till death do us part.
Death made her think of Sanguedolce. She shivered, and when she did, Darkwyn spoke her name and pulled her close, utterly aware of her. No other woman’s name tripped off his tongue with his guard down, his mind sleep fogged. Only hers.
Her turn to stay alert and filter night sounds, hoping none resembled the stealth of an underworld assassin.
Someone knocked on their door. Her eyes opened wide, guilt her first instinct. Some night guard she turned out to be, falling asleep.
“It’s me, Zachary. Bronte, you in there?”
“We’re here,” she said.
“Breakfast is ready. Canned surprise. Wake up the flying machine, will you?”
“I’m awake. I’m awake.” Darkwyn sat up and scrubbed at his face with both hands.
She chuckled. “Trying to rough yourself up?”
“I needed a brutal wake-up call.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“No, I was really out, and I’m annoyed with myself for that.”
Bronte rose to sit on the side of the bed, aware she breathed easier and felt nearly as bossy as her old self.
Darkwyn got up and tossed something toward the bed. “I found coveralls last night when I checked on Zachary, and you get the only down quilted vest in the place. Wear it against your skin, to protect your scar from the coveralls’ rough fabric. Need help getting dressed?”
“Nope, if we ever want to leave this room, I’d better do it myself.” She wiggled her brows and he looked stricken by his reaction. “You don’t mind my scar, do you?” she asked.
“Me? I’m a regular five-scar production, and I have not heard you complain.”
“I like your scars,” she said. “They give you character.”
“I feel the same. You’d better dress before I have to show you how much you matter to me.”
She disappeared into the bathroom, high on the power of her effect on him.
Darkwyn had left the room by the time she came out. The “coveralls” was actually a jumpsuit, but English wasn’t his first language. It had been brilliant, and thoughtful, of him to suggest the vest to protect her wound. A gentle man, in and out of bed. Not a bad catch for a woman who swore she’d never marry.
Whoa. What had she done marrying a dragon man?
Bronte stopped before rounding the corner from the hallway into the foyer, to regain her composure and check on Darkwyn and Zachary in the hostelry’s self-serve, common, cooktop dining area. Make sure they were really okay, with the situation and each other.
“Really,” Darkwyn said, sipping his coffee. “Was the old Zachary Tucker married?”
Bronte was surprised Zachary had told Darkwyn about old Zachary. This made three living people who knew.
“Yes, old man Tucker’s wife died young. Left him free to be married to the mob.” Zachary hesitated, groaned, and held his head with both hands. “Why didn’t I ever suspect?”
“Suspect what?”
“Gina’s car accident. The mob wanted all the old man’s time and attention, and after he lost Gina, he was so broken, he gave them everything.”
That jarred Bronte. She hadn’t considered the mob in Gina’s death, either. How stupid was she?
“I’m sorry,” Darkwyn said.
Zachary smacked the table with the side of his fist. “I could kill th—no, see, that’s what they do to you. They turn you to vengeance at any cost, like them. Gina’s probably been waiting to scold the old man for years. I hope this reincarnation thing isn’t an unending cycle.”
“If it is,” Darkwyn said, “you might find Gina in this life, in college, maybe, and hey, maybe she’ll remember you like you remember her.”
Zachary chuckled. “I think I hear the old man snorting. Thanks for pulling me out of the funk I was about to fall into, though.”
“Which are you, exactly?” Darkwyn asked. “The old Zachary or the young?”
“Funny thing happened on the way to running from the mob. The old guy’s name was Zachary Tucker. He had inherited the Phoenix Hotel building—a secret he guarded well, but, then, I know what he knew—so we grabbed the hidden deed before we ran. I took the old man’s name as my alias so I could claim the last Zachary Tucker as my great-grandfather, and inherit his building.
“After your reincarnated ramblings as a child, you don’t think you gave Sanguedolce a reason to search for Zachary Tucker after you left?” Darkwyn
asked.
Zachary flipped the Spam in the pan. “Believe me, my killer grand-monster was afraid I was repeating something I overheard from one of his men. He watched me only because he wanted to know who to kill. Sanguedolce believed only in himself, his ultimate power and control. In a million years, he wouldn’t believe in reincarnation or anything smacking of the supernatural. Ever. Besides, there are like a million Zachary Tuckers on the Internet. Bronte and I hid, literally, in plain sight.”
“No problem inheriting the Phoenix.”
“Nope. Vivica gave us the right papers and put the building in a trust for me. You know that woman can do anything. Anyway, my signature actually resembles the old man’s. Must be a by-product of reincarnation.”
Darkwyn sipped his tomato juice and nodded. “How is the old guy with all this?”
“His earth suit may be worm food, but his memories are as sharp as when I lay in my crib counting the tiles in the ceiling.”
“Do you ever feel stuck in a twelve-year-old body?”
“What better place for a centenarian than inside a fresh, agile body? What twelve-year-old wouldn’t want the mind of a brilliant inventor?”
“Invent us an escape,” Darkwyn said. “From Mount Washington—in a blizzard that could last for days—to Salem, Massachusetts, with an ingeniously stunning preemptive strike on the mob ready to launch.”
“I said I was brilliant, not God.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
“Speaking of deities,” Darkwyn said, “all of whom I thank profusely for saving my wife, I need to go see if she needs help. She’s taking longer than I—”
“I’m fine,” Bronte said, turning the corner. And she was, except for the reminder of the enemies they must soon confront.
Zachary got up and went to the cooktop. “If I had been telling the truth about your breakfast, it’d be cold or burnt by now.”
“You know me well,” Bronte said, planting a kiss on Zachary’s head and one on Darkwyn’s lips.
Puck flew in and perched on a brass rail. “Sunflower seeds, over easy.”
“A handful of mixed nuts for you,” Zachary said, placing them in the middle of a table. “Sass me and I’ll give you another shower.”
“No sass for badass,” Puck said, grooming his feathers. “Do dragons breathe fire?” Squawk.
“No,” Darkwyn said, pouring himself another can of tomato juice. “They breathe air. Spam all around, Zachary. Need some help? We have to fly out of here as soon as we finish breakfast.”
“There’s a whiteout blizzard out there,” Bronte warned.
“Fortunately, this place rents ski mobile suits. You and Zachary will be warm as toast.”
“And our pilot?” she asked.
“Feathers and scales,” Puck squawked. “Feathers and scales. Brr. Makes you wanna ride in a coffin.”
Darkwyn shook his head. “Hopefully I can shift back into a dragon and use my fire to melt the snow for maybe ten to fifteen feet around us, enough to get us above the clouds.”
“That’s nearly as bad as flying blind,” Zachary said.
Puck tilted his head. “I fly blind. Follow me.”
Zachary nodded, a half smile on his face. “Puck’s right. He may not return to Capistrano every year, but birds have a flawless sense of direction. They have a genetic predisposition to migrate with the ability to sense the magnetic field of the earth. Puck made the trip here. It’s in his memory banks to make the trip back. No sight needed.”
“I would have that ability if not for Bronte’s loss of blood.”
“What?” she asked.
“I suffer what you suffer. My brother Bastian says it is normal to feel a heart mate’s pain.”
“You never told me. I’m sorry.”
“It is a blessing. I will always know when you need to rest, or anything.”
“Anything?” Like when I want to make love, she thought.
“Yes, that,” he said.
“What? You can read my mind, too?”
“The closer we get the easier I can read you, but that can be a good thing. When I am a dragon, I cannot talk, but I can communicate telepathically. It would help on the trip home if you could, too. Try opening your psychic mind to mine. Close your eyes and listen. Everybody else in the room, close your minds, please.”
“Yeah, right,” Zachary said, walking away, his hands over his ears, singing one of the old man’s favorite songs: “Fools Rush In.” Probably as a warning to them.
Bronte tried to listen for Darkwyn’s inner voice. She really did. “I can’t hear you, Darkwyn,” she said after a few minutes, her emotions mixed about reading him so closely.
“Listen again,” he said. “No, do not crumple your face like that. You are trying too hard. Relax and let my words in. Listen with that big beautiful heart of yours.”
Why did you run when first our eyes met? That easy, his question came to her mind. She couldn’t have made that up, couldn’t have anticipated him asking.
She formed an answer in thought: I knew you would change my life if I let you. I was afraid, and my instant attraction to you scared me.
I was awed by you. You are perfect and psychic.
Psychic when I least want to be. Like now. Never perfect.
“Yes, you are,” he said, speaking out loud and leaning charmingly near. “We communicate well without words.” He gave her a look that promised: more to come.
I love you, she thought she heard, an unacceptable sentiment. Scary words. Words she refused to acknowledge. An emotion she resisted, love. A non truth. A non possibility. Especially for her.
“You missed something,” he said out loud.
“I ignored it,” she responded. “Don’t think it again. Not that.”
How about: I want to see your face, he communicated. No mask.
No doubt about it, she “heard” that perfectly.
I promise, she thought in reply, when I take off my mask, you will be the first to see my face.
He took her hand and squeezed. “Good enough,” he said so Zachary and the pests could hear. “You are psychic, or you would never have picked up on the telepathy.”
“I admit, I’ve thought I read you a few times before this, but not specific words, just intentions. My psychic abilities have always been sketchy.”
“Believe in yourself,” he said. “We will talk about this, again, when we are home in Salem. Time now to dress for the snow.”
“This trip feels crazy,” she said. “Flying over clouds in a dragon’s arms. Seriously? Fairy tale much?”
“It is crazy, I have no doubt, especially with Killian waiting for us. One thing we have to do midflight is communicate fast. Listen to every word. Mine will be few and filled with meaning.”
“I understand.” She cared more for this man by the minute and wished she regretted it.
“Leave a note from me for the owner of this place,” he said, “care of Works Like Magick, with Vivica’s phone number, and tell them we’ll pay for goods and damages.”
“Fair enough,” Bronte said.
“I’d prefer you didn’t watch my transformation,” Darkwyn said. “The in-between feels ugly, so it must look so. Do this for me. Wait fifteen minutes, then come out.”
“You transformed faster at the house,” Zachary said.
“Because I was under duress, fearful, and furious. It takes longer to force a shift, especially in this instance with Bronte’s injuries weakening me and my awareness that I’ll be putting her in danger again with the trip.”
“We don’t have a choice.” Bronte met Darkwyn’s troubled gaze. “Sanguedolce has forced our hand.”
“I am well aware of that.” He removed the door, causing a general gasp, and left them.
THIRTY-NINE
Outside, Killian appeared to him as a young woman, hiding her malevolent inner crone, but he could still see her black heart. Something of a soulless specter, but with more substance than a ghost, she projected an eerie confidence. Toyed with him to ke
ep him from shifting, her smile enough to make him, a grown dragon, shiver.
He ignored her but she lingered as he took forever to shift, and she screamed her fury when she faced a dragon once more, strong and bold.
In her rage, she aimed bolts of lightning his way, shots of concentrated destruction straight from her fingertips.
Focusing on the force of his connection to Bronte, Darkwyn raised his dragon hands, and bounced ten glowing streaks of live energy back the evil one’s way.
With the thermogenic cocktail made by blending her negative energy with his magick and defensive aggression, ultra potent given his heart connection to Bronte, Killian went up like a power plant on steroids.
She disappeared in a black funnel cloud that exploded, a reaction that would make the weather service trying to name and track this particular electrical storm short-circuit.
Yes, he’d slowed Killian down, but he hadn’t stopped her. He’d delayed their journey as well. At this rate, it would be dusk before they left, which might be best, flying under cover of darkness.
The sooner they took wing, the safer for all of them. Darkwyn roared to call his family and lowered a wing so Zachary could get on his back. Bronte, Darkwyn would cradle in his arms, the way he brought her here. At least he could limit his fear this trip to Killian.
Not a small worry.
With any luck, he would get Bronte safely home before Killian could strengthen her energy source. Her power fed on her hate for Andra and her determination for revenge against the Sorceress of Hope. Why? Because Andra dared care for the legion of dragons Killian struck down.
Andra, their guardian not only kept their legion alive as dragons, she’d poured acid on Killian’s oozing hatewounds by sending him and his brothers back to earth as men.
That sin, Killian the Crone of Chaos would hold against Andra for longer than his legion could live as men or dragons.
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