Dragon's Rogue

by Anastasia Wilde

  The idol, back in his pocket, seemed to whisper to him again, pulling him to the right, toward the portal that led magically between the mountains, to Vyrkos’ tomb.

  Wanting to make him wallow in tonight’s failure, no doubt. Screw that. He didn’t need the whisperings of a dark artifact for that. He could manage it just fine on his own.

  He turned on his heel and headed left instead.

  Their rooms upstairs had TVs and king-size beds and walk-in closets and all the amenities a fortune in dragon gold could buy. But every Wild Dragon needed a lair, a place where his beast could feel safe. Every dragon needed wind under his wings, but he also needed a mountain to protect him.

  Zane’s lair was at the end of a long, empty corridor, large enough to drive a couple of semi-trucks side by side through it. The sound of his footsteps echoed off the walls, the stone floor worn down by centuries of booted feet and dragon claws.

  These caves were far older than the city of Portland, older than the first tiny settlement where the two rivers met. Dragons had been here for thousands of years, feared and worshiped by the Native peoples.

  The Guardians and their clans had dug these caves out of solid rock, and here they’d brought their treasures from many worlds, shielding their lairs from human detection with dragon magic. Most of the lairs were empty now, had been empty for centuries. The treasure their owners had amassed was mostly gone, taken back to the Dragonlands by their descendants.

  Only the Guardians had stayed. They’d watched the settlers come, watched the city grow. And died in the Battle of Mount St. Helens, up near Seattle, when the Draken Lord Zavrek broke free from his tomb.

  One by one, Zane passed the great carved doors leading to the dead dragons’ lairs. He knew all their names—Volandre, Covenrae, Krakyr, Ayrik.

  Some of those lairs still held remnants of treasure, what hadn’t been sold in the last hundred years to build the dragons’ business empire in the human world. Gold and gems were precious to dragons, but it was getting harder and harder to get cold hard cash for them.

  Walk into a bank with a sack of ancient gold, and you’d have Homeland Security on your ass in no time.

  At the end of the hall was Zane’s lair. It was the biggest one on this corridor—the others’ lairs were in different corridors. Dragons liked their privacy.

  Zane paused at the doorway, like he always did. Thirty years, and he still didn’t really feel like it belonged to him. He was an intruder.

  He opened the huge door, carved with images of suns and moons and stars, all with individual faces as if the heavens were not distant and terrifying, but a group of friends. The hinges squeaked, as always, and he made a mental note to oil them.

  Someday.

  The torches on the walls whooshed to life as he entered, their flames sending shadows and glimmers of light dancing through the cavern.

  Before him was a stone fireplace, cold and empty, with two dusty armchairs flanking it. To his left was a desk made of gnarled branches and flat sections of tree trunks, all polished to a warm glow.

  Now it reminded him of Blaze’s work table. Zane ran his fingers over the top of it, thinking of her, wondering what she’d look like in the torchlight.

  Lying on a bed of gold.

  The rest of the vast cavern—big enough for a dragon to sleep in—was filled with treasure. Piles of gold, silver and copper coins. Rings and bracelets and necklaces; goblets and plates; intricate statues and plain ingots. Precious stones, set in jewelry or just lying around loose.

  Most of the hoard wasn’t Zane’s—not really. It had belonged to the Guardian named Ayrik, of the Clan of Al-Kasbah. Sometimes, when his dragon was dozing in the cavern, he thought he could hear Ayrik’s hoard singing a song to its rightful master, who’d died a death worthy of a Draken Guardian.

  Saving the people of Seattle and Portland, like a Guardian was supposed to do.

  Zane went to a much smaller pile of gold and gems in a corner. This was his own treasure, the small hoard he’d brought with him when Thorne recruited him for this job.

  This crazy, doomed, hopeless job of finding the Three Seals and preventing Vyrkos from rising and destroying everything between here and the western sea.

  He climbed onto his small pile of treasure, already arranged to fit the contours of his human body. He settled into it, his body relaxing with a sigh. The hoard welcomed him, humming a faint song of pleasure.

  Dragons loved treasure, and treasure loved dragons. He leaned his head back onto a pillow of gold coins.

  Maybe when Zane died trying to defeat Vyrkos, his hoard would sing in his memory. It would be nice to be remembered for doing something brave.

  He wanted to believe that that wouldn’t happen. He wanted to believe he and Thorne and Tyr would somehow find the Seals in the next few weeks, even though Thorne had been hunting for nearly forty years with no luck.

  He wanted to believe they’d be strong enough to take down Vyrkos, if they didn’t find the Seals.

  And most of all, he wanted to believe that Tyr’s fairy tale—the Prophecy of the Seals and the Three Mates of Destiny—was true.

  The Rogue, the Rebel and the Storm.

  The vision of Blaze McKenna stole into his mind. Years of dream-memories followed. Her eyes. Her smile. Her scent. The feel of her skin. The taste of her, slick and salty and filled with love.

  The way he felt when he woke after each dream, love and warmth wrapped around him like a blanket.

  The empty ache in his chest when he found himself still alone.

  The tiny star of hope in that empty void, right now, that said he had to see her again. Taste her lips, touch that skin, kiss the tiny mole he knew was on her right shoulder.

  He had to know if she was really his destined mate—the one who would have the Seal, the one who would save them all.

  He drifted off into a dream, soothed by the hum of the gold surrounding him. And then, gradually, the song changed.

  A discordant note crept into it. And the whispering began. It told him of the glory of the dragons, how they would once more rule.

  When they were free.

  Chapter 12

  The next morning Blaze drove down to St. Johns. She took Skyline Drive across the top of the ridge, with its breathtaking glimpses of the entire Tualatin Valley, and then drove Germantown Road down through the towering, moss-laden trees that looked like a fairy-tale forest, to the St. Johns Bridge.

  The delicate suspension bridge, with its arched supports like the windows of a cathedral, was her favorite of all of Portland’s bridges. Through the clear morning air she could see the huge, pointed, snow-capped peak of Mount Hood, a hundred miles to the southeast.

  Once across the bridge, she followed her GPS to the address on the map and parked half a block away on the other side of the street, where she could keep the house in sight. There had been plenty of traffic on the main street, but here, in this residential neighborhood just a few blocks away, everything was quiet.

  11435 was a small house, a bit shabby and run-down, with paint peeling on the front porch and stains down the siding where the gutters had overflowed. A battered Pontiac was parked in the driveway, faded blue with one mismatched green side door.

  This didn’t make sense. Anyone who had the ability to get past Blaze’s security systems was a high-end operative. He probably made ten times as much money on one job as this house cost to rent for an entire year.

  What was he doing here? Hiding out?

  She took out her pendulum and whispered the words of the tracking spell. It immediately pulled toward the house.

  He was in there. Or the idol was—or both of them. Time for phase two—finding out which. The quickest way to do that was ring the doorbell. If he was there, hopefully he’d answer, and she’d get the jump on him. If she got that close, she would sense the idol’s presence.

  And if he wasn’t home, she’d go in and take her damn idol back.

  Unless it was just him in there, and he’d
already sold or hidden the idol somewhere else. Then she’d get the idol’s location if she had to tie him to the bed and…

  Fragments of images from last night bombarded her brain. The two of them in a huge four-poster bed. The feel of his hands on her body, his mouth between her legs. His hard shaft inside her, stroking her core.

  Her riding him as he lay on his back and thrust inside her, hot and hard as steel.

  Things that had never really happened, but felt so real.

  God. This was crazy. She had to get a grip, stop thinking these thoughts.

  Although, tying him to the bed naked and making him beg would be one way to find out where the idol was.

  Maybe she should keep that possibility on the table.

  Smiling grimly, Blaze cast a glamour over herself, changing her appearance so that if her thief answered the door, he wouldn’t recognize her.

  Nothing too different—just darkening her hair, making her eyes a bit of a different shape, muddying their color.

  Just as she was about to get out of the car, the front door of the house opened and a woman came out, carrying a travel mug and slinging a leather messenger bag over her shoulder.

  She was tall and lithe, moving with the grace of an athlete. Her dark curly hair looked like she habitually ran her fingers through it, and her ripped jeans and faded ‘Keep Portland Weird’ t-shirt said she didn’t give much thought to how she looked. She got into the beat-up Pontiac and drove off, not paying any attention to Blaze sitting in her car.

  The damn thief lived with a woman. And he was going around kissing people and planting sex fantasies in their heads…

  The pendulum in Blaze’s hand swung toward the receding vehicle, pulling hard.

  Damn. That woman had the idol.

  Blaze forgot about sex fantasies and hot masked thieves. She started the car, pulled a u-turn and went after the woman.

  The pendulum led Blaze to the main street of St. Johns. It was lined with small mom-and-pop stores, nothing fancy, looking like they catered mostly to locals.

  She spotted the Pontiac parked in front of a coffee shop, and parked a few spaces down. The pendulum was still pulling hard. Not toward the coffee shop, though.

  Towards a tiny shop sandwiched between it and a TV repair shop. The Dragon’s Lair.

  Blaze sat, staring at the shop, stifling the urge to groan. It was a wannabe witch’s shop, the front display window crammed with crystals, sage bundles, Tarot cards and crescent moon suncatchers.

  And dragons. Fantasy dragons of all shapes, sizes and colors—some perched on faux mountains guarding faux treasure; some communing with cutesy fairies or unicorns; some wrapped around swords featured in various TV and movie franchises.

  Blaze climbed out of the car and walked over to the window, pretending to study the display. The pendulum was concealed in her hand, the chain wrapped around her fingers so that it hung down barely an inch.

  So. What was a woman carrying an ancient, deadly, solid-gold magical artifact doing in a cheap souvenir shop? Could it possibly be a front for dark sorcery?

  She gazed at a statue of a goofy pink dragon baby popping its head out of its half-broken egg. Blaze couldn’t imagine any self-respecting dark sorcerer she’d ever met working out of a place like this.

  Nonetheless, according to the pendulum, the woman and the idol were inside.

  Blaze took a deep breath and walked into the shop.

  The inside was as crowded as the window. Quartz crystals and inexpensive tumbled stones. Sparkly-winged fairies and ceramic unicorns. Books on past lives and astrology and Tarot cards and how to tell if your loved one is a vampire.

  And dragons everywhere. Posters and tapestries and carved wooden plaques. Greeting cards and figurines and necklaces and bracelets. Even original paintings on the back wall—dragons with wizards; dragons with armor-clad maidens. Dragons fighting in the air over an erupting volcano.

  In the corner stood a tall vase with gnarled handmade walking staffs, each topped with a fake dragon claw and a crystal sphere. From the ceiling dangled leaded stained glass and shiny stars, and painted dragons hanging from invisible threads.

  There was so much glittery stuff assaulting her eyes that Blaze had a hard time finding the person behind the counter. Probably because her purple dragon-adorned caftan made her blend into the surroundings.

  Her frizzy brown hair was held back on the sides with dragon-shaped clips, and there was even a tiny dragon painted on her face.

  Yikes, Blaze thought. Obsessed much?

  The woman looked up and said, “Good morning. Welcome to the Dragon’s Lair. Feel free to—”

  She broke off and stared at Blaze, eyes wide, mouth dropping open slightly. Her hands began to twist nervously, and Blaze could see her breathing increase, almost as if she were about to hyperventilate.

  Could this woman have something to do with the burglary? Did she somehow recognize Blaze, despite the glamour?

  “Tempest?” Another voice came from behind the counter, out of sight. Blaze stepped forward and saw the woman from Maple Street sitting in a folding chair, leaning back with her feet braced on the edge of the counter, a magazine in her lap.

  Now she let the front legs of the chair down with a thump. “Tempe?” The shop clerk didn’t answer. Instead she snatched up a pen and flipped open a notebook lying on the counter, scribbling madly.

  The woman from Maple Street rose slowly to her feet, impaling Blaze with her gaze. Blaze felt… something… shiver down her spine. Power?

  No. This woman was definitely not a trained witch. But there was still something…

  “Feel free to look around,” was all the woman said. She sat back down in her chair, touching the other woman’s arm briefly, as if in comfort or support. The dragon-lover—Tempest—was still writing frantically in her notebook, ignoring both of them.

  Something was not right there. But the dragon-obsessed wacko was not her problem. Her friend was.

  Blaze wandered through the store, letting the pendulum dangle from her cupped fingers, keeping it out of sight of the two women at the counter. It pulled relentlessly towards them. Blaze wondered where the tall woman’s leather messenger bag was.

  Blaze made her way gradually closer to the counter, fake-browsing shelves and picking up the occasional tchotchke as if checking the price. Now she could see an open door behind the counter, leading to a back room that seemed to be half storage room and half break room, with a fridge, sink and microwave. There was a small round table with two chairs in the middle. The bag had been tossed carelessly on one of the chairs.

  Blaze gave the women her most disarming smile. “Excuse me,” she said. “Is there any chance I can use your bathroom?”

  Surprisingly, it was the dragon woman who responded. She scribbled a few more words in her book, and then raised her head and looked directly at Blaze. Her eyes were a startling liquid silver, like a lake just before sunrise, fringed with dark lashes.

  She stared for a moment, then cocked her head slightly, as if she were thinking. “Okay,” she said softly. “It’s back here.” She indicated the back room.

  She stood aside as Blaze came around the counter. “Thank you so much.” Both Tempest and the woman from Maple Street watched her with identical speculative expressions.

  She didn’t feel any overt power coming from them, but they still raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

  Blaze walked through the back room and into the tiny bathroom, passing within inches of the chair that held the leather bag. She didn’t dare touch it while they were watching.

  Locking herself in, she closed the lid of the toilet and sat down to think.

  She hadn’t felt the idol’s presence when she passed the bag, or anywhere in the store. But the woman must have it here somewhere. Blaze opened her hand and let the pendulum dangle. It still pulled towards the break room—and the bag.

  She had to check it out. If the idol somehow wasn’t there… well, there was always Plan B. She hop
ed that worked, because Plan C involved things she would really rather not have to do.

  Not to this woman who might be innocent of everything but hiding a stolen object for her thieving asshole boyfriend.

  She flushed the toilet and ran the water as if washing her hands, and then emerged. The tall woman was at the sink across the room, rinsing out her travel mug.

  Blaze took two steps forward and deliberately tripped over the chair holding the messenger bag. It fell to the floor, flap open, and spilled its contents everywhere, helped by a little spell from Blaze.

  “Oh, my gosh, I’m so sorry!”

  Blaze immediately knelt down and picked up the bag. The idol wasn’t on the floor with the rest of the jumble from the bag, and it wasn’t inside the bag either. Damn. She hastily began gathering up the spilled items, until she saw the tall woman standing over her, only inches away.

  “Just leave it.”

  There was a note of command in her voice. Almost a threat. Blaze rose slowly to her feet. The woman didn’t back up, and Blaze wasn’t going to, so they ended up way too far into each other’s personal space.

  The other woman spoke first. “You don’t look like someone who shops in places like this. What did you really come here for?”

  Suspicious and paranoid. Oh, hell. Blaze went for Plan B.

  Pretending embarrassment, she said, “Well, you’re right, I guess. I mean, it’s a cute store and everything, but all this woo-woo stuff isn’t really my thing. Truthfully, I’m looking for a guy who kind of scammed me. In that bar down the street? I’m trying to track him down.”

  The woman’s eyebrows went up. “And you thought he might be hiding in my bag?”

  Blaze gave a fake-nervous laugh. “Um, no. Of course not. That was just a stupid accident. I said I was sorry.”

  The woman crossed her arms, staring at Blaze. Most people would have found her intimidating, but Blaze had faced down scarier people than her.

  Some of them had been her teachers.