Nite Fire: Flash Point

by C. L. Schneider

  I tipped the bottle again. Savoring the flavor as it slid off my tongue, I froze.

  The air smelled wrong.

  I took my beer and wandered out into the foyer. Standing in the sickly yellow glow of the kitchen light, I didn’t bother looking left toward the front door. Nothing was amiss that way. I peered instead to the right, into my gloom-wrapped living room. The scent within was weak, but fresh. It didn’t belong. Neither did the dark figure blending into the shadows of the far wall.

  Almost blending. If I hadn’t made it a point to memorize the silhouettes of my apartment, I would have thought the intruder was part of the furniture.

  Breathing deeply, sorting through the aroma of smoke and hot metal, mixed with traces of a recent lyrriken burning, I swallowed more beer and wondered how I’d missed the discrepancy when I walked in. More importantly, what was I going to do about it?

  My knife was in my duffel bag in the spare room. My sidearm in the nightstand by my bed was more easily reached. Fire was faster. But I wanted to know who I was dealing with first. Maybe the innocent woman I’d been chasing had come around to find out why. And I didn’t want to torch my apartment. I just moved in.

  Draining my beer like I was oblivious, I put the empty in the kitchen. I shifted my eyes as I pulled two more bottles from the six-pack and casually made my way across the linoleum and back into the hall. I hovered nonchalantly at the edge of my living room.

  The shape hadn’t moved, but I could see its edges more clearly now, and there was nothing feminine about them.

  Giving him time to get complacent, I put one of the beers under my arm and spent a moment fumbling with the thermostat on the wall. Then I adjusted my grip on the bottle in my hand and lobbed it at my unwelcome guest. As the glass broke on contact with his forehead, I threw number two. He bent, cradling his head, and the second bottle exploded on the wall behind him. Before the shards had even reached the floor, I was running.

  Hopping over the couch, I sprinted down the hall, pushed open my bedroom door, and threw myself across the bed. Streetlight leaked in between the open blinds. I reached through the pale streams for the drawer handle, as his steps entered the room.

  Realizing I was going for a weapon, he muttered a curse. His stride changed, and he took a leap. I rolled clear, and the mattress shook with weight as my attacker landed beside me.

  “Stop,” he hissed, grabbing at me. His hands snagged my hair. “It’s—”

  I thrust an elbow into his jaw, disrupting his words and his hold on me.

  Wriggling away, I turned with fists ready. I got in a good punch before his hand latched around my wrist. Pain shot up the length of my arm as he wrenched it to the side.

  “Settle down, dammit,” he snarled. Latching onto my other arm, he dragged me closer and pinned me down. As he tried to crawl on top of me, I brought a knee up.

  A high-pitched exhale fled the man’s throat, and I knew I’d found his groin. Gasping something unintelligible, he threw a desperate blow. His knuckles struck my mouth. Blood ran from my torn lip. It hurt, but not as bad as it should have. He was holding back.

  Big mistake.

  I reached up and shoved my fingers into the gash my beer bottle had left in his forehead. Blood wet my skin as I dug into the raw flesh. Releasing a pained, “Fuck!” he knocked my hand away. His follow up shout of, “That’s enough!” left my ears aching as badly as my cheek as he slapped me across the face.

  Sliding off, the man flopped onto the bed next to me with a breathy moan. I clambered off the side and hit the carpet on my knees. With a quick yank, I pulled the nightstand drawer off its tracks and onto the floor. A second later, the gun was in my hand.

  Training my weapon on the intruder, I stood and backed up toward the wall. I took the safety off and put a round in the chamber. The outline of his body stiffened at the sound.

  Stretching an arm back, I found the switch on the wall behind me. I flipped it on and light rained from the ceiling, illuminating the man sprawled out across my bed.

  Jeans, black boots, and a simple gray t-shirt, covered his tall frame. With both hands pressed against his bleeding head, I couldn’t see much beyond the ends of his shoulder-length hair—an uncombed shaggy ash brown—and a smidge of the day old scruff on his strong chin. Our scuffle had left his t-shirt askew, showing off smooth tanned skin and muscles so defined I could have counted them.

  He was nicely built. But that didn’t excuse him from breaking in.

  My intruder slid one hand slowly down over his face with a groan. “Dammit, Dahl. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  I stared at him, processing the voice and the section of face I could see.

  The chiseled jaw, the slope of his nose…

  I took a cautious step. “Ronan?” I hadn’t said that name in years. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Visiting.” Wincing, he pulled a chunk of hair out of the gouge in his forehead. “Thanks for hitting me with the welcome wagon.”

  “Visitors don’t let themselves in.”

  Hazel green eyes bright, Ronan’s gaze ran over me with the same heat and intensity it always had. He gestured at the gun. “Are you going to lower that?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Come on, Dahl. I just wanted to surprise you.”

  Sarcasm sharpened my tongue. “Because I love surprises?”

  “Nah.” He cracked a smile. “Because you love me.”

  I wanted to shoot him even more. “You realize this is one reason we didn’t work?”

  “What, your nasty temper? Or your penchant for cheap beer?”

  “You never knew me. You never even tried to know me. And you’re a thief.”

  “Which ‘you’ are we talking about? The one who’s played human so long she thinks she’s one of them? The squad leader I looked up to? Or the shifter I fell in love with? Because I knew her pretty well.”

  I let out an uncomfortable breath. “That was a long time ago.”

  “Then how about the one I found in this city, hiding in a ditch, wounded, half-starved and delirious, raving that a nageun had come with her through the exit.”

  “It did,” I said with clenched teeth. “It bit me. Why else do you think I was delirious?”

  “I know,” he said, placating me. “You didn’t sleep for months after.”

  “More like years. But you wouldn’t remember. Seeing as you went out for gas one night and never came back.”

  “I came back.”

  “Six years later. And then you left again.”

  “And then you left.”

  “And round and round we go.”

  Ronan glared at me as he sat up. “I followed you here, dammit. I came to this world for you. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

  “It means you’re stupid.”

  My piece said, I left him and went into the bathroom. I tied my hair back and inspected my face. I washed the blood off my chin and lip, but I couldn’t do much about the darkening hand print on my cheek. My body was already working to heal it, though. Within an hour or two the swelling and bruising would be gone.

  What I’d done to Ronan would take a bit longer.

  I wet a washcloth in the sink and rang it out. Opening the mirrored medicine cabinet on the wall, I stared at the scary amount of first aid supplies crammed onto the shelves. Killing a lyrriken in either form was no easy feat, but we weren’t immune to injury. I get hurt like any pure human would, but a lot more often. Since doctors were out of the question, I’d learned a long time ago to be prepared, not only for closing a wound, but for camouflaging its swift healing. That meant buying supplies in bulk and whatever was cheapest.

  Grinning, I grabbed the box of bandages with wide-eyed kittens on the front and closed the cabinet. I went back into the bedroom and threw the box and a wet washcloth at his chest. “You’re ruining my new blanket. Get off,” I added, when he didn’t move.

  Standing, Ronan glanced back at where he’d been sitting. Blood splatter dotted my bed
like drops of red food coloring. “Buy another one.”

  “I just bought that one.”

  Confusion shone through the gore on his brow. “It’s white.”

  “I like white.”

  “Then why does your closet looks like an endless stream of funerals and rock concerts?”

  “You looked in my closet?”

  “Your panty drawer was uneventful.”

  “My—”

  “Boyshorts?” he grinned. “Really, Dahl?”

  “I’m sorry,” I scowled at him. “My thongs are in the wash.”

  “I fucking knew it.”

  Gritting my teeth, I spun around and walked out. A moment later, he followed.

  As I opened the fridge, Ronan’s arm jutted in front of my face. He waved the washcloth and kitten bandages like a white flag. “Don’t suppose you could do this for me? You always had the steadier hands.” Smiling wide, his dimples popped out, and I found myself wishing he’d gotten ugly in the last eight years.

  I grabbed another beer and slammed the door. Brushing past him, I turned on the living room lamp and sat cross-legged on the couch. “What are you doing in the city? I heard you and your little gang moved out of the Sentinel years ago.”

  “Is that why you came back? You were hoping I wasn’t here?” He leaned casually against the wall. Swagger slowed his words. “Or hoping I was?” I said nothing and he stepped closer. “How many times is it now that you’ve tried to make this city home?”

  “Four. This is four. And since everyone wants to know…I came back for the same reason I always do. It’s the only place I can disappear and live at the same time. I’ve never found that anywhere else on this world. And I’m tired of looking.”

  The teasing turn of his lips sunk. Agreement was in his stare, but he said nothing. Ronan sat on the ottoman in front of me, and I picked the glass from the nasty cut on his forehead.

  I talked over his flinching. “How did you find me?”

  “I could always sense you, Dahl, you know that.” Ronan caught my eyes. I looked through the blatant desire, trying to spot the bullshit underneath. “Course, it doesn’t hurt that you’re using your own name this time. Not many Dahlia Nite’s in the phonebook.”

  Grabbing the washcloth, I dabbed at his wound. “Phonebook? Do they still make those?”

  He made a face. “You know what I mean. We didn’t survive all that time with retrievers on our tails by taking chances. Settling down, using your real name—it’s not exactly covert.”

  “It’s a risk,” I admitted awkwardly, knowing he was right. “But it’s kind of nice to hear someone say my name once a decade.”

  Ronan gave me a leisurely grin. “You’ve missed me that much?” When I didn’t answer, the expression faded. “Wait, are you seeing someone? Are you dating a human?”

  “I don’t date, Ronan.”

  “Why not? You do everything else they do.”

  “I don’t have time. I work. I go to the gym. I find things that don’t belong and get rid of them. Things like you,” I said pointedly.

  Disregarding my sarcasm, he frowned. “That’s it?”

  “Yes, that’s it,” I snapped. “The point is I’m busy. And relationships depend on things like honesty and being yourself. I can’t do either.”

  “Okay, I’ll rephrase the question. Are you fucking someone?”

  I lowered the washcloth. “Is that why you’re here? To compare dick sizes with the man in my bed? Guess you broke in on the wrong night, seeing as it’s empty.”

  “It doesn’t have to be.” Ronan leaned in. He plucked a red curl off my shoulder and wound it around his finger. “You know, your pulse kicks up every time you look at me.” He sunk more fingers into my hair and a tingle ran across my shoulder blades.

  Doing my best to ignore it, I shrugged. “Memory reflex.”

  “Well, maybe you remember this…” Strong, as a lyrriken should be, Ronan pulled me onto his lap. I didn’t stop him. His free hand came around my back to cement his hold. His eyes grabbed mine and his grinning mouth descended. Ronan’s kiss was strong and hot, like a sudden spring storm, teeming with energy and urgency.

  I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled his tongue inside.

  Ronan pushed deeper.

  I knew he would. He always took things one step further; luring me out of my comfort zone until I forgot the zone existed. Not that it took much. Diving, searching, penetrating; his kiss alone had me wet. But it was a temporary fix. A stand-in for what my body truly wanted.

  Breasts aching, my pulse pounding, I burrowed my hands into the lush strands of his hair. Soft and thick, I recalled how the ends would burn with a bronze fire when he shifted. It had been a long time since I’d seen Ronan that way, his tri-colored wings spread and his muscles swathed in burnished copper scales. A long time since I’d felt his human skin.

  Or any skin, I thought, as his fingers slid along the curve of my back.

  Lyrriken libidos were strong. They weren’t accustomed to being ignored for weeks, let alone months. By that reasoning it was easy to convince myself: it’s not Ronan I’m giving into.

  It’s me.

  His hand slid down inside the back of my pants. The heat and power of his grip coaxed a groan from my throat. I pulled his lip in between my teeth and bit down, breaking the skin. Something about that small act resonated inside me, and it wasn’t his blood that I tasted. It was the bitterness of dashed hopes. The mirage of desire, masking a folly my body had longed to revisit.

  I wanted his jeans off. I wanted him.

  Just like he knew I would.

  Just like he always knew.

  I pulled away. Ronan pulled me back. Desire clenched my stomach as he buried his face in my neck. His teeth and tongue burned their way down my throat. I directed the pleasure into my fists, crushing the washcloth in my grip. Water seeped out to wet the front of his shirt, and I had the urge to look. To confirm I’d moistened it to the point of transparency, to see the damp material clinging to his chest, defining the hard muscles. I imagined winding my tongue over their impressive shape.

  His embrace tightened. The material between us hid not an inch of his need. Yet Ronan’s obvious hunger for me was controlled, while my own lust was building way too fast. I felt it drowning my objectivity, washing away his mistakes—mistakes I knew would come flooding back in the morning. Not even, I thought, still having no idea why he was here. And sex with Ronan was never just sex. It was a roller coaster I swore I’d never ride again.

  Mind and body in conflict, I felt sick. Desperate. Exposed.

  Pissed.

  I shoved him back. Scooting off his lap onto the couch, I threw the washcloth, pushed the hair off my face, and let anger replace the desire in my voice. “If you’re looking for money, Ronan, forget it. I’m not bailing any of your men out of jail.”

  His breath was fast. His gaze betrayed a bit of shock at my refusal of his charms—and more panic than I’d seen on him in a long time. “I don’t need money, Dahl. I need your help.”

  “Course you do.” He gave me wounded puppy eyes, and I rolled mine. “Help with what?”

  “Murder.”

  “Are you serious? What the hell did you get involved in this time?” I raised a hand, stopping him. “Never mind.” I slammed a couple extra perky kittens on his head; affixing the bandages harder than necessary to make him cringe. “Maybe you should call the police.”

  “The police have no business in our affairs.”

  “Our affairs? You’re sure a lyrriken is involved?”

  “No one else could have done it.”

  I leaned back, stunned. “You’re talking about that family, aren’t you? I swear, Ronan, if you had a hand in killing those kids…”

  He jumped up. “Fuck you, Dahl. I would never hurt kids.”

  “There are a lot of things I thought you’d never do.”

  Rage and bitterness rushed in, and a swath of dark bronze scales erupted across his face. It vanished as h
e swallowed the sudden flare of emotions. “I didn’t kill those people. But if I don’t figure out who did, they’ll come for me. And the next body you find nailed to the floor will be mine.”

  Seven

  A fresh beer in my hand, I tipped it at him. “Go on. I can’t wait to hear this one.”

  “It’s not what you think.” Ronan returned to his seat on the ottoman. Elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him, he said, “I’m working for the Guild.”

  I coughed on my drink. “You’re what?”

  “Don’t act so shocked. What you do for Oren, protecting humans, hunting what comes through the exits, covering up the truth—you know where his information comes from. Call yourself a freelancer, a subcontractor, or whatever shit you’re telling yourself these days, but you’ve been doing Guild work for years. Obsessively, too,” he threw in with an edge, “unless you’ve stopped acting like every creature that slips through is your fault.”

  I couldn’t tell if it was anger or concern in his voice. I didn’t like either. “I never said it was my fault.”

  “Back home, you killed without thought. Age, gender, species didn’t matter. You didn’t ask if they deserved it. You only cared about your orders and pleasing the elders. Then you come here, and suddenly humans are more precious than your own kind?”

  “My own kind arrested me. They arrested you, Ronan.”

  “They were following orders,” he said, like those four words were absolution incarnate.

  They used to be. I’d absolved myself many times by believing each word from a dragon’s mouth was law. It was why, even feeling the child’s terror on that long ago night, I struck her down. She wasn’t supposed to be there. None of them were.

  Just the man; he was my target.

  But Naalish said no witnesses.

  My fire found the two older sisters and the mother first. With each death I’d felt more invigorated than the last. The man had begged me to stop. His youngest child had stared up at me, blubbering. I’d looked with disinterest into her small, wet, terrified eyes, and it was like a dam of emotion burst inside me.