The Witch Thief (Harlequin Nocturne)

by Lori Devoti

  He could have kept Amma before. The thought had occurred to him—that he could lock her in his cavern and cherish her like the prize she was, but not now. The Ormar would smell the meld on both of them and Amma would be banished, perhaps Joarr, too, for trying to trick the dragon army.

  His fingers tangled in Amma’s hair. He held them up and admired the golden threads that clung to his knuckles.

  No, this treasure wasn’t his to keep. He needed to remember that.

  Chapter 9

  Fafnir leaned back in the velvet recliner he kept in his office. It was a little after midnight. He’d had his drink and for once his brother had agreed to watch the door. A rare night off.

  He ran his tongue over his lips. The taste of dragon blood still clung to them. He pulled his lower lip into his mouth and dragged his front teeth across it, scraping off any remaining molecules.

  Dragon blood was thick with a metallic hue. The first dragon he’d bled had spilled coppery liquid into his cup; the second and third had offered more of a steely shade. But as the blood aged, the punch lessened. It was disappointing at best. He tapped his fingers on his chair’s arm.

  How many shades, varieties and tastes of dragon blood were there to choose from? He longed to learn.

  Saliva filled his mouth at the idea.

  The chalice had limits—only one sip a day. He needed more than that, needed to drink his fill. A dragon’s worth.

  And he could, he realized, if not from the chalice, then from another cup or flask. The blood he had was old, anyway—why limit himself as he had been?

  Fafnir placed his hands together, as if he were praying, and tapped his finger pads against each other. He hadn’t been back to the building since he’d locked the last dragon’s corpse there. He hadn’t wanted to risk his father or brother following him. But the blood he’d brought to the bar was running out. He needed more, if not from a live dragon then blood from the dead one he had stored would have to do.

  He frowned. Across the room, the mirror reflected his image back at him. Same stout dwarf that he’d always been, with shaggy brows forming a V in the center of his forehead. He lowered them more, concentrated on looking his most ferocious. Intimidating to some perhaps, but not at first pass, not to humans at least.

  He was tired of dealing with the drones that occupied this world. They assumed because of his size he was no threat. He had taught many of them differently, but he was tired of that game, too. He wanted to see the fear and awe he deserved when they first lay eyes on him.

  Fear, respect—that was what he deserved and humans were too stupid to see it.

  His hand dropped to his ax. The wood was worn, but the edge was still sharp. Even after slicing into the necks of three dragons, the metal held.

  He picked it up and let the light from the candle he’d lit play along the blade. Then he stared at the flame. Lost in its flickering beauty, a new idea occurred to him. Until now he’d filled his cup and released the dragons. He’d drugged each before slicing into their neck. Some herb the dark elf who’d educated him on the cup had sold him. It was like catnip for dragons. They spaced out on the stuff until they lost all sense of what was going on around them.

  He did his job and moved on. Their wounds healed quickly, more quickly than any being he’d known. So, when they awoke they had no idea they’d been harmed. They left—all except the last one—nice, tidy and easy.

  Maybe too easy. Took some of the fun out of the act.

  But now that he was so close to getting full dragon powers, he didn’t need to be so cautious. He could trap a dragon and keep him. Drink his blood, as much as he liked, every day until the supply in the chalice was gone. Then he could refill a different cup and keep drinking—a never-ending supply of fresh, power-filled blood.

  And he wouldn’t have to hide what he was doing from the dragon—because he would never escape, never be a threat.

  It was perfect…a dream.

  He sat back against his chair and imagined a dragon, the mightiest of all beings, staring down at Fafnir, his face hollow with defeat.

  He leaned forward and jerked his cell phone out of his desk drawer. It took five rings for his agent to answer.

  “Did one come?”

  The dwarf he’d sent to the portal nearest the Ormar landholdings hemmed and hawed, saying he’d found the dragon and done as Fafnir had asked.

  “When? If you’d done your job he’d be here. Why don’t I have my blood?”

  At the agent’s claim that the dragon had a female with him and might have had help in the attack, Fafnir’s interest flared. “A female dragon?” He’d never seen a female dragon. Dragon females did not stay with the males; they didn’t raise their young, either, at least not the male children. And as rare as it was to see a male dragon out in the nine worlds, spotting a female was unheard of. Fafnir didn’t even know where they lived or if they lived together as the males did.

  Two dragons, a male and a female. The thought of such bounty was mind-boggling.

  “…not a dragon…” his agent muttered.

  “What? But that’s what I sent you to find.” Fafnir slammed his ax into the four-foot-wide piece of log he kept beside his desk. The blade slipped through the ancient wood like a heated knife through butter. He picked it up and studied the edge. Still perfect.

  “No, the male is a dragon. The female is not.”

  “Hmm.” Fafnir placed the ax head on the floor and leaned on the handle. “What is she, then?”

  When the agent stuttered for an answer, Fafnir cut him off. “Doesn’t matter. My plans have changed. I need the dragon, the whole dragon, alive. Get him to the bar. Tell him about the treasure. Tell him I’m willing to give it to him in exchange for…” Fafnir searched for something a dragon might be willing to part with. “The female.”

  He smiled. Perfect. If the dragon and the female had already done what Fafnir suspected, the dragon would have no further need for her. He would expect her to leave him, anyway. Why not trade her for treasure? “Tell him I will trade my father’s hoard for the female.”

  Thrilled with his new plan, Fafnir punched the end button and tossed his phone back into the drawer.

  Now to make good use of his time off and visit the dragon he did have. He went to gather some flasks.

  * * *

  An hour had passed since Amma had awakened. She’d found herself draped across Joarr’s body. He’d been awake and watching her. She peeled her body off his and rolled over onto the mattress. Something flittered in her stomach—nerves.

  She couldn’t believe what she had done.

  Sex, fine. But what had happened between her and Joarr had gone past that. She had felt something, something beyond the physical. But then, was that bad? Was it wrong to feel something for the dragon? She stared at the ceiling and tried to puzzle through the thoughts pinging around her brain.

  “What are you thinking?” Joarr asked. His question was casual, but it sent a frisson of alarm through Amma.

  She plucked at the rumpled cover beside her. “Nothing. You?”

  He ran a finger down her shoulder, sending tingles over the rest of her.

  She was weakening, warming to the idea that maybe feeling something for this dragon wouldn’t be bad…might even be good.

  She cleared her throat. “Back at your house, that other dragon, he mentioned you were an orphan.”

  Joarr placed a light kiss against her shoulder. “My father died when I was little more than a hatchling.”

  “And your mother? What about her?”

  Joarr’s lips stilled. He pulled back and stared at the far wall. “I never knew her.”

  “She is dead?” Amma’s heart thumped. She’d heard tales about dragons—that the males raised the males, kept the babies from their mothers. She hadn’t questioned it before, hadn’t cared before because she’d had no intention of telling Joarr about their child, but now…maybe she’d been wrong…

  He shook his head. “No, she’s alive, at least a
s far as I know.”

  Amma’s skin turned cold. “But then you aren’t an orphan.”

  He looked at her then, surprise in his eyes. “Of course I am. My father died. In the dragon world that makes me an orphan. Since I was male, my mother had no claim on me.” His gaze went distant again. “Not that she would have wanted one.”

  Amma couldn’t listen to any more. She had to get off this bed and away from Joarr. She’d almost… She’d wanted… She jumped up, naked, and with her eyes carefully averted from his, she walked to the bathroom.

  He didn’t say a word as she trekked toward the bathroom, but she felt his eyes on her back like stones. She couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew why she was asking the questions, knew her secret and was already planning on how he’d take her child away from her.

  With the door closed behind her, she turned on the shower and then leaned against the wall, her eyes shut, wondering what in hell was happening to her.

  She had considered telling Joarr about her baby, staying with Joarr. She had come dangerously close to losing all she had. When she was so close to gaining everything she had wanted.

  She couldn’t let herself be taken in. He was the dragon. She was supposed to outwit him, not fall for him like some bubbleheaded princess who was too stupid to see she was dinner.

  She stared at the cracked vinyl and let the room fill up with steam. The humid air activated Joarr’s scent that clung to her skin. Angry with herself and him, she jerked open the shower curtain and stepped inside.

  With the water pounding on her face, she closed her eyes and placed her hand on her stomach. She forced herself to think logically. She’d come close to screwing up, but she hadn’t—not irreparably. She’d had sex with him, but she hadn’t said anything stupid. She hadn’t made any kind of declaration. He was a male; odds were to him what had passed between them had been nothing more than an especially sweet orgasm. And she had not in any way let him know she was pregnant.

  There was no reason for him to realize she had felt more, given that she never had before. So, for all practical purposes it hadn’t happened. If she was the only one to realize the significance of what she had done, she had shown no weakness.

  She slicked her hands over her face and stared at the pink tile. She just had to let him know that handing out magic was meaningless to her, common even. She rolled her eyes at the thought.

  She grabbed the white packet of soap and ripped off its paper wrapping. As she lathered up, as she washed off Joarr’s scent, sanity returned. She had to do what she had done before—let Joarr think she was taken in by him, had fallen for him. With his guard lowered, stealing the chalice for herself and her child would be easy—just as easy as it was the first time.

  She slid the curtain open and stepped onto the vinyl, water puddling around her feet.

  This dragon tale would have a whole new ending—with no prince to save her, the princess would save herself and take the treasure.

  Calm again, she rubbed her legs with the rough towel she’d found hanging from the towel bar. A light rap sounded from the hall outside their room. She moved to the bathroom door and pressed her ear against the crack where the flimsy barrier didn’t quite meet the jamb.

  “Are you alone?” The voice was rough with an accent Amma recognized instantly—dwarf. Gunngar, where she had spent the past one hundred years, had been lousy with dwarves. She had no issue with dwarves, but she didn’t trust them, either, especially after being attacked twice.

  Joarr didn’t reply, but he must have moved aside for the dwarf to enter their room because the next time Amma heard the accented voice it was louder, closer.

  “The female, is she here?”

  Amma raised both brows. The dwarf had been watching them. Following them? Had he been with one of the groups who had attacked them, or was he perhaps the dwarf she’d noticed at the portal bar? Either way, she knew Joarr was savvy enough not to trust him.

  “Why do you ask?” Joarr this time, sounding bored. The dragon had made an art of appearing disinterested, but she had spent enough time with him that she could discern the act. And he was definitely acting now.

  “I come with an offer that I don’t want to fall on other ears.”

  Joarr must have made some nonverbal sign for the dwarf to continue. There was a pause, then the dwarf’s voice.

  “My employer is interested in acquiring—” his voice lowered “—your companion.”

  Amma stiffened.

  The rustling of paper followed. “Come here tonight, ask for Fafnir. He’ll give you the details.”

  “And why would I do that? Why would this employer think I’d be interested in whatever deal he has in mind?” Amma could almost see Joarr standing over the much shorter dwarf, looking down at him, letting him know the dragon wasn’t amused.

  “Treasure,” the dwarf hissed. “Lots of it, like you’ve never seen. Objects gathered from all over the nine worlds for a century. A magical item gone missing? The Collector most likely has it.”

  At the Collector’s name, Amma pulled back, catching her towel on the doorknob. The knob rattled and all sound in the room outside the bathroom stopped.

  Amma held her breath, waiting, hoping the dwarf would go on. After a few seconds, she called out. “Damn. I dropped my…towel.” As the word left her lips, she cursed, realizing how that had sounded. “I mean I slipped on the soap and the towel is wet.”

  There was movement outside the bathroom, the sound of the motel room’s door opening and closing. Amma leaned against the sink, her eyes staring blindly at the pink tile. The Collector wanted her? Why? Did he think she’d cheated him in some way? She hadn’t. She’d given him exactly what he’d requested, and in return he’d given her information that led her to Alfheim, and eventually the horrible fate of losing her body. If anyone should be angry it was her. And how did he know she was here? He must have been involved in everything that had happened. But again, why?

  The bathroom door moved, opened a crack.

  “Did you want me to dry you?” Joarr purred. It was the only way she could describe the sensual way the words left his throat.

  The door swung open and Joarr stood in the doorway, his eyes glimmering like sapphires.

  Chapter 10

  The witch was naked and damp. Joarr didn’t hide his interest; he let his gaze roam her body.

  Amma jerked a scrap of a towel around herself. It barely met over her breasts and gaped outrageously at the side, revealing her hip, thigh and calf.

  He stepped into the tiny bathroom. She stepped backward until her body was wedged between the toilet and the sink. His hands pressed against the tile wall behind her, he looked down.

  “If you need drying, I’d be happy to help.”

  Her gaze flitted to the side, as if she was trying to see around him—reinforcing his suspicion that she had been eavesdropping.

  With that in mind, he stepped back and held out the paper his unexpected visitor had given him. “We have an invitation, a direct one this time,” he murmured. The fact that the Collector’s name was mentioned and he apparently wanted Amma aroused every suspicion Joarr had had toward the witch.

  He would show her the paper, but not mention what the dwarf had said, at least not yet.

  Her head jerked back toward him. There was surprise in her eyes. She hadn’t expected him to tell her about the dwarf’s visit. This was good; it would help build her trust in him. “Is this address familiar?” He knew it had to be. He’d recognized it instantly, but it was time for Amma to give him something, to show she was going to work with him to regain the chalice. Otherwise, despite his conflicted feelings toward her, he might be tempted to take the dwarf up on his offer, assuming the offer was real. Joarr had his doubts.