Manhattan Dragon (The Treasure of Paragon Book 3)

by Genevieve Jack

  Nick nudged Rowan and mouthed, “B positive?” Why were they giving out her blood type and her dietary habits? Oh dear Lord, he thought, they were auctioning these people for a medical purpose. Were they using them for black market organs? He fisted his hands, but Rowan shook her head and pointed at her headphones. A man walked out on stage, and Nick had no trouble spotting the tattoo on his wrist as well. So it wasn’t just women. This guy was big, muscular, not an easy target. It had to be organs.

  “Now, a special treat,” the voice began. “Male, twenty-seven, type O negative. Blood has been purified of all foreign substances. We will start the bidding at one hundred.” A light blinked in one of the booths. “Thank you, booth four. Do I have 110?”

  Nick reached for his phone. He needed backup. Human trafficking on this scale was not something he could handle alone. Even though he was careful to keep the thing behind his leg, Rowan’s hand slapped over the glowing screen almost immediately. Her face snapped toward the stage. The announcer was staring directly at him.

  “Put it away,” Rowan whispered, removing her headphones. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and removed his own headphones. But Rowan looked nervous as hell. She took his hand again, and the electric ripple he’d noticed before washed over him. With a tug that pulled him out of his seat, she had them both out of the booth and into the hall before he could say another word. Three large men walked right past them as if they were invisible and burst into their booth.

  She tugged harder, and before he could process how weird the entire situation was, he was running to keep up with her, following the bend of the hallway toward the staircase where they’d entered the auction room. Only there was someone blocking the exit, an athletic-looking man in a suit, tall and big as an NBA player. He had a blond woman in a short white dress against the wall, and she was trembling like she was scared as hell. The girl’s wrist was marked with a NAVAK tattoo.

  Rowan’s grip tightened on Nick’s hand. He froze. What the hell was going on here? The big guy glanced in their direction but looked right through them. Nick looked over his shoulder. They were standing in the middle of the hallway.

  And that’s when things went from weird to nightmarish. Nick watched as the man’s eyes turned from brown to silver and two sharp canines dropped from his upper mouth. Was this some kind of vampire cult? Jesus, those things looked real. The girl made a high-pitched noise in the back of her throat.

  “Relax, little virgin,” the man said, and the girl did. Too bad that trick didn’t work on Nick. His ticker was pounding out a get-the-hell-outta-Dodge rhythm in his chest in reaction to the Halloween scare fest going on in front of him.

  Those teeth landed in the girl’s jugular. If the slurping hadn’t turned Nick’s stomach, the flow of crimson that trickled down between her breasts and stained her dress certainly would. His brain refused to accept what he was seeing. People biting people in some twisted cosplay fetish? Nick could take it no longer.

  He shook free of Rowan’s hand and drew his gun. “Hold it right there!”

  Nick noticed three things at once. One, the man with the prosthetic teeth finally noticed him and reacted with a threatening hiss. He released the blonde, who ran away as fast as her legs could carry her. Two, Rowan disappeared. Like poof from his side into thin air disappeared. And three, the guy was pissed and didn’t seem a bit afraid of his gun.

  “Who the fuck are you?” The man sniffed the air. “Human, you don’t belong here.”

  “Shut the fuck up and put your hands behind your back.”

  Big Guy did not comply. The man lunged for Nick and the freak was fast, really fast, but Nick was fast too. He’d spent his childhood dodging his guardian’s fists and years practicing jujitsu, and that was before the police academy. He’d had more than enough opportunity to practice in the field too. So when a guy as big as this one came at him, his body knew what to do. He leaned back, watched the guy’s fist punch the air over his nose, and at the same time levered his leg up to kick the man in the balls.

  The freak hissed like a cat and flew backward, almost like an invisible force had thrown him. Even the biggest guys crumpled when hit in the family jewels.

  Nick raised his gun again. “Don’t move. I don’t want to hurt you.” That wasn’t exactly true. Nick would love to hurt the dude, and the truth was he could have easily shot the man instead of kicking him in the balls. But he never pulled the trigger unless he wanted his target to die. And he did not want this creep to die. He wanted him to answer questions about the tattoo and the dead girl and what was going on tonight.

  Where the hell was Rowan?

  “Nick, look out!” she said in his ear.

  He turned toward her voice but never saw her. At that precise moment, a semitruck plowed into him from behind. Nick’s face smacked the floor and his gun skidded down the hall. Fangs pierced his skin before he could twitch. No one moves that fast, he thought. Do all of them have the fangs?

  He ignored the sharp pain and fisted the back of the guy’s head. A yank and a thrust and he heard the tear as the man’s teeth left his neck. Nick became a flurry of elbows and knees, and then he forced the top of his attacker’s head against his chest. With the heel of his palm, he cranked the man’s face to the side and brought his entire body weight down on the man’s neck. The moment the guy’s cervical spine snapped, Nick both heard and felt it. He tossed the body aside. That one wasn’t going to be answering questions.

  Big Guy was back, and Nick swept his gun off the floor. When he pointed this time, he meant business. But he never had to pull the trigger. The man’s feet left the ground of their own accord, his body flying into the wall near the door as if he’d been thrown. His head snapped back on his neck with a sickening crack and he crumpled to the floor. In the blink of an eye, Rowan appeared, standing in front of the door and holding her hand out to him.

  “More will come. We’ve got to go. Now!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Rowan cursed. Nick was bleeding. Normally vampire saliva would seal a bite wound like that. Certainly the vampire hadn’t spent long at his neck, but when Nick had grabbed the vampire’s hair and yanked, a feat she’d never thought possible for a human before she’d seen him accomplish it, he’d torn the delicate human flesh of his neck. There was no way for her to tell how much blood he’d lost or if she should be concerned. At least for now he didn’t seem affected.

  Nick swept his gun off the floor and grabbed her hand. But far from leaning on her for help, he sped by her and yanked her through the door. That shocked Rowan. Most humans did not handle learning they shared the world with supernaturals well. Up until now, Harriet had been the one exception. Back in 1904 when Rowan had revealed what she was to her best friend and explained why she hadn’t aged a day in the thirty years they’d known each other, the old woman had simply pulled out her tarot cards and said she suspected as much. But Harriet was a Traveller; she had been raised to be in touch with the beyond. And that had been a different time, when people had far more faith and a lot less technology.

  “Where did you go before?” he asked as he ushered her up the stairs.

  She marveled at his speed and agility despite his wound. He really was an exceptional human being. “I made myself invisible, just like I’m making us invisible right now.”

  He grunted. “What kind of technology are you using? Who do you work for?”

  “Work for? I don’t understand the question. It’s just something I can do.” She released his hand to show him and blinked out of sight.

  He missed a step and tripped.

  “Damn it. I’m sorry, Nick!” She hauled him onto his feet and spread her invisibility over him once more, dragging him through the door and into the alcove where she’d first seen him outside Michael’s office. “You’re bleeding.”

  “I’ll be okay. We need to get out of here.”

  “We need to stop the bleeding.” She pulled the tail of his shirt from his pants and tore off a piece, pressing
the cloth to his neck wound. Covering him with her body, she erected a wall of dragon magic around them. It was ancient and a sister magic to her invisibility, an innate ability that her people historically used to hide their treasure. A vampire burst through the door behind them and ran straight for Michael’s office. She thanked all the gods she could think of that her enchantment had worked and the creature couldn’t smell the blood. They’d gotten lucky, but they needed to get out of there.

  As soon as the hall was clear, she led Nick through the VIP lounge, but the club was packed with patrons now. They’d never get out the way they’d come in. Navigating the crowd, even while invisible, would be difficult if not impossible. She veered left and shoved Nick out onto the crowded terrace.

  He looked right, then left. “Maybe we should jump?”

  “How much do you weigh?”

  “About two fifty.”

  “Should be okay.” She wrapped her arms around him.

  “Okay for what?”

  “Hang on tight.” She spread her wings and lifted him straight up.

  Invisibility alone wouldn’t hide her scent or the scent of Nick’s blood if Verinetti came for them. She needed to put distance between them and Wicked Divine as quickly as possible. And she couldn’t keep up the concealing magic she’d used in the alcove while she was moving. It was meant to conceal a place, not a moving object. Quickly, she soared to the car and landed silently beside it, thankful she’d had Djorji wait right around the corner.

  As soon as she’d settled Nick and herself in the back seat, she dropped her invisibility.

  “Where to, miss?” Djorji asked, starting the engine.

  “The penthouse.”

  He nodded and pulled away from the curb. When she turned back to Nick, his body was tense as a tightly coiled spring beside her. His gray eyes stared straight at her with a burning intensity that had nothing to do with attraction this time. A muscle in his jaw flexed.

  “Nick? Nick, are you okay?”

  His eyes narrowed to thin slits. She noticed his hand rested on his gun in its holster. “Who do you work for?”

  A laugh bubbled from deep within her. “No one.”

  “Who provided you with the technology and the gear?” His eyes raked over her. “Where are you keeping the wings?”

  Her lips twitched. “Technology? What do you think you saw tonight?”

  “A fetish cult, obviously. Those people had fangs and were sucking each other’s blood. And the tattoos on their wrists, those must be to mark their subs. I doubt they’re all willing volunteers. Once we blow the lid off this thing, I expect we’ll learn they’ve been trafficked. So why don’t you tell me who you really are and how you just did what you did?”

  Rowan frowned. As tempting as it was, she could not let Nick labor under the delusion that everything he’d seen tonight had been human. If he returned with guns and backup, the vampires would retaliate and they would win. Nick could get hurt or killed, and she couldn’t have that on her conscience.

  “I’m taking you back to my place. We’ll get you patched up. Then we can talk.”

  He didn’t protest, but his hand stayed on his gun.

  She kept a unit in the Dakota building, which was built in 1884, and Rowan had purchased her penthouse soon after that. If there were any place she’d call home, it would be there. The building was a relic of the gilded age with corner pavilions, stepped dormers, pediments, oriel windows, and decorative terra-cotta paneling and molding. The German Renaissance architecture suited her, as did the internal courtyard and location near Central Park. Not only did her tenth-floor apartment boast double-height ceilings and ten rooms, but her unit had the only rooftop terrace in the building. An oread named Flubell maintained the place like no human could, and when Rowan stayed there, she felt as if she’d turned back the clock to a simpler time.

  But perhaps the biggest draws of the property were the security and the fact that the other property owners who lived there were masters of discretion. After all, this was the hotel where they’d filmed Rosemary’s Baby and also where John Lennon had been shot. The residents were used to a steady stream of tourists and the need for heightened vigilance. She remembered the day Lennon had been murdered and how she’d wished she’d been close enough to make a difference in his fate. She’d adored the musician and his wife. But then, a building like this held many ghosts. Humans were terribly fragile when it came right down to it. Which was why she needed to tell Nick the truth. He needed to know what he was up against.

  Djorji dropped them off at the entrance, and Rowan led Nick to the front door.

  Brian, the doorman, gave her a concerned once-over. “Are you okay, miss?”

  “Oh, the blood, yes.” She smiled warmly. “My friend has had the world’s worst bloody nose. We’re going upstairs to get it cleaned up right now.”

  Nick nodded, obligingly moving the ball of bloody cloth from his neck to his nose. Fortunately, Brian didn’t ask any further questions and Rowan again thanked her lucky stars for the Dakota and its discreet staff. She led the way into her corner of the building and up the elevator where she unlocked her unit and ushered him inside.

  Nick’s gaze roved over the foyer. “One hell of a place you’ve got here. I thought you said you were a gallery owner who ran a community center?”

  “Gallery owners can’t have nice homes?”

  “You don’t get a place in the Dakota just by being rich. This place turned down Madonna. Fucking Yoko Ono lives here. You have to be a legend to share this address.”

  She smiled broadly. “Maybe there’s more to me than just a pretty face.”

  He scoffed. “I never thought you were just a pretty face. But once again, I have to wonder who you work for. Are you a spy?”

  “No.” She winked and gave him her most flirtatious smile, hoping to lighten the mood. “But if you want me to tie you up and interrogate you, you only have to ask.” She reached for the bloody cloth he was holding. “You’re already bloody. Half my work is done. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  He gently pushed her hand away. “Bathroom?”

  “Down the hall and to the left.” She raised her hands and reached for the bloody cloth again, but he drew back. “Let me help you.”

  He shook his head. “I got it. I’m fine.”

  Nick was not fine. In fact, he was feeling a little tipsy, likely the result of blood loss. On some level, he understood he’d been stupid coming here, possibly walking right into her trap. At least this explained the lies. She had to be a spy. Possibly Russian or Iraqi. If she was, she was barking up the wrong tree. He didn’t know anything. He was a homicide detective. That was all.

  More likely, it wasn’t him she was after but whatever that was he’d seen in the basement of Wicked Divine. She’d saved his life tonight; clearly it wasn’t her intention to hurt him. Maybe she was FBI? CIA? Special Ops? Goddamn, he needed a drink.

  He found the bathroom and was surprised to find a man’s shirt already hanging inside. He stuck his head out the door, looked right and then left. No one. He took a closer look at the shirt. It was his size. What the fuck? Did she keep a selection of men’s shirts on hand just in case?

  He stripped out of his jacket and his bloody shirt and used a towel from the counter to clean the excess blood from his neck and torso. Luckily his pants had been spared. He turned to the side and inspected the two puncture wounds still oozing on the side of his neck. Now that he’d cleaned off the old blood, he noted they were barely bleeding anymore. Could’ve been worse. Thank God the guy missed his jugular.

  A box of gauze pads, tape, and related first aid accouterments filled a basket on the counter. That was it; she was definitely a spy. Any woman who kept materials to patch herself up in her guest bathroom had major secrets. He washed the bite out with plenty of soap and water and layered on some antibacterial cream. He’d probably have to see the doctor about this one for some oral antibiotics. He didn’t even want to think about the shitload of germs in a
human bite. He placed a stack of gauze over the bite and taped it into place.

  After washing his face, he rinsed the blood out of his hair and into the sink, scrubbed it with a towel, and ran his fingers through it. There were benefits to wearing it high and tight. By the time he’d put on the shirt—fit like glove—he looked almost as good as new, aside from the pallor from losing a pint or two. He’d live. He tucked in the shirt, then made sure his gun and holster were in place.

  When he came out again, he found Rowan sitting in a leather sofa in a room that was bigger than his entire apartment. He couldn’t tell if it was a living room or a ballroom. If you pushed the furniture aside, there would be plenty of space for hoop skirts and dancing. In fact, the entire room had a certain historical quality, like he’d walked onto the set of some PBS episode. The walls were lined with fabric, and a fire burned in a fireplace along one wall. The carved mantel looked custom made. It depicted dragons of all things, beautiful and gracefully made to look like they were climbing up the sides and holding up the shelf.

  Rowan had changed into a pair of athletic pants and a sleeveless T-shirt. He missed the stilettos and the short skirt but liked that she seemed more comfortable in this. Maybe it was a sign she planned to tell him the truth about who she was.

  The fire crackled.

  “Would you care for a drink?” she asked. “We have scotch, bourbon, wine. I could find a beer if you wanted one.”

  “Bourbon.” At least he didn’t have to worry about her poisoning him. If she’d wanted him dead, she’d had multiple chances tonight.

  “Do you want that mixed with anything?”

  “More bourbon.”

  She rose and walked barefoot to a bar in the corner where she poured his drink and a red wine for herself. Damn. He caught himself responding physically to the sway of her hips. Even her bare feet turned him on, perfectly arched, the skin smooth and elegant, her toes painted tulip red. He was doomed. For all he knew, she was some sort of secret agent, but his head kept going straight to the gutter.