Fury of a Highland Dragon (2 page)

Tydrin shook his head.

The movement knocked brain cells into motion and…Good Christ. Unbelievable. She was real. He wasn’t imagining her. Or the radiating warmth frothing around her like sea foam. Glowing bright blue, the female’s aura lit up the space around her. Her bio-energy hummed and his dragon half woke, setting off a dangerous chain reaction. Bone-deep hunger punched through. His body came alive. His mind dulled, blocking out everything but her. Long red hair pulled into a messy bun, she shuffled closer to the headstone. Mumbling another apology, she cleared debris away from the granite base. The task was one he usually preformed. On this date, every year when he visited. Right now, though, he didn’t care about his mission.

Or about paying his respects.

Struck stupid by her, only one thought registered—a high-energy female here…in the heart of Aberdeen.

Tydrin frowned. Holy shite. He was in trouble. Neck deep and sinking fast without any idea how to control his reaction. To be expected. He’d never encountered a HE female before, much less stood within touching distance. Veritable unicorns in Dragonkind circles, HEs were the rarest of the rare. Females whose connection to the Meridian—the electrostatic bands that ringed the planet, nourishing all living things—was so powerful Dragonkind males fought to possess them. An archaic practice, mayhap, but…hmm, baby. With her less than ten feet away, he understood the compulsion. Biological imperative shoved him forward, lifted his feet, urging him to get closer. To touch. To taste. To discover what all the energy would feel like pressed against his skin.

Gaze glued to her, he took a second step. And then another.

Saliva pooled in his mouth.

Tydrin swallowed, combating the ferocious need, fighting for control, trying to reason with errant urges. Logic didn’t work. Neither did threats. Not surprising. With his dragon fixated on her, he was past the point of negotiation. Arousal pushed to the forefront, upping the stakes, making his heart pound and his body throb.

His feet moved again without his help.

Frozen grass crunched beneath his boot treads.

The harsh sound stopped his forward progress.

He drew a deep breath, hoping more oxygen would spark his failing intellect. Frigid air rushed into his lungs. His brain reengaged, force feeding him a shovelful of common sense. A plan. He needed one…right now. Before he did something stupid—like scare the ever-living shite out of the female. Not the best way to go if he wanted to get close. And oh how he yearned to, ’cause…aye. Now that he’d seen her, he wanted to know—how she would taste, how she would fit in his arms, how it would feel to be fed by such powerful energy. The thought cranked him tighter. Excitement skittered down his spine. Tydrin tightened the leash on his control. He didn’t want to frighten her. The moment he did, she’d run scared, and he’d lose his chance.

Which left him with two choices.

Option one—approach her here, in a deserted cemetery, and hope for the best. Option two—wait for her to finish, follow her home, find out everything about her before engineering a chance meeting between them. Tydrin nodded. Aye. Definitely. A perfectly reasonable way to go. But even as he cemented his plan of attack, temptation urged him to drop the invisibility spell, step up behind her, and grab hold. Wrapped her up. Take her home. Love her well.

His dragon half snarled, liking the approach. He shut it down. The compulsion smacked of stupidity. Was witless in every way, and yet—

He ran his gaze over her again.

A twig snapped.

The sharp sound brought his head around.

The female didn’t hear it. Busy with the clean-up, she soldiered on. No change in her posture. No spike of alarm in her bio-energy. Just the scent of sorrow and a need to make something right. Dragging his focus from her, he scanned the shadowed forest edging the graveyard. His night vision narrowed, then sharpened. A moment passed before he spotted the threat.

Two males. Both human. Dressed in dark clothing.

Eyes narrowed, Tydrin watched the lead man unholster his sidearm. Raising the gun, the asshole leveled it at the female. Aggression swelled. Catastrophic. Urgent. Lethal. The need to defend her detonated deep inside him. His dragon answered the call, begging to be set free. With a mental flick, he opened the cage, allowing the killer inside him to step out an instant before he moved.

Fuck option two.

Forget restraint. Table the safe and sound approach too.

Reasonable would have to wait. God knew, he couldn’t. Not with a female to protect and a couple of idiot humans to turf.

T
he climb over the high stone wall almost killed her. The half mile trek across the cemetery in the dark hadn’t helped much either. Not that Ivy Macpherson could afford to complain. Not after escaping with little more than the clothes on her back. She was alive and mobile, and no matter how screwed up the situation, she refused to take it for granted. Gratitude surfaced along with her relief. On her knees in the dirt, she bowed her head. A cold breeze flicked over the nape of her neck. She shivered and, closing her eyes, offered up a quick prayer. An inadequate way to say thank you maybe, but…

By God, she’d made it.

All right, so it hadn’t been smooth sailing. She’d been lucky. So damn fortunate to have gotten out of Washington D.C. in one piece. Quick wits had helped. A friend with questionable business contacts had done the rest, providing fake ID, some cash, and a one way trip to the UK. A rough ride by any standards. To be expected given the circumstances. The crew aboard the freightliner
Mary Frances
would never be called sweethearts. Or embody kindness.

She should know. After a week of hiding out on the open seas—of scrubbing pots, mopping floors, and dodging the cop-a-feel Captain—Ivy now understood the meaning of hard work. Manuel labor at its finest. Sexual harassment at its worst. Not a bit like her regular job. But then, the terrified and on the run couldn’t be choosy.

Neither could a hacker accused of espionage by the US government.

Eyes riveted to the tombstone, Ivy coughed into her sleeve.

Public enemy number one. A fugitive on the run.
Wanted
. And not in the way she’d always imagined.

Her way involved a hot guy with dreamy eyes and serious bedroom skills. The Feds’ way involved a mug shot, a country-wide APB, and a trip onto their most wanted list. God. How screwed up was that? Very. So crazy she could hardly put it into words. Regret tightened her chest. The lockdown made her lungs spasm and…crapity, crap, crap. Here she went again, playing keep away with constricted airways.

Stupid lungs.

Frigging asthma.

It reared its ugly head at the worst times. She coughed again, willing her windpipe to open. The band of pressure compressing her rib cage eased. Not a lot. Barely enough for her to stave off oxygen deprivation, but well…hell. No need to get dramatic about it. She was accustomed to her condition, so no question. Time to toughen up and grow a pair. Her scarred lungs needed to download the code and get with the program. Now would be good, but she’d take later if she could get it.

Shuffling closer to the headstone, Ivy braved a full breath.

Damp air pushed into her lungs.

Her chest expanded. Pain burned behind her breastbone.

She wheezed. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes as she stared at the inscription. The words wavered, blurring in the gloom. She blinked, trying to hold onto the names, to recall their faces, sounding like a three pack a day smoker. God. What a sham. Twenty-six years old and already halfway to being in the ground. Six feet under, toes cocked up, nothing but a cold corpse on an even colder slab. Death would be easier. A heck of a lot simpler too, but she couldn’t do it. Couldn’t give in. Couldn’t give up. Couldn’t listen to her doctors and stay indoors. Not anymore. Not after what her boss had done.

Gritting her teeth, Ivy fought through the pain.

Goddam Adam Worth.

She wanted to turn around, go home and kill him for setting her up. A lovely thought, but right now, the whole need-to-breathe thing took precedence. She couldn’t wait much longer. The telltale signs were knocking on her mental door: the wheeze and claw of too little air, the awful ache in her chest, the persistent cough as the cold air brutalized her lungs.

One shallow breath turned into two. And then another.

No good. It was
no good
. Her body refused to cooperate.

With a muffled curse, Ivy reached into her coat pocket. Chilled plastic brushed her palm. She hesitated a second, each breath fast and choppy, fingers curled around the medicine, not wanting to use it, but denial wasn’t a girl’s best friend. Neither was delaying. No matter how much she wanted to ignore reality, she couldn’t. If she wanted to keep on keeping on, she needed a shot from her asthma inhaler. A crying shame. A real problem considering she didn’t have any refills. She needed to ration her supply, but with the way things were going, she’d run out long before she found a computer, hacked the system, and proved Adam Worth was the traitor, not her.

Putting the inhaler from her pocket, she shook the small canister. The metal beads inside clacked, echoing though the quiet and across the cemetery, moving though tall, moss-covered headstones. Resignation settling like a stone in her stomach, Ivy lifted the inhaler. She took a hit. Vapor hissed from the plastic and into her mouth. She breathed deep. Wind gusts pushed at the treetops, rustling dead leaves, shoving at the branches above her head. Listening to the soft creak, Ivy waited. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three—

The medicine went to work.

Her discomfort downgraded.

Her lungs filled with fresh air.

Exhaling hard, she inhaled again and tipped her head back. Pinpoint stars played peekaboo behind skeletal branches and thick clouds, obscuring her view of the night sky. Kind of fitting, all those clouds. A cover-up, mother nature’s best, the sort one never saw coming until it was too late and the rain came down.

A metaphor for her life.

With a huff, she closed her eyes, marveling at her own stupidity. An ethical hacker gone rogue. A homegrown terrorist—the label the US government had slapped on her over a week ago. All thanks to her boss, her friend and mentor, the guy responsible for recruiting her. The guy she’d trusted. The guy she’d thought walked on water after taking a position at INP Securities. Two years, fifteen days and seven hours at her dream job, hacking cyber systems, testing computer security and firewalls protecting classified files for the US military. But that was ancient history. Nine days of disillusionment ago. All while she struggled to come to terms with the fact Worth set her up. Had tied the noose, framing her so well she was now one of the FBIs most wanted.

“The jerk. The greedy, self-serving bastard.” Ivy scowled at the headstone standing tall in front of her. A second passed. She smoothed her expression. Dead for over twenty years, her parents didn’t deserve her anger. She wanted to say sorry instead, to apologize for not visiting sooner. For allowing years to lapse and the ocean separating them to get in the way.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, reaching out to pull the twisted vines away from the granite base. “I should have come sooner. Visited every chance I got. Aunt Violet would’ve let me, but…”

She trailed off, not knowing what to say. Or how to make amends.

Surrounded by death and the chill of midnight, she fought the growing tide of tears, knowing she no longer owned the right to cry. Instead, she shuffled closer to the grave. Something sharp poked at her knee. Shifting to one side, she grabbed the offending stick and tossed it away. Damp earth soaked through her jeans as she continued to work. Pace steady, she cleared the debris away from the grave. Stone scraped over her skin, making her fingertips sting almost as much as her heart. Twenty years was a long time to stay away. Too avoid the truth, but…

Ivy huffed. Life had a way of keeping people apart and making years speed by. No rhyme. No reason. Just a thick sense of loss that sank into her marrow. Now she didn’t remember the place of her birth, much less the traditions that held the land. Her throat tightened at the realization. Swallowing around the lump, she grabbed at another vine. Slick with snow, the thick stock slid against her palms as she glanced up at the figure standing guard over her parents’ grave. Unimpressed by her efforts, the angel glared at her, feathered wings spread, stone face smooth, expression unforgiving. The bold script forming her parents’ names echoed the sentiment, carved letters throwing silent accusation like shovelfuls of dirt on top of a coffin.

“I know. I know,” she murmured, accepting the censure, feeling the weight settle heavy on her shoulders. “But I’m here now, and I need help.”

Raising her hand, Ivy traced her father’s name.
Alistair MacPherson.
She didn’t remember his face. Not really. Just shadowy features drawn from a six year old’s memory, but it didn’t matter. Even half a world away in America, she’d felt her dad’s presence. Now wasn’t any different. Time and place meant nothing. Somehow she knew he was listening. That tonight of all nights, heaven was real, and her dad was looking down on her, willing her to make it right. Hold steady, aim true and place the blame like a bulls-eye over her ex-boss’s heart. “Tell me what to do. Where do I go from here? How do I make the FBI listen?”

 Even as the question left her mouth, Ivy acknowledged the idiocy of it. She didn’t need to ask. She knew what to do. And how to get Worth. The liar. The cheat. The poor excuse for a human being for stealing classified documents to sell to the highest bidder. But first, she needed to stay ahead of the authorities, find a safe place to hide and—

“Ivy Macpherson, FBI—freeze!” The harsh voice echoed through the quiet.

“Scotland Yard!” a second man yelled at the same time, thick accent rising on a gust of wind. “Donnae move!”

Surprise made her jerk.

Panic sent her reeling. She popped to her feet. Her back to the agents, she tensed, muscles primed, heart thumping, her thoughts a scrambled mess inside her head. Time slowed. The vegetation and tombstones blurred as her mind sharpened. Shit. Shit, shit,
shit
! What to do? What should she do? Well, other than call herself a hundred different kinds of fool. She should never have come here. Should never have crossed the Atlantic. South America would’ve been a better bet. Coming home, reliving the past had been a miscalculation. A terrible, stupid mistake. By retracing her roots, she’d given the authorities a way to track her, a target to shoot for, the means to find her.

Not making any sudden moves, Ivy glanced over her shoulder. The moon peaked out from behind the clouds. Movement flashed in her periphery and…bingo. Two men at six o’clock, one hundred feet away, give or take. Guns raised, the pair skirted the hedge, coming closer by the second. Crap on a crumpet, how stupid could one person be? The question spun through her mind. The answer sailed in without any prompting—fatally stupid, obviously. Proof positive approached from the other side of the clearing.

Which meant she needed a plan.

Right now.

Before the duo reached her, so…

Fight or flight? Make a run for it or stand and face men who would never listen? She knew it deep down. The truth wasn’t something she could change. The FBI wasn’t interested in her version of events. She’d tried that already. Had spent over an hour at INP headquarters answering questions before realizing the futility and escaping out a bathroom window. Special Agent-in-charge Strickland had already made up his mind. Trying to convince him she’d been framed was like talking to a tank, one at full throttle, hoping it would change direction at the last minute. It would never happen. And she wouldn’t survive federal custody. Adam Worth was just that good. Which meant she couldn’t let them take her.

Not now.

Not a week from now.

She needed time. Enough to prove Worth’s guilt. Enough to make things right. The realization punched through. Adrenaline hit full force, rushing through her veins as Ivy scanned the shadows. Options. Escape routes. She needed both, and fast. Her gaze skipped over tall tombstones and slid between huge oaks. Recalling a map of the cemetery, Ivy held it in her mind’s eye and turned to face her pursuers. She retreated a step. Ice and old leaves crackled beneath her boot treads. She didn’t stop, moving away a little at a time.

A soft curse broke through the quiet.

The click of a gun being cocked followed. “Donnae do it, Macpherson. One false move, and I’ll blow yer fool head off.”

Raising her hands, she held them high, feigning surrender. Her gaze met Agent Strickland’s, then jumped to the Scot. The burly cop leveled his weapon and, moving on silent feet, walked through a break in the hedgerow. Swallowing, Ivy worked moisture into her mouth. “Hold up a second, Strickland. Let me explain. I was set up. If you’ll just—”

“Don’t move.” The tail of his dark jacket fanning out behind him, Agent Strickland sidestepped between two headstones, correcting his line of sight.

Desperation set in. “I didn’t do it.”

“I don’t care.”

“Of course, you do,” she said, feeling the air thin as her panic sat on her chest. “You’re FBI, for God’s sake. You want the bad guy, not the person the bad guy set up. If you give me a chance, I can prove I’m—”

“Stay where you are.”

“Innocent,” she said, trying to reason with two guys holding guns on her.

Why she bothered, Ivy didn’t know. No way would either of them believe her. Worth had done a good job and covered his tracks. She’d done the rest, hacking into the NSA database to exploit its weakness. Did it matter that she’d been given the green light by her boss? Or that she’d held the operational go-ahead form (signed by Worth) stating the mission parameters in her hands? No. Not even a little. It didn’t matter that she’d done her job testing security levels or that she’d patched the hole in the firewall before retreating from the system. None of it mattered without proof—of which there was none.

At least, that’s what everyone believed. What Worth was counting on too.

Ivy knew better.

Cyberspace existed outside the norms, on a different plane. Nothing ever truly got erased. Somewhere the proof of Worth’s double dealing—along with the deleted mission file—lay hidden, just waiting for her to find it. In a single line of computer code maybe. In all those lovely lines of ones and zeros. Tucked away in places no one but the best hackers in the world knew existed. The dark net, her domain, a place she navigated better than most people did their hometown. A terrific skill set given present circumstances, but less than useless if she never got the chance to unleash it.