Dragon Fall: Masters of the Flame 3 (Mating Fever) (17 page)

Rave gave him the townhouse address and added, “We’re on our way.”

Bale passed the phone back to Joel. “Keep him updated and your pack will be well rewarded.”

The wolf-shifter grunted. “We know you helped the pack in Angels Rest destroy that group of hunters who were experimenting on shifters. They freed a member of our pack who’d been missing for months.
We
owe
you
.”

When they pulled up outside the stylish townhome, nothing seemed amiss. The rain had stopped, leaving the streets fresh and quiet when Bale got out.

But the front door yielded to his hand…but he wasn’t using his dragon strength. Not a good sign even in this refined part of town.

He didn’t bother calling out to her—his dragon already knew she wasn’t there. The acrid tang of fear and rage had faded since she’d been attacked.

The spatter of crimson in the otherwise white kitchen almost brought him to his knees, but he took a bracing breath and the dragon relaxed. Not hers.

“You held your own,” he whispered to her, as if she could hear. “Keep holding on. I’m coming.”

Back at the car, Joel was on his phone but he hung up when Bale slipped into the sedan beside him. “I called the cops.” He held up one hand. “My son is the cop. He knows to be discreet, but there’s some things he can check. Security cameras can get us closer, then this”—he touched the side of his nose—“will bring her home.”

Bale nodded his thanks. But Esme had already been home, and yet she’d been taken again because of this power-mad warlock who wanted more than his chemistry set could win him. Bale already knew that she hated Ashcraft—rightly—but would she now hate him too?

Chapter 17

“He kept me in a cave,” Esme whimpered. “He did wicked things to my body and tried to make me believe I was his queen. It was… It was…”

More than she’d ever dreamed of.

“Awful,” she finished.

Awful as in full of awe that
she
had been chosen by a dragon lord.

Actually awful that she’d run from him, too terrified of her own desires to believe in them and fight for them.

She wanted to kick herself but she channeled the enraged quaver into as much guileless trembling as she could stomach. But she could stomach a lot because she hadn’t eaten in what seemed like days, and Lars had finally agreed to take her to her favorite gallery bistro downtown.

She assumed that wasn’t where he was
actually
taking her—considering he was on the run from federal agents and the rabid click-bait media, not to mention infuriated dragon-shifters—but he obviously wanted to take her somewhere and she didn’t want him choking her for real this time.

He’d been understandably upset that she’d stabbed him through the arm, but when she realized there was no chance of her getting away from him, she’d thrown herself into his other arm, crying hysterically.

“I thought you were him,” she wailed. “Lars darling, you saved me! Look what he did to me, to my hair.” She snuffled dramatically.

She’d never called him darling, not ever, but maybe the endearment had discombobulated him enough—along with her arms snaked around
his
neck—to fall back into his lies.

Like every broke gambler at the tables, he still thought he could win.

After she helped him wrap his bicep—the wound was bad enough she tried to convince him to go to the emergency room, but he refused, downplaying the severity which just pissed her off more because she’d really thrown her all into it—they walked the quiet evening streets toward the busier district. As if this was just another date night leading up to their engagement, she fumed. Meanwhile, he quizzed her closely.

“Darling,” he said, “you disappeared with your girlfriends. What happened?”

She frowned. “I don’t remember everything.”
Because you drugged me to bait a virgin-eating dragon
, she wanted to scream.

But she had to choose her moment, be close enough to other people that she could get away from him. Because who knew what weapons and spells he had secreted in the lining pockets of his bespoke but now bedraggled coat.

He had her arm threaded through the crook of his elbow. What had seemed gallant with Bale felt menacing from Lars. But she kept up her careless stream of chatter about drinking and dancing with her friends.

“Not too much drinking,” she told him solemnly, “because I know you wouldn’t like me to be slurring and stupid.”

“Indeed not.”

Damn him, he didn’t even blush.

And just like that, she decided she wasn’t going to escape him.

She was going to stop him.

But how? He could have more drugs in his pockets. Or a gun. And she thought maybe she’d prefer the gun. The thought of how he’d dosed her into oblivion made her want to start screaming again right here and stab him some more.

She had to be smart and strong—two elements missing in her life where everything else had been provided—if she wanted to be free of him forever.

That was the third missing element: her freedom.

She’d make sure Lars lost his. She had to maneuver him somewhere he couldn’t get away, where she could summon the police.

Or some other greater power…

She’d been the bait for a dragon, and now she’d be the downfall of a warlock.

She smiled up at him, keeping her gaze soft.
Passive and pretty
. What would Grand-mère do?

When they crossed a street after waiting for the change of the light, she stopped and yanked her arm out of his.

He spun, his expression murderous.

She put her hands on her hips. “Lars, you need to tell me right now. What are your intentions toward me? Do you even know?”

His black expression turned hunted. “What—?”

“Are you going to marry me?” She blinked until tears welled up in her eyes. “Grand-mère says you won’t because I’ve gone all whore on you.”

At the mention of her grandmother—or maybe it was the whore part—Lars blanched. “What did she tell you?”

Esme waved one hand. Not the one missing her engagement ring. “Things I didn’t understand. You know how she is.” When he cursed under his breath, she smiled coquettishly—oh god, she’d used to do that for reals—and asked, “Are we doing this? Is that a yes?”

“Yes,” he muttered.

She squealed and jumped into his arms.

He was little taller and several pounds heavier than Bale, but he was no dragon lord. He staggered under her light but unexpected weight.

And never felt her unexpected and equally light fingers going through his pockets.

For once, her weak and willow hands were useful.

Her stomach heaved at the smooth, cold bore of a syringe and the sharp sting of a knife edge.

And the rougher but equally cold handle of—oh god—a gun.

He’d notice if she took the gun… When he put her down, she staggered a little, forcing him to hold her while she tucked the stolen spoils into her own pockets.

Hmm, maybe she’d make a good dragon.

“You know what,” she said when he straightened. “We have to celebrate. You pick a place and I’ll treat. And then afterward…” She gave him a sultry look.

He licked his lips, not so much sexy as half nervous and half hungry. She recognized that yearning for food and, even more, for company. He’d been avoiding his usual haunts for days, his own family had disavowed him, and the poppets he’d used to control probably weren’t taking his calls anymore since she happened to know that his salt castle had melted into nothingness. No wonder he was so desperate to take what she was holding out. She almost—almost but not quite—felt bad for him.

And maybe she could almost absolve herself for being so needy too.

“Let’s go to Trismegistus,” he said at last. “I like their cocktails.”

Of course he did. He’d drugged her at the bar several times, according to his little black book.

“Perfect.” She smiled at him.

It
was
perfect for what she had planned. Chic though it was, Trismegistus was an underground bar in a not-quite-so-nice part of town. Anjali had warned her to watch her purse. Now that they knew what Lars Ashcraft was, Esme wondered if there was more to the subterranean choice, and her gaze lingered on the shallow symbols etched into the cobblestones on the street outside. The basement door was at the end of a narrow alley draped in ivy that was picturesque enough during the day, but at night the strands looked like scraggly fingers reaching down to grab the unwary.

Good thing she was wary now. Lars was the one who didn’t know what was going to hit him.

***

Joel took the call from his cop son, then turned to Bale. “Are we waiting for your people?”

“I’m going now,” Bale said firmly.

The wolf-shifter nodded. “A traffic camera down the street from her place at the time you said caught her and the warlock getting into a cab. Managed to track the company and found out they were dropped off in town.” He grinned with teeth showing. “And now that they are on foot…”

They sped to the drop-off and parked.

“This shouldn’t involve your pack,” Bale told Joel. “I will find her from here.”

The wolf-shifter shrugged and touched his nose. “My kind are better suited for this. And she was a sweet girl. You’re just a guy taking his dog for an evening walk.”

Joel pulled a collar and leash from a bag in the back seat. “City shifters do it sneakier.” He shifted in the car and jumped out, giving himself a good shake.

Bale shook his head and eased the collar loosely over the wolf-shifter nose. “Come on then, Fluffy.”

Joel growled low, lip wrinkling back over gigantic teeth.

“I don’t think dogs do that,” Bale said. “But I never had a dog, so what do I know.”

Joel wagged his large, plumed tail.

“Very convincing.” Bale lifted his head. “This way, Fluffy.”

The street degenerated quickly, to the point where having a bad dog on a leash made him fit right in.

Joel tugged him down an alley that he almost missed. And then he caught the scent, dark and sweet.

His dragon reared up against his control.

And he let it go.

He didn’t shift—that would be going too far—but the beast burned in his skin, and all his senses expanded as if he’d taken to the air for a dragon’s-eye view.

He and his beast were united as one, hunting for their mate.

“Sit,” he told Joel. “Stay. And take a bloody chunk of any warlock who tries to run out that door.”

Leaving the wolf-shifter to cover the only exit, Bale strode into the bar.

He realized instantly that the place was trouble. Though the alley outside had been rinsed by the day’s rains, inside stank. The dark wood and ferns seemed posh, but the smell was rogue shifters and some crueler magic.

And his pure, gentle solarys was here.

Narrow concrete columns held up the ceiling, blocking his sweeping view of the room. His dragon twisted with claustrophobia, and he grimaced. Just a few days of sunlight and now his beast was done with caves.

He stalked forward, swinging his head restlessly. A few patrons in the recessed, half-curtained alcoves drew back as his attention passed them. If he had to, he would shift right here and raze the place to the ground. These rogues and dark-art dabblers had never encountered a dragon of the Burning Night.

The bartender locked eyes with him, and Bale let the dragon rise another notch.

She placed her hands on the bar. “No trouble.” Warning or promise, Bale wasn’t sure and didn’t care.

“Too late,” he growled.

He rounded the last column and saw Esme.

She was sitting with Ashcraft at an intimately small table under a pendant light, the warlock’s arm around her shoulders. Her shorn pale hair almost glowed under the frosted bulb, and her eyes looked darker than ever.

Bale’s chest seized, a chill creeping up his left arm and across his chest toward his heart, as if the blight was rushing back to take him.

Then she looked up and saw him.

The frozen breath in his lungs shattered at the joy shining there.

Whatever else happened, she wanted to see him now.

He stopped in his tracks when Ashcraft tightened his grip around her neck.

“I knew you’d come for her,” the warlock said.

But Bale kept his eyes on Esme. She smiled at him, and the curve of her lips spoke without words that she too had known he’d come for her.

Only then did he deign to glance at Ashcraft. “If you knew, it would’ve been wiser for you not to be touching her right now.”

“Because you touched her first?” Ashcraft shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. She’s served her purpose. Now you’ll be served up, like a damned fried chicken.”

Bale tilted forward onto the toes of his boots. “Someone will fry, assuredly.”

“This is not your Keep, dragon-man,” Ashcraft snapped. “You’re on my ground now. These are my people, and you have no one.”

“Dragons don’t care much about the ground,” Bale said. “And I have Esme.”

The warlock made a scoffing noise.

Ooh, he shouldn’t have done that, Bale thought, based on the look Esme shot him.

But Ashcraft blundered on. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist her.”

Bale nodded. “You were even more right than you know.”

Esme swallowed hard.

For a second, Ashcraft seemed nonplussed by the agreement, but he wasn’t going to be stopped.

He raised his other hand, a pistol tight in his grip.

Bale gave the man a lazy blink. “If you fill me with holes, do you have something to catch the ichor? I should warn you, it dissolves quickly once exposed to the air.” He tilted his head. “Like a saltwater taffy castle in fire.”

Ashcraft sucked in a harsh breath. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“No more voodoo for you to do,” Esme murmured.

He grabbed her by the nape—no hair—and shoved her sideways. Bale stiffened in outrage, but she swayed gracefully, not falling.

Ashcraft aimed the black bore of the pistol at her, his glare back on Bale. “If I can’t shoot you—”

“Don’t shoot her either,” Bale said, though his dragon fought to breathe fire, not words. But he couldn’t, not with Esme so close to his target. “She is my true mate. Without her, I’ll turn to stone. And if you think it’s hard getting blood from a stone, ichor is even more of a bitch.”