by Leela Ash
“What?” Flames lit his eyes again. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
His brother smiled, but his own eyes smoldered. “Because I’m his neighbor, not his owner. After what the Fangs did to them, you’ll excuse Rats if they get anxious when people talk about ‘keeping’ them.”
“Can you contact him?” Lorde’s voice remained calm and level despite the anger flaring among his Flight. “I admit that I have few contacts with the Rats – and they, above all Kinds, are what we need now.”
“I’ll try. If Walker won’t answer his phone, I’ll send word through his family. No promises, but I expect he’ll help us. If he’s asked politely,” Jackson added, with a pointed glare at Michael.
A glare he returned. “So, what are the rest of us supposed to do?”
“Aid those who are evacuating. Then guard this place. Watch for any unusual activity here or in town.”
Beverly, New York wasn’t big enough to qualify as a ‘town’ in Michael’s book, but no point arguing.
“And then?”
“And then, we wait for more information.”
Chapter 3
Wearing new clothes, in a new home, in a new state, with a new name, Dakota only had one question.
Now what?
Her mysterious conspirators did everything they promised. They flew her to New York City. Gave her a used but serviceable Toyota and a suitcase full of clothes. Provided a dossier with her new name (“Annie Crane”) and career (“ghost writer”). And handed her the keys to a small house just down the road from this nest of Dragons.
A plain little ranch with peeling paint and a twenty-year-old carpet, the house screamed ‘affordable’. A struggling author might very well find herself forced to live here, hours north of ‘the City’. What amazed Dakota was her patron’s attention to detail. The place came complete with notes taped to the fridge, reminding her of ‘publishing’ duties. A half-finished romance novel waited on the computer. Anyone spying on her would find no flaws in her cover story.
Which might be a good thing – but it was also creepy, proof that her partners had done this before. This wasn’t play. It was a covert operation, no different than infiltrating a terrorist cell. If her associates were right, the creatures she spied on wouldn’t hesitate to kill her.
Her rock, the refuge that kept her sane, was anger. Every time cowardice urged her to flee back west, she thought of Cally. How they’d found her in an alley, dumped like trash. The months she’d grieved, thinking her little sister died a junkie. Above all, she brooded about her own guilt. The thousand-and-one times she found herself staring blankly into space, wondering if she could have saved her sister by just doing…something. Anything.
None of which was true. Cally’s death wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t an accident, either. It was cold-blooded murder.
No risk was too great to dare if it meant bringing her killer to justice.
‘Her killer.’ Why call him that, when she knew his name now.
Owen Jackson.
That was the last gift from her sponsors. A folder with photos of a brown-haired man, surrounded by doting supermodels. Owen Jackson. Multi-millionaire. Infamous playboy.
Murderer.
The lead cylinder in her pocket thrummed as she meditated on his picture. That had spooked Dakota the first time it happened, but it no longer bothered her. In fact, it was almost comforting. The cylinder seemed to agree with her, like a silent girlfriend who nodded at every nasty thing you said about your ex. Someone who understood her and how much it meant to finally have a villain to blame for her pain.
That cylinder was the friend she didn’t have.
And still the question remained, what now?
From her living room, she could see the Stiles’ farm, the site where these Dragons lurked. With binoculars, she could make out the license plates of the handful of cars parked by its porch. People darted about; something was up. It certainly looked suspicious to her.
Yet there were details that didn’t fit. A pair of baby prams. A small boy who played by himself on the lawn or tagged after an older teenager as he did his chores. A grey-haired couple who sat on a porch swing, sipping lemonade.
Were these Dragons? Did monsters have families and children?
The Stiles’ farm didn’t look like a secret war facility. It looked like, well, a farm.
Yeah, and this place looks like a poor writer’s house. But it’s not. Remember that. Looks can be deceiving.
Down at the farm, one of the sedans pulled onto the road. Dakota couldn’t see the driver clearly. Quickly, she jotted the time down in a little notebook. Noted which car it was, added that there was only one person in it and…
…Gaped when the car slowed in front of her house. The left blinker flashed as it waited for a truck to pass.
One of those creatures was coming here?
Her thoughts scattered like a flock of frightened pigeons. The Dragons knew! Her cover was blown! They’d kill her!
A second vehicle followed the sedan, a beat up old Chevy truck. Should she run? Beverly, the nearest town, was eight miles away. Could she make it that far through the woods?
Too late. Tires crunched on the gravel of her driveway. Dakota only had time to shove the notebook into a desk drawer before a man step out of the car.
Red hair blazed, stronger than the weak spring sun. Emerald eyes glittered in his strong-boned, handsome face. Thick eyebrows shaded them and gave him a somber, brooding air. His suit – black jacket over white shirt – fit snug against his muscular form.
That was a Dragon. Dakota knew it, without a doubt. It wasn’t his burning hair or serpent-green eyes that gave him away. No, it was his confidence, his pride. The aristocratic lines of his cheeks, his sharp chin. He scanned her yard coolly, with the imperious gaze of a man who commanded obedience. Finding no threats, he strode to her door with the sleek, elegant grace of a lion.
A predator. When this man Shifted, no cheerful little bunny would appear.
Some part of her mind chittered at her to run, to flee out the back door. Yet she watched him, as helpless as a bird entranced by a snake. He was gorgeous, possessing a primal, lethal, masculine power that took her breath away. No wonder Cally had fallen for one of his kind.
Hell, she was half falling herself!
Three knocks startled her out of those thoughts. Dakota scurried to the door and opened it a crack, leaving the security chain locked.
As if that would stop a Dragon…
“Yes? Can I help you?”
“Ms. Crane?”
For one terrible moment, she didn’t recognize her fake name. “Um, yes! Yes, that’s me.”
“Hi. I’m Michael Farrell. I’d like to talk to you if I could.”
At least that was an easy request to refuse! “I’m sorry, but I’m not interested in whatever it is you’re selling.”
“Selling? What…no! I’m not selling anything. I live down the road.”
“At the farm?” Dammit, now the Chevy had arrived too.
“Yes.”
“You don’t look like a farmer. Sorry.”
He put his hand out as she started to close the door. The door hit it… and stopped dead. Like running into a brick wall. Dakota leaned against it and it didn’t budge.
“I’m a friend of the Stiles family. Look, I just…”
A blonde woman popped out of the truck, balancing a foil-covered pan. Wearing clean jeans, riding boots, and a flannel shirt, she did look like a local. And when she turned a cheery smile on Dakota, she felt her fears melt.
What a sweet, kind face she had! Surely, she couldn’t be a monster?
“Hannah!” the man yelped. “What are you doing here?”
“Trying to prevent you from scaring our new neighbor to death.”
“Why would I scare her?” Sincere indignation lit his face.
“Well, I’d be nervous if a strange man showed up on my doorstep. How does she know you’re not a serial killer?”
; As the man sputtered, she held the pan out to Dakota. The scent of ginger and cloves wafted up from it. “Hi! I’m Hannah Lorde. That’s my parents’ farm down there. We wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood. Hope you like gingerbread.”
How could she turn down that without giving herself away? Heart pounding, Dakota slipped the door chain free. “I’m Annie. It’s, um, nice to meet you. Please, come in.”
“Thanks. Oh, and Mr. Mysterious is Michael Farrell.”
“He did introduce himself,” she said.
“Though, apparently, I forgot to include the critically important detail, ‘not a serial killer’,” Michael added with a grin. “For which I apologize.”
Lord, he was handsome! Dakota found herself smiling back despite her worries. It was so tempting to forget why she was here. To let herself be seduced by his charm and smoldering hot body.
That, however, would get her killed. “Thank you. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll put the gingerbread in the kitchen.” A short delay that would give her a second to collect her thoughts.
In reality, it gave her much more than that. As the kitchen door closed behind her, Dakota’s sharp ears caught a faint murmur of voices.
“Hannah, what on earth were you thinking? This woman could be dangerous!”
Did they mean her? With a start, Dakota realized that yes, she actually was kind of dangerous. She was a spy, after all.
“Or she could be my new neighbor.” Not a hint of worry clouded the woman’s voice. “And if she was dangerous, my husband would be here, wouldn’t he?”
That didn’t make any sense to Dakota. She bumped a couple plates together loudly, so they’d think she was busy putting her gift away.
Michael said something too low for her to catch then Hannah’s blithe laugh rang out. “Yes, I do trust you guys to protect me! You haven’t let me down yet.”
Protection…from her? She’d never hurt anybody in her life. To have someone fear her, think her a threat…
Good. Let them fear. These villains killed your sister.
Cold and grim, that thought startled her. If felt odd. Alien, as if someone else’s thoughts had been beamed into her head. Cold flared at her hip. When she slipped her hand into her pocket, the lead cylinder burned icy against her fingers. Maybe she really was going mad. A thought that filled her with resignation, not fear.
Madness was better than guilt and endless worries about how she’d let her sister down.
Dakota sighed and composed her features. As she walked back to the living room, however, one detail stuck in her mind.
‘Your’ sister, the voice said. Not ‘my’ sister…
Michael and Hannah stayed for an hour and by the time she closed the door behind them, Dakota’s head was spinning.
Hannah was a farm girl. No doubt about that. No one could fake her limitless tales about riding, milking the cows, and that one malevolent rooster that terrified her when she was eight. She’d married a rich NYC banker, however. Someone she met online, of all places!
Michael…oh, Michael was a different story. He introduced himself as Mr. Lorde’s bodyguard and apologized for the interrogation. Security could never let their guard down, he told her, his green eyes mesmerizing.
Unlike Hannah, he didn’t offer any stories about himself. When he spoke, it was to ask her questions. What books had she published? Why had she moved to a small town like Beverly? Questions designed to probe her cover story.
Dakota thought she passed his test, though it would take a while to get used to being called ‘Annie’.
He shook her hand as he left. “Again, I’m sorry for the scare. My manners are atrocious.”
Actually, they were lovely. As lovely as the rich, deep timber of his voice and the way he held her hand a second ‘too’ long.
“It’s fine. I’m just not used to small-town friendliness yet.”
“If you need any help, don’t hesitate to come down to the farm,” Hannah urged. “My parents and I will be gone for a bit. We’re…visiting family. But several of my husband’s associates will be here and they’d be glad to lend a hand.”
“Thank you.”
“That is a sincere offer, by the way.” Butterflies winged their way through her stomach at his smile.
“Okay, then. I’ll remember!”
As their cars pulled out of the drive, Dakota shut the door. All the tension, the fear she’d covered up, came flooding back and she shivered.
They were nice. Both of them. And their story made sense – unlike her tale of murderous Dragons.
But I saw that woman Shift into a Hare. I know these things exist.
Could Evil be so kind, though? Surely Darth Vader never brought anyone gingerbread…
Remember your sister. Remember what they did to her.
‘Your’ sister again. Not ‘my’.
Sick and uneasy, Dakota slunk back to her bedroom to cry.
Chapter 4
In her dream, Dakota stood in an alley. Puddles of urine and vomit pooled around her feet. Bags of garbage heaped high on both sides. Several had split and their contents – rotting food, trash, cat litter – dribbled down the pile.
From deep within that revolting mess, a woman whispered, “Why did you leave me?”
Cally. Oh God, Cally was in there!
“Why didn’t you help me?”
“Cally? Where are you?” Dakota threw herself at the garbage, flinging bags wildly.
“I needed you and you weren’t there.”
“I didn’t know where you were,” she sobbed, ignoring the filth that cascaded down around her.
“Why did you let me go? You should have taken care of me. You’re my big sister.”
Was that a scrap of cloth beneath the rotting banana peels and coffee grounds? Dakota thrust her arm deep into the pile. There! An arm! Her fingers closed around a cold wrist and she pulled with all her might. Garbage cascaded around her, bags splitting, filth raining everywhere. But slowly, she pulled Cally out.
Not Cally. Her corpse.
Slime soaked her beautiful blonde hair. Flies buzzed about her.
Then, her dead sister looked up at her, eyes filmed white. “This is your fault,” Cally croaked.
“No!” Dakota wailed as her sister’s hand closed around her wrist. “Owen Jackson did this! This isn’t my fault!”
“This is your fault,” Cally gurgled. One rotting hand rose toward her face. “You let me go.”
Dakota closed her eyes as those damp, slimy fingers stroked her cheek.
Then she screamed with all her might.
“Annie?”
Sensation flooded back. She heard footsteps, running toward her. Smelled lavender and jasmine. Dakota startled – and found herself kneeling on a thick Persian carpet. To her left stood an enormous canopy bed, draped in white silk. A bay window lay open along one white marble wall, offering views of a sprawling flower garden.
And Michael Farrell charged toward her, wearing nothing except a small red thong draped across his privates.
“Are you all right?” He dropped beside her as shivers overtook her.
“I dreamed… I was dreaming…”
But this was a dream too, wasn’t it? It had to be. Yet, the details, the vividness, took her breath away. She could feel the brush of the carpet beneath the thin silk robe she wore. None of the ‘rot’ in the alley had held the faintest scent. Here, the air was laced with a hint of lavender. Michael’s hand, as he helped her up, was warm and strong.
Her heart fluttered. Her breath shook her. When had that ever happened in a dream?
Even Michael seemed shocked as he glanced about the room. Though his confusion quickly melted into delight. “This is it,” he whispered. A proud smile lit his broad face and set his eyes glittering. “Finally.”
Seeing her blank look, his smile grew gentler. “You must be baffled by this. Why were you screaming? I hope this place doesn’t horrify you.”
“No, I was having a nightmare.” Outside the bay window
, birds sang. Trees rustled in a soft breeze. “Where are we?”
“In a dream. One we’re sharing.” He caught her hand and drew her to the window. As Dakota settled on its soft, plush pillows, he stared out at the manicured gardens beyond.
“How is that possible?”
“There are so many things I have to tell you.”
Her heart beat faster as he took a seat beside her. Half from fear of this strange, deadly predator that had drawn her into a dream. Half from…
Oh hell. Be honest with yourself.
Half from him. That flimsy sash left almost nothing to her imagination. Broad, muscled chest. Sculpted abs. The masculine strength of his hips and stomach. His hair burned like a winter sun. But his body, oh, that was the gift of summer. Many red-heads had pale Irish skin. Not Michael. A rich bronze tan covered every inch of his sculpted body. Even (she risked a peak down at his crotch) his thighs.
Good grief, he must sun-bathe nude to get a tan like that!
That thought, and the image that came with it, sent a rush of warmth coursing through her body.
“Let me start with the hardest part.” He took a deep breath and stared into her eyes with his luminous green orbs. “Annie, I’m a Dragon.”
“Okay.”
Too late, she saw her mistake. A normal woman wouldn’t know Dragons even existed!
“You’re not surprised?”
“Well, I mean, it’s not real. It’s just a dream. You’re a Dragon? Sure, why not?”
That excuse popped out with shocking ease.
Wow. I guess I’ve got a gift for lying.
He chuckled and shook his head. Bangs flopped down over one of his eyes and Dakota had to crush an urge to brush it back. “It’s not ‘just’ a dream. It’s the Rite of Claiming, the most sacred ritual of my Kind.”
The intensity of his stare uneased her. She half expected him to drop to one knee and propose. “Every Dragon has a Mate somewhere in the world. A woman who’s the other half of his soul. When they find each other, they share a dream. This dream. It binds them together, in love, forever.”
Dakota’s stomach tied itself in a knot. It was a beautiful, romantic, magical idea…