Dragon's Rogue (Wild Dragons Book 1)

by Anastasia Wilde

  Time to go on the offensive.

  She turned her back on him and walked back to the dresser, leaning casually against it, one hand resting on the edge. Her fingers found the release catch in the decorative carving.

  “I have a one-hundred-percent recovery rate—if I have the right intel. There was no mention of alarms or magical traps on the object itself. But I made it clear to you—if a job goes sideways, I’m out of there. I’m not getting caught for you, or anyone.”

  The boss was ignoring her words, just as he’d ignored her fingers in his chest. “This other person. Did he get the artifact? Did he take it?”

  “I don’t think so. He was right behind me, running like hell. But I don’t know for sure.”

  “You idiot girl!” He advanced on her, his eyes glowing with that fiery light. Rebel hit the release catch. The hidden compartment in the top of the dresser shot open and her Colt sprang into the air. She caught the grip and leveled it at him.

  It was a .45 with silver-chased grips. It also glowed with magical blue light.

  “You need to chill the fuck out, Sorcerer,” she said. “This thing can punch a bullet through pretty much any armor—and any spell.” She paused. “And through Jack, if I have to. Which would mean your road into my bedroom would be closed.”

  Not that she’d really kill Jack. But maybe he didn’t know that.

  The boss stopped moving, his hands out in a conciliatory gesture. Projection or not, she could see him forcing himself to relax.

  “It is imperative that we get the artifact away from the witch,” he said persuasively. “In the wrong hands, it can bring disaster down on this whole city. Do you want that to happen?”

  Rebel thought of her sister, of her little shop and her research. She’d do anything to protect Tempest, but she didn’t know if she believed him. Nobody with demon eyes was running around trying to prevent evil, were they?

  He gestured to himself, his voice soft and buttery. “The rogue witch did this to me. She used that artifact to make me what I am—this twisted creature you see before you.”

  Slowly, he reached up and slid back his hood. Rebel gasped. His face was scarred and misshapen, the lower half twisted hideously out of shape. His eyes glowed red and bored into hers.

  “I must have that artifact, and I must stop her from using its power. I can help Harper. I can heal myself. And I can save the others.”

  His voice was mesmerizing. She could hear something whispering to her, almost beyond the range of her hearing. It sounded like He tells truth. He tells truth.

  Rebel shook her head. Nobody told the truth. But it would sure as hell be nice to run into someone who did, for a change.

  “If you want me to go in again, it’s going to cost double,” she said. “And we’re going to need intel on that vault alarm system.”

  The sorcerer stood perfectly still for a minute, looking as though he were listening to something she couldn’t hear.

  The gun was getting heavy in Rebel’s hands, but she didn’t waver.

  Finally he said, “Done.” He gazed at her with those demon-red eyes. “But if you fail this time, I will be forced to take matters into my own hands.”

  And with that he was sucked back down his dark tunnel, growing smaller and smaller until he disappeared, leaving Jack Harper crumpled on her bedroom floor, gasping and vomiting.

  Worst. Job. Ever.

  Chapter 10

  Zane descended the iron staircase from the roof down to the balcony, joining Tyr. They went in through the disused ballroom, down the grand staircase, and took the brass and velvet-lined elevator to the sub-basement level. It opened into a huge cavern filled with computers, monitors, flashing lights and humming printers.

  Tyr had nicknamed it the Batcave—for good reason.

  Thorne was hunched in front of his bank of computers, the way he always was, watching the information scrolling down them.

  He was a big man—bigger than Zane—but it seemed like the longer he sat here, surrounded by his machines and information streams and seismic data, the smaller he got.

  As if the weight of responsibility he carried was so heavy it was literally compressing him. Zane wondered when was the last time Thorne had been outside the lair.

  Hell, he wondered when was the last time Thorne had spent a night in his bed, or at least sleeping on his treasure in dragon form.

  Guilt stabbed at Zane. He should have kept better track. He should have made Thorne rest.

  He should have found the damn Dragonfly Seal.

  “Thorne?” he said now, though he knew his brother had heard them come in.

  “Give me a second.”

  Thorne was following at least three streams of data at once, occasionally tapping a key sequence on one of his keyboards.

  Tyr threw himself down in one of the cushy chairs at the conference table. The table was piled with leaning stacks of dusty file folders, half-full coffee cups, and trash from hurried meals. Tyr leaned all the way back, propping his snakeskin boots on the tabletop and knocking a pile of folders to the floor.

  He ignored them.

  “Fuck,” Thorne muttered under his breath. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  Zane came up behind him, checking the screens that showed the magical and seismic activity throughout the Portland metro area.

  Thorne was staring at the two screens that covered Mount Hood. One showed lists of numbers, the other graphs. There’d been a huge spike in the electromagnetic activity under the mountain, corresponding with a surge of magical energy that had weakened the magic holding the tomb shut by…

  “Six percent?” Zane said, unable to believe what the numbers said. “It’s down six percent just in the last hour? That can’t be right.”

  Tyr sat up straight in his chair. “No way,” he said. “If that shit keeps up, then Vyrkos is going to be busting out of that tomb by tomorrow night.”

  “I know that. I have the math right in front of me,” Thorne snapped. “It’s stabilized now.” He rubbed his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. Zane started wondering when was the last time Thorne had slept at all. “Please tell me you found the Seal,” Thorne said. “Or at least something that might be it.”

  Six percent loss of magical integrity around the tomb. It didn’t sound like much, but considering that, prior to beginning to fail in the last decade it had only lost twelve percent integrity in a thousand years…

  It was catastrophic. Zane clenched his teeth in frustration. He should have found a way to get the Dragonfly.

  Zane shook his head, even though Thorne had his back to him and couldn’t see. In Thorne’s mind, he said, I’m sorry.

  “Shit.” Thorne swung around, facing Zane. “What happened?” He jerked his head at the screen. “Please tell me that spike doesn’t mean you damaged it.”

  Zane propped his hips on the edge of one of the half-dozen workstations set out in a huge ‘u’ shape around the room. This one had televisions with news reports coming in from all the major stations—local, national and international.

  In case someone got the apocalypse on camera.

  He said, “Someone else was there.”

  Zane told Thorne and Tyr the story, moving briefly through the part about seeing Blaze in her workroom, and not mentioning the two images she’d conjured from the cards. Especially his. His dreams had always been intensely private; he’d only mentioned them to Thorne once, decades ago. Tyr didn’t know about them at all.

  He didn’t know how he was going to explain his feeling of connection to the witch, and this wasn’t the time. Not if Vyrkos’ prison was failing that quickly. He had to focus on the Seal.

  He moved quickly on to the events Tyr hadn’t seen—the other burglar, the box, the alarms and the magical tracking dust, and diving out the window. He even admitted to being outed by the cat, although he left out the kiss.

  Not important. To them, anyway.

  Thorne rubbed his forehead again and sighed. “Damn. So you didn’t even get a
look at the Dragonfly.”

  Zane shook his head.

  Tyr, once again with his feet on the table, said, “I told you we shouldn’t try to steal it. The Prophecy says the Seals have to be given freely—”

  Thorne sighed louder. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said, rolling his eyes. “By the Three Mates of Destiny.” He made air quotes. “‘The Rogue, the Rebel and the Storm.’ It’s not a prophecy, it’s a fucking love story.”

  “It’s not just a story—”

  “Come on. Three Draken Guardians meet three female Draken, who mysteriously just happen to have the Three Seals of Vyrkos’ Tomb lying around, and who hand them over because of… what? The Guardians’ pretty faces?”

  “I was thinking more that the Guardians are awesome dickmeisters, but I guess the principle’s the same,” Tyr said. His voice had its usual smartass tone, but there was no smile on his face. His eyes were cast down, his mouth stubborn.

  Zane sighed, feeling himself sag against the tabletop. He really didn’t want to sit through another argument between his brothers about the Prophecy of the Seals. Tyr believed in it; Thorne didn’t. Zane didn’t know what he believed.

  Thorne said, “Even if it wasn’t pure fiction, that story was about the Draken Guardians. Who are all dead, in case you haven’t noticed. We’re Wild Dragons. We’re not in the prophecies. We’re not in the stories. We’re just trying to hold this little corner of the world together with spit and duct tape. There aren’t going to be any destined mates who save the day by conveniently handing us the Seals, and then falling in love with us and whatever other romantic shit the story says.”

  “Become the treasures of our hearts, worth more than caves of gold,” Tyr said quietly.

  Thorne snorted. “Grow up, Tyr, and get your head out of the fairy-tale books. This,” he waved his hand at the computer screens, “is reality. Two million people consumed by a Draken Lord, unless we do something. Soon.”

  Thorne sounded bitter, and for good reason. He’d lost everything when the Guardians died, and was left with nothing but responsibility he wasn’t prepared for. None of them were. But Zane wasn’t so sure about destined mates being only for full-blooded Draken. Because he’d been dreaming about the same woman for a hundred years, and—

  His stomach lurched. And tonight, on a quest for the Dragonfly Seal, he’d met her. He’d tried to rob her house, and all hell had broken loose.

  “Maybe Tyr’s right,” he said slowly. “Because there we were with the best lead on a Seal we’ve ever had, and we tried to steal it. And of the two hundred things that could have gone wrong tonight, approximately two hundred and ten of them did. So maybe trying to steal it really did bring bad luck.”

  Something pinged on one of Thorne’s computers, and he turned to check it. He tapped a couple of keys, muttered another curse, and then turned back around.

  “You don’t seriously think things went south because of Tyr’s fairy tale.” His tone was flat and disbelieving.

  “Well, what are the odds of two people breaking into the same house at the exact same time?” Zane asked. “Whoever the other burglar was, she wasn’t even after the Seal.”

  Thorne frowned. “What was she after?”

  Zane tried to move his hand to his pocket, but it felt like it was moving through molasses. Don’t show them, the little voice said. This is all for you. You alone. They’ll try to take me from you…

  He shook his head, clearing it. The velvet bag was in his hand, but he couldn’t remember pulling it out of his pocket. Had he heard something? He couldn’t remember.

  “She was after this.”

  Zane opened the bag and unwrapped the idol. It was the first time he’d gotten a close look at it. It was about four inches high, solid gold and heavy in his hand. He flicked it with his fingernail, and listened to the singing that only a dragon could hear.

  Twenty-four carats. Pure gold.

  He saw Thorne’s eyebrows go up, and Tyr gave a silent whistle. Nothing was as delicious to dragons as pure gold. Zane wanted to rub his cheek against it like a cat and purr.

  Of course he didn’t. That would be embarrassing. Plus, it was still evil. Instead, he turned it over and examined it. The others came over and surrounded him, looking at it with him.

  It was an elongated face with an elaborate headdress, reminiscent of some types of African art but… not quite. Mayan? Or maybe a bit of Easter Island.

  The face had a small smile, mysterious and somehow alluring. It had an appeal he couldn’t quite put his finger on, even though the proportions of the face weren’t human.

  The eyes were rubies, deep red translucent gems that almost glowed under the fluorescent light. To his dragon sight, they looked flawless.

  Thorne held out his hand. “May I?”

  Zane handed over the idol. Thorne examined it closely, especially the eyes. He was their resident gem expert. He could tell the type and purity of a gemstone just by tasting it, as well as what part of the world it came from—or if it had come from another world entirely.

  Thorne brought the idol to his mouth, and Zane instinctively reached out a hand to stop him. Tyr said, “I wouldn’t do that, bro.”

  Thorne stopped, the statue inches from his tongue. “Why not?”

  “You’re probably going to get a mouthful of evil.” Tyr described the black fog that had reached out for Blaze during her spell.

  Thorne gave them a sharp glance. “She’s a dark sorceress?”

  Zane shrugged one shoulder. “Apparently.” He still didn’t say anything about the part of the spell Tyr had missed, though. The part with him in it.

  Thorne weighed the statue in his hand. “It’s definitely magical. And old.”

  Zane would have said ancient. Several thousand years, maybe. He didn’t know how he knew that, but he did. He couldn’t imagine how valuable it was it human terms. Blaze McKenna dealt in artifacts, but he was surprised she had the capital to acquire anything like this.

  Assuming she’d bought it. Hell, for all he knew she could have stolen it, inherited it, killed a village full of people for it.

  His mystery sorceress had just become even more mysterious. And a little scary.

  And so had his fellow thief. Out of all the expensive baubles in Blaze’s gallery and her vault, this was the one she’d gone after.

  She probably knew exactly what it was.

  And now Zane wanted to know, too.

  Chapter 11

  Zane listened to Thorne and Tyr arguing about what they should do next. Whether it had been stupid to break into Blaze’s house.

  Whether it would be even stupider not to try it again.

  “We could just go to her door,” Tyr said. “You know. Ring the doorbell? Ask her for the Seal?”

  “We tried that, numb-nuts. Remember the gate? That she wouldn’t open for us?”

  “We could fly over that.”

  “And explain it how?”

  Tyr went silent. Then, “We could kidnap her.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake. You want to kidnap a dark witch? And keep her where? For how long? What do we do with her afterwards, when she’s all pissed off and wanting to curse us?”

  “Maybe she’ll fall in love with you and give you the Seal.”

  That got Zane’s attention. If anyone was kidnapping Blaze and making her fall in love with him, it was going to be Zane.

  Shit. Even he realized how insane that sounded.

  To keep from killing his brothers, he started picking up the papers Tyr had knocked to the floor. An embossed invitation with gilt borders fell out of a pile of mail, addressed to Thorne at his art gallery. The gallery was a legitimate business, and well-respected, even though Thorne left the day-to-day management of it to someone else. For Thorne, it was just a useful front for tracking down, buying and selling magical artifacts.

  Zane picked up the invitation and froze, gazing at the gold lettering. The answer to their problems, just lying in a pile of trash.

  Maybe there was s
omething to this destiny thing.

  “What about this?” he asked, holding out the invitation.

  Thorne glanced at it. “What about it?”

  “You’re invited to Jean-Claude D’Amboise’s annual suck-up-and-kiss-ass party on Saturday.”

  “So what?” Thorne said. “He tries to get me to go every year, and every year I tell him to fuck off. It’s full of dark wizards and dealers in shadow artifacts. You know Jean-Claude has his fingerprints on every purveyor of magic in Portland. If people who aren’t dragons and couldn’t annihilate him with a few well-placed belches want to stay in business, they all have to…”

  Tyr raised his head, eyes sparkling. “They have to go to the ball. And kiss ass.” He stared at Zane. “You think Blaze McKenna will be there.”

  “She has to be,” Zane said. “I say we conjure up a few tuxes and go make D’Amboise kiss our asses. And introduce us to Blaze McKenna.”

  Thorne tapped his fingers on the desk, thinking. Finally he nodded. “Okay then,” he said. “Looks like we’re going to a party.”

  Zane left the Batcave—not by the elevator, but through the ancient wooden doors carved with the Guardians’ coat of arms. Beyond them was a huge stone atrium, big enough for three full Draken to stand side by side. Stone tunnels led off in several directions, carved through the ridge by dragonfire. He stood for a moment, indecisive.

  He should go upstairs and grab something to eat. He knew he wouldn’t sleep, but there were old movies on Netflix, or the gym to work out his excess energy. Or he could fly up into the night, higher and higher, where the air grew thin and the stars grew impossibly bright, until his wings wouldn’t hold him and he hurtled down back to earth.

  But he could feel one of his dark moods stealing over him, when guilt and sorrow and loneliness ate away at him until he wanted to find the darkest cave he could, crawl into the back and sink into dreams of a woman with red-gold hair, a treasure worth more than caves of gold.