The Witch Thief (Harlequin Nocturne)

by Lori Devoti

  There was another noise, louder than those before, then voices.

  “Are you okay down there? We’ll have you out in a jiffy.”

  She looked at Joarr. His eyes were shadowed, unsure. He held out a hand.

  She stared at it for a second; after what they had shared, taking his hand, accepting his support should have been nothing, but it wasn’t. Somehow it was far more intimate than anything else they had done in this space.

  There was a jolt of movement, then a grinding noise. The car jerked, then jerked again. Amma teetered on her borrowed heels. Joarr’s hand stayed where it had been, his offer apparently still open.

  Another jerk and she laid her palm against his.

  Slowly, he pulled her against his chest, and the heat, sweet, welcoming heat, was back.

  She sighed and relaxed against him.

  It was just for a few minutes. It didn’t mean she was falling for him, didn’t mean it would hurt when she had to walk away.

  * * *

  After the elevator was ratcheted up even with the floor and the door pried open, Joarr had led Amma through the waiting crowd of workmen and hotel employees. He’d waved aside the manager, whose practice at hiding his true thoughts showed as he apologized for the inconvenience and insisted both lunch in their room and the room itself were free.

  Once past the gaping humans, Joarr had lifted Amma into his arms and taken the stairs to their floor. She hadn’t objected. In fact since her reluctance to take his hand in the elevator, she’d done nothing but snuggle closer to him. He enjoyed the feeling of her clasped against his body, enjoyed warming her with his heat.

  But he also knew something besides sex had happened in that elevator. She’d gone into the act with complete abandon, then stared at his offered hand, her eyes wide with fear. Of him? Of the people waiting? Or of what had passed between them?

  He guessed the latter, because it had shaken him, too. Amma shook him. He had never felt this way before—didn’t think he was supposed to feel this way.

  Dragons didn’t take mates. He knew other forandre did, but dragons didn’t. It was unheard of, but he couldn’t imagine walking away and leaving Amma—not now.

  Joarr had rebelled before. Hell, he was known for it, but this? The Ormar wouldn’t stand for it. Male and female dragons did not live together, did not make lives together.

  If he tried to, the Ormar would do what Rike had threatened, take everything—his home, his cavern and his treasure—doom him to life as a wyrm. Would Amma want him then? He knew the answer.

  Inside the room now, he set Amma down. She didn’t look at him. She wandered to the window instead and looked out.

  “It’s a nicer part of town at least,” she murmured.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll need clothes.”

  “Yes.”

  Silence settled around them.

  Amma pulled her hand away from the curtain and ran a hand through her hair.

  It was wild and golden and alive, like the fire he knew was inside her.

  Dragon fire. He didn’t know how it was possible, but he knew Amma had it. Did she know?

  “When you took the chalice, you traded it to the Collector. For what?” He knew the answer. He’d figured it out; after she’d left him she’d gone to Alfheim, claimed to be half elf. They hadn’t welcomed her, had actually denied her claims. A war had broken out between her and Alfheim, a war that ended in her being separated from her body and her spirit sent to Gunngar.

  “Information,” she replied. She wandered to the bed and traced her fingers over the quilted comforter.

  “On your family,” he added.

  She looked up, surprised. “Yes. He gave me their names.”

  “Did it occur to you he might be lying?”

  Her head jerked and her shoulders stiffened. “Why would he do that?”

  Joarr shrugged. “Maybe he didn’t have the answer.” Or maybe he did and was afraid if he told her the truth she wouldn’t give him what he wanted—wouldn’t give him a chalice tied to the dragons.

  * * *

  Back in his office, Fafnir sat behind his desk and poured the dragon blood he had harvested into a mundane tumbler. He stared at the glass. This was it, the last bit of blood. His flask had been damaged when the warehouse had exploded. He’d lost over half of what he had taken, and all that had still been waiting inside the dragon’s corpse. He pressed his index fingers to the bridge of his nose, trying to stop the pain that threatened to split his head in two.

  He should ration the blood, but after seeing what had happened, after being thrown to his knees by the explosion and feeling the heat, he needed the reassuring strength of this drink—more than just the one sip a day he allowed himself from the chalice.

  He picked up the glass and sipped.

  A smile curved his lips. The taste was the same as from the chalice. He set the glass back down and waited for the warm zing of power to surge through his body.

  It didn’t. His fingers tightened around the glass and he glanced at the mirror and the safe hidden behind it. The chalice was empty and waiting…and he had blood.

  He’d had his sip for the day, but how bad could an extra sip be? Besides, this was old blood. The warning had been for new.

  He gritted his teeth. The temptation was like a physical pain, an ache deep in his core.

  His fingers tightened even more. The glass cracked, then snapped. Dragon blood spilled over his fingers and onto the papers covering his desk.

  He stared at it, horrified. His blood, his glorious blood. It was gone…all of it.

  He picked up the empty flask and flung it across the room. The few last drops of blood hidden inside splattered against his wall.

  He cursed and swiped his arm across his desk, sent the bloodstained papers and the shards of glass onto the floor.

  He couldn’t live like this. He had to get more blood—new blood from a new dragon that he could drink from the chalice.

  He stalked to the mirror, his hand automatically reaching for the latch. Then he dropped his hand to his side. First the dragon. He had to find the dragon.

  He paced back and forth in the small space between his desk and the mirror.

  A dragon had taken his bait, come through the portal into the human world, but then something had gone wrong. It was clear neither of the couples the previous evening had been dragons—they were nothing, humans. He pulled his dagger from his sleeve and slammed it into the back of his office door.

  Shaking with frustration, he resumed his pacing. Calm. He needed to calm, needed to think. The dragon was near. He had to be.

  And he hadn’t got what he’d come for yet—Fafnir still had the chalice. The dwarf glanced at the mirror. He was tempted to check, even though he had looked at the artifact just moments earlier, but he shook his unease off.

  He didn’t have time for weakness. He needed to find that dragon.

  A dragon and a female—where could they be?

  * * *

  Amma awoke, warm and content. She pushed her arm up over her head and stretched. Beside her there was a mumble; then an arm tightened around her waist and pulled her snug against a strong male chest.

  She purred and snuggled deeper under the covers, tighter against Joarr…

  Joarr.

  Amma stiffened, then pulled his arm free of her waist and rolled to her feet beside the bed.

  She rubbed her eyes and blinked, earlier events returning to her.

  After they’d made their way to the room, she’d been tired and confused. She’d lain down on the bed to give herself time to think, and she must have fallen asleep.

  She’d slept soundly, more soundly than she could ever remember sleeping before. And she’d dreamed. She never dreamed, but last night…today—it had been morning by the time she’d fallen asleep—she had. And her dreams had been good, pleasant even. She’d been curled in front of a fire, the heat lapping against her skin. Animal furs, soft and luxurious, had caressed her. The room had
been dark, nothing to be seen beyond the light of the fire, but it had smelled of spice, exotic, enticing spice.

  A lot, she realized now, like Joarr.

  She ran her hands over her arms, tried to wipe away the temptation to crawl back into the bed and under the covers beside him.

  She had almost lost the battle when there was a knock on the door.

  The dragon didn’t stir.

  Through the peephole she could see two men in hotel uniforms. One pushing a room-service cart, the other with a hanging bag draped over his arm.

  Her magic ready, in case it was a trap, she opened the door and stood to the side for the men to enter. They were in and out within minutes. The entire time the dragon didn’t stir, not even when she fumbled through his discarded clothes looking for something she could pass off as a tip.

  Two bags of gold powder seemed to do the trick. As the employees left happy, if confused, she snapped the door shut behind them and hurried back into the room where hopefully new clothing awaited.

  Joarr had moved. He was sitting now, propped on a pillow, his chest bare and his gaze following each of her movements. Her hand on the hanging bag, which the valet had left on a chair, she stilled.

  “Not hungry?” he asked.

  She pushed the cart toward him. “You go ahead. I need to…shower and change.” And escape. She needed to escape. Her time with Joarr was changing her, weakening her.

  He flung his legs over the side of the bed. They, like his chest, were bare. The covers hid his midsection, keeping her from knowing if the rest of his body was similarly unclothed. She dropped her gaze to the bag’s zippered closure. With it open, she pulled new outfits from inside.

  Joarr’s was white, of course, and of fine material—dress pants and a sweater. She laid them on the foot of the bed and turned back to the bag. She expected another fancy dress, in white, or something else fitting what was obviously Joarr’s taste. Instead she found jeans and an embroidered peasant blouse. The material was higher quality than her own had been and the embroidery hand-stitched, but it was her—everything she loved and would have chosen for herself.

  She crumpled the clothing in her hands, not sure how to react.

  “You didn’t seem comfortable in the other,” Joarr murmured. “Is this better?”

  Better? Perfect.

  Amma nodded.

  He was out of bed, standing beside her. She hadn’t heard him move, but there was no missing him now that he was only inches away.

  He ran a hand down her arm. Heat flowed into her, through her. “Go shower. I’ll keep your food warm.”

  And she did. She ran. At least in her mind she was running. She was fairly certain her body left the room at a semi-reasonable pace.

  Once inside the bathroom, she turned on the water and willed her mind to slow. It was okay. She could handle this. If she ran away now, she’d leave with Joarr and the dragons still having a claim on her baby.

  Perhaps Fafnir didn’t have the chalice. Perhaps the notes had just been ploys to lure a dragon to him, but she didn’t know that yet. She had to find out.

  The image of Fafnir licking blood from the dragon corpse’s wound flitted through her mind, causing her to shiver.

  It couldn’t be safe for Joarr to face the dwarf.

  She should convince him to give up, to forget the chalice and return to his stronghold—but he wouldn’t. She’d seen his face. It wasn’t just about the chalice anymore.

  And she still needed the dragons’ cup to seal their bargain.

  So, what to do? Fafnir was their only lead. She had to talk to him. Then she could leave and let Joarr seek his revenge or not, let him endanger his life or not. She couldn’t worry about that, couldn’t let herself.

  * * *

  Joarr leaned against the bed’s headrest. He’d let Amma talk him into allowing her to go to the club alone tonight—or let her think she had. He, of course, didn’t plan to let her visit with Fafnir alone and unprotected.

  She’d argued that she could get close to the dwarf without him becoming suspicious, learn if he truly had the chalice and, if not, what his game was.

  Her plan was a good one, but it didn’t meet with Joarr’s satisfaction. Not even slightly.

  The dwarf and his dragon-blood-drinking habits were Joarr’s problem, his danger to face.

  He wouldn’t let Amma face the dwarf alone.

  But she had been adamant, so adamant, he’d had to wonder at her motive. She’d been with him, seen the dead boy in his dragon form. If the dwarf could down a dragon in his youth, what could he do to a witch?

  Unless the witch knew she had nothing to fear…unless she was working with the dwarf.

  Despite their lovemaking and despite the fact that he was in danger of falling for her, Joarr couldn’t put aside the suspicion. Amma was too eager to get back to the club, too eager to talk with Fafnir. And Joarr couldn’t believe winning one piece of his treasure would motivate her that surely.

  There had to be something else going on.

  And if there was, if he discovered she was involved in the deaths of these dragons…want her or not, love her or not, she would have to be destroyed.

  Chapter 16

  Dressed in her jeans and peasant top, Amma didn’t blend in tonight, but she didn’t care. She didn’t want to blend in; she wanted the dwarf to spot her.

  But he wasn’t at the door tonight; the dwarf Regin was. Amma didn’t let that stop her, didn’t play around like she had the previous evening. Using her magic, she cleared a path through the crowd.

  This dwarf was thinner than Fafnir, more wiry, but there was still a resemblance between the two. Brothers, she decided.

  She held her hands in front of her and let him see the magic dancing between her fingertips. “I’m here to see…” She hesitated. Who to ask for? Why was she here, really? “The Collector.” She locked her gaze onto the dwarf’s face, watched for a reaction. The dwarf who had delivered the second note had mentioned the Collector’s treasure, but that didn’t mean he was here. If he wasn’t, it would up the odds the entire thing was a ruse.

  Uncertainty flickered in the dwarf’s eyes. He shifted from one foot to the other.

  She smiled and lowered her hands, dressed herself in confidence. “We’ve done business before. I’m thinking perhaps we can again.”

  The dwarf glanced over his shoulder, into the bar.

  Amma tilted her head to the side. “As I said, I’m hoping we can do business again. I have access to a number of rare items. But if you think he wouldn’t be interested.” She turned as if to leave.

  The dwarf jumped in front of her. “No.” His eyes shifted from side to side as if searching for his best response. “I mean, I’ve not heard of this Collector, but if you believe he is here…I can ask.”

  “That,” Amma replied, “would be lovely.” She walked past him and into the bar.

  He scurried after her.

  She didn’t speed or slow her pace, just walked confidently toward the stairs. There she waited. “Upstairs?” she asked, once the dwarf had caught up with her.