Dragon Awakened (3 page)

R
uby sat in her truck across the street from Dragon Arts. She'd changed clothes and done a quick cleanup at home. Even taking that bit of time had stretched her tight. She'd wanted to drive right over and tear out Cyntag's throat.

Those kind of thoughts usually disturbed her, hinting at a primitive violence that reared its head when someone wronged or threatened her. It throbbed inside her, curling her fingers into fists.

Get it under control. This is one bad dude. All I'm doing right now is finding out how bad.

The logical part of her brain added,
A bad dude who possibly has control of bizarre and deadly weapons while you have a gun. Hullo?

But what else can I do, let him just get away with killing Mon and never know why? No way in hell.

Without that envelope, she had nothing but Cyntag's name and the schizophrenic thoughts bouncing around in her head.

According to their website, he was teaching a class starting in—she glanced at the clock—one minute. While he was otherwise occupied, she'd snoop and be long gone before his class was over. She had no idea how much Cyntag knew about her. Because she usually wore her hair in a braid, she left it loose and frizzy. Not a big disguise but, at a glance, different enough. She had no intention of him seeing her, but best to be prepared. Which included her gun, the metal cool against the small of her back. She'd found it useful when she started going off-site to look at people's stuff. In a city like Miami, no way was she walking into someone's garage alone and unarmed.

Warm air washed over her neck, and in the corner of her eye, something shimmered next to her. She jerked to the side but saw nothing. All her hairs sprung to attention. It had felt like a breath.

Her mystery rash, which only broke out on the right side of her stomach, burned something fierce. Doctors couldn't figure it out, and she'd tried every kind of medication to no avail. Stress always triggered it.

She stepped into the mid-September heat and humidity. The buildings in this area were old but in good repair. She spotted a Spanish/Portuguese restaurant across the way, and most of the signage was in Spanish with English subtitles. She generally felt like a foreigner in Miami, often one of the few Anglo people at any given location.

She caught sight of her reflection as she approached the glass door: cargo pants, black T sporting the Red Hot Chili Peppers' asterisk logo, and black work boots that protected her feet if something heavy fell on them. The bandage on her forehead, that had to go.

Dragon Arts was first class, with a comfortable waiting area, natural wood floors, and halogen lights in frosted glass cones. A woman about her age, framed by a tattered pirate's flag on the wall behind her, sharpened pencils at a tall reception desk.

Her dark pink lipstick and short, white hair popped against her raven skin. “May I help you, sugar?” The small gold plaque on the desk identified her as Glesenda.

“I wanted to check the place out, see what classes you offered.”

She handed Ruby a slick brochure, studying her eyes. “And not listed are…” She did a double take, her eyebrows furrowing. “Well, you can see the listing for yourself.”

Well, okay then. Ruby devoured the flier, looking for one thing: a picture of the owner. No deal, same as their website. An Internet search gleaned several articles mentioning Cyntag's name in conjunction with either his studio or some competition a student had participated in, but nothing on Twitter, Facebook, or any other social networks.

Ruby caught Glesenda's eye. “I understand Cyntag Valeron teaches Cane Fighting Level One?” Whatever that was.

Glesenda nodded toward one of the large glass windows. “He's teaching in the Sapphire Room right now.”

Ruby wanted to run over and finally put a face to her uncle's murderer. Her breath left her with every step toward the window. A class of ten men of various ages stood in formation as they watched two men spar at the far side of the room. One sported a shaved head, was in his fifties, and weighed about two-fifty. The other—holy Jesus in Heaven. She sucked in air and tried to pull herself together. He was whip-muscular, wearing loose white pants with a tight black sash at his waist, his ripped torso slick with sweat. Gorgeous, dangerous-looking…and the spit-and-polish image of the Dragon Prince. Even down to his dark hair and the exotic slant to his eyes.

He had a tattoo far more fantastic than any she had seen, a dragon crawling up his back. Black and blue wings spanned his shoulders, the tail sliding down his spine to disappear beneath the waistband of his pants. When he shifted, she saw that the dragon's head peered over his shoulder. It looked three-dimensional.

“Yeah, he has that effect on most women.” Glesenda wore an amused expression.

Not quite this effect, Ruby bet. Her chest was so tight she had to push out the words. “That's Cyntag, the one with the dragon tat?”

“Sure is. Total hotness,” she said on a sigh.

Sure, if you were into men who sent murderous orbs. The hefty guy pretended to sneak up behind Cyntag, who twisted, hooked the other guy's neck with the curved handle of the cane, and sent him flat on the mat in a flash. Unscathed, Hefty jumped to his feet and tried another attack, which was quickly thwarted with a pseudo-whack of the cane to his head. She watched, mesmerized by the stealthy grace of Cyntag's movements, the way his muscles flexed, and how damned fast he was.

“You can listen in, too.” Glesenda pressed a button and then ran in five-inch heels to answer the phone.

Cyntag's voice came through the speaker. “The next counterattack we'll demonstrate is an assailant in a face-to-face assault.”

Yes, the low, smooth voice she'd heard on the message.

Ready to take more abuse, Hefty tried to punch Cyntag and ended up with his arm locked behind him and the cane shoving him to the floor.

Cyntag extended his hand and effortlessly pulled Hefty to his feet. “Thanks, Stephen.” He raised the cane over his head, which tightened his biceps, and addressed his class. “Looks like a sign of disability or old age, right? If I'm looking for a victim, you're an easy target. Or maybe not. If you've got one of these, you have the ability to fight off an attacker with force. At all times, you can carry a weapon right out in the open, no permit needed.”

At that moment, Cyntag started to look her way. Ruby moved out of view, her fingers so tight on the frame around the window that she had to pry them off. Her hands were shaking as she passed the desk where Glesenda was on the phone with someone who was obviously calling in sick. Ruby glanced at a clock. Forty-five minutes before class ended.

She'd laid her eyes on him, all right. What was she going to do about it? The only way to take him out—if she could—was to shoot him from a distance, but that wouldn't glean any answers. She was as desperate for them as she was for revenge. Maybe something here would help.

She passed a sign that read
OBSIDIAN ROOM
. This room bore no window. Too bad, because disturbing sounds emanated from behind the closed door. She tried the handle, ready to act contrite at interrupting.

Except, no deal. The door was locked. The thumps and growls coming from within were muffled, as though the walls were somewhat soundproofed. Those primal growls raised chill bumps on her arms. But more than that, they reached deep inside and twisted at her insides.

She rubbed her arms and wandered into the shop, pretending to look at fighting sticks, canes, and uniforms. Until she spotted a closed door with the words
EMPLOYEES ONLY
on it.

She pushed it open, prepared once again to feign innocence if she found someone on the other side. It appeared to be a break room and, fortunately, vacated. A door at the other end was ajar, and she could see a desk. Maybe Cyntag's office. Inside, a contemporary desk was juxtaposed with more antiques, like framed compasses and maps that looked as though they'd traveled on many a high sea. No pictures of friends, family, or a special vacation. A collection of dragon figurines lined the top shelf of the bookcase, each locked in combat with either another of its kind or a man wielding a sword. Dude had a thing for dragons.

Ruby caught herself scratching the damned rash again and closed the door. She sank into the leather chair at the desk and searched for any clue to who Cyntag was and what he was involved in. Anything incriminating would be documented with her camera phone. She'd rifled through four drawers, finding nothing out of the ordinary, when the door opened. Her heartbeat shot straight up into her throat as she turned.

Because of course it had to be Cyntag standing there.

C
yntag stepped inside and closed the door, his eyes narrowing. Cold dread washed over Ruby. How in the hell had he known she was here? He was supposed to be teaching. And she was sure that he hadn't seen her. She launched to her feet and slid out from behind his desk. Every excuse or bluff fled her mind.

Thankfully he spoke before anything dumb could roll out of her mouth. “Ruby, right? Ruby Salazaar?”

The blood drained from her face. He knew her.
Keep cool and answer him.
She swallowed what felt like a ball of sand.

No. Yes. What's it to you?
What came out was, “Yeah?”
Brilliant, Ruby.

He stepped forward, reaching for her. Her street-smart instincts kicked in. Mon had taught her to look for a defensive weapon in her surroundings. At the yard, she could always lay her hand on a shard of metal or a screwdriver.

Her fingers touched a silver letter opener as he brushed past her and plucked a cell phone from the desk just as it began playing Queen's “We Are the Champions.” He ignored the call, and the song stopped.

Since she already had her hand on the letter opener, she went with it, pulling it out of the leather cup and rubbing the curves of the silver dragon handle. “It's beautiful. Very detailed, even down to the talons.” She wasn't used to going for the gun; if she had, she'd have blown it for sure by overreacting.

What's wrong with you? Cool and calm, calm and cool.

Not working. Her rash felt as though it were on fire.

Cyntag eyed the letter opener, obviously nobody's fool. “And very sharp. I'll take that.” He tugged it from her reluctant grasp but didn't return it to the cup. “Moncrief finally sent you to me then?” He glanced around. “He didn't come with you?”

“He's dead.”
Which you know, considering you killed him.
The words burned up her throat and singed her tongue. The rage, she could hardly hold it back.

Cool and calm, calm and cool, damn it.

His eyebrows, shaped like sleek raven's wings, settled into a furrow. “Moncrief is dead? How?”

“You sent an orb, some kind of lightning thing, to kill him. Don't play dumb with me.” The words boiled out. So much for cool and calm. “He said your name. I asked him who had done it, and on his dying breath,
he said your name
.” Now she'd accused him. He would have to act, defend…or kill her. She pulled the gun from her back and leveled it at him, because the latter option was most likely.

An odd expression flickered across his face. “Ruby, what are you doing?”

Losing her mind, that's what. Her heart thudded roughly in the area of her diaphragm, which was weird because that's not where it resided. She grabbed his phone and thumb-dialed her number with the same hand that held it. Her brief outgoing message played, then the beep. She shoved it toward him with her other hand. “Say your name and admit it. Admit you had him killed.”

He was eerily cool, the way she should have been. “I didn't kill Moncrief.”

“He said you did.”

“I don't think he said that, Ruby.” God, the way he said her name, slow and smooth, like thick honey. “You obviously saw an orb kill him. You were upset, scared. Like you are now.”

She pushed the gun closer. “I'm not
scared
. I'm pissed. I know how to use this. I hit the center of the target nine times out of ten.”

“Impressive. Are you shaking like this while you're aiming?” In a flash, he turned her around, shoved her arm aside, and tightened his grip on her wrist. His arms encircled her, his bare skin brushing against her arms.

A sharp click, then another, and the magazine dropped to the floor. “Is there a round in the chamber, Ruby?” his voice rasped close to her ear. “I don't want to hurt your wrist, but I will if you don't answer me.”

“No round.”

He flicked the safety anyway. “Then I suggest you release the weapon, and we'll continue this conversation in a more civilized fashion.”

The gun fell from her hand, thudding on the floor. He took the phone from her other hand and disconnected, then set it on the desk. Finally, he released her. She moved as far from him as she could, rubbing her wrist.

He casually leaned back against his desk. “What exactly did Moncrief tell you about me?” Cyntag had a deliberate way of speaking, properly enunciating each word.

“I only know your name because Mon said it as he was dying.”

That seemed to surprise him. “You know nothing about me?”

You're the Dragon Prince.
Yeah, that would sound logical. Not that anything about this was logical. “I heard the message you left him. The police have it, by the way.” She glanced at her wrist, even though she wore no watch. “They'll be here any time to question you.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, hopefully buying her bluff. “What did you tell them about the orb?”

“Everything.”

Worry tensed the corners of his mouth. “The regular police?”

“Of course, what other—oh, I'm sure they contacted the FBI, the ATF…if an agency has initials, they're involved. They—”

“Describe the orb.”
Still pretending he knew nothing about it, huh?
“It set the house on fire?”

“Yes, and how might you know that?”

His nostrils flared. “I smell the smoke on you. Tell me what happened.”

She intended to give him a cursory description and had to hand it to him, like an investigator, he extracted every detail from her. He even looked angry when she talked about how it blocked her escape.

“You must have been terrified.”
Was he gloating?

“I was too busy trying to save my ass to be terrified.”

“Nobody saw it but you, right?”

“No, it hid when they arrived and”—she glanced toward the door—“someone should be here by now. The investigator warned me not to come on my own, but I wanted to talk to you first. Tell me why you killed him. Off the record.”

He didn't look as though he were buying her bluff one iota. He walked to the window, placing his hands on the glass and letting out a long, frustrated breath. Instantly, fog steamed around the perimeter of his palms and long fingers. “You did not tell the police about the orb because they would think you were crazy. You're smarter than that.”

She inched toward the door.

“
You
may think you're crazy.” He shook his head. “Old bastard wouldn't listen to me. Thought he was invincible. When I saw that he called, I hoped he'd come to his senses, but he never called back.”

She reached for the door handle, and suddenly Cyntag stood there, his hand tight over hers.

“You're not going anywhere.”

“How…how did you do that? I didn't even see you move.” She tried to kick him in the groin. Another dumb idea, considering what he did for a living.

He didn't hurt her, not much anyway. He did, however, pin her against the door, his thigh pressing the offending leg tight. His hands gripped her wrists and held them at her hips. “That is not a wise thing to do.”

Panic, and something she couldn't name, fluttered through her at the feel of so much man and heat so close to her. She coaxed her bravado from where it had scurried and lifted her chin. “Afraid I'll hurt you?”

“Once my instincts are triggered, it's hard to stop. I'm sure
I'll
hurt
you
. As of right now, I do not wish to do that. That may change as days go by.”

“
Days
?” Fear coiled around her chest. “What are you going to do, keep me…hostage?”

He let her question hang for an agonizing moment, as though he were considering it. God, had she given him ideas? He said, “Not entirely.” That did not sound good, but before she could get too freaked out about it, he continued. “Your uncle and I did not share a warm and loving opinion of each other, but I didn't kill him. Do you know why I would not harm one hair on his head?”

She wanted to believe that the guy whose hard, muscular body pinned hers against the wall and who could no doubt break her neck with a flick of his fingers hadn't killed her uncle. “I'll play your silly game. Why didn't you kill him?”

He gave her a chastising look. “Because his death puts you in danger, and I am your sworn protector. Moncrief had your best interest at heart, but I told him it was a bad idea to try thwarting nature. And fate. I have gone on with my life and hoped he made the right decision. But if he's dead, I am now saddled with a neophyte who has no idea the danger that stalks her, the world into which she was born, or her own powers. So believe me when I say, I would not wish death on him.”

He stepped back enough so she could escape from the heat of his body. Except her knees buckled, and she had to lean against the door for support.

She stared at him. “Do you know how friggin' crazy that just sounded?”

He shook his head and looked up to the ceiling. “So much to learn. So little time to do it. Such a buffoon.”

“You're calling me a
buffoon
?” And who used that word, anyway?

“That remains to be seen. I meant your uncle. He left us in quite the mess.”

This conversation wasn't going in any direction she could follow. “It's been lovely, but I need to scream now. I mean, go now.” She reached for the door handle, and he closed his hand over her wrist in a firm grip.

Which again put him in close proximity. “The orb that killed Moncrief, you saw its power?” His voice was soft and deadly.

“You're threatening me?”

“Enlightening you. You put a gun to my chest. If I could make an orb, wouldn't I have used it against you then?”

Well…yeah.

He continued. “And, in fact, I've had you under my physical control twice. I could crack your neck like this.” He snapped his fingers.

Hadn't she thought the same thing?

“And I did not. We need to find out who did kill Moncrief though, because he or she may well be after you, too.”

Ruby tried to pull away but he maintained his hold over her hand. His black-and-blue dragon stared at her, almost as mesmerizing as the man himself. She dragged her gaze to his. “Why would someone want to hurt me? Obviously Mon was involved in something dangerous, but that has nothing to do with me.”

“We don't know why Moncrief was killed. At the least, you're a witness. Reason enough to make sure you don't blab your mouth about killer orbs.”

She could swear the dragon blinked. That Cyntag had the tattoo, the dragon decorations, and that he looked like Mon's Dragon Prince was a bizarre coincidence. But no less bizarre than the rest of this encounter.

Cyntag released her and leaned against the door so that it would be impossible to open it wide enough to slip out.
Okay, let's not freak about being trapped in here with the crazy dude.

He assessed her with his dark gaze and then skimmed his hands down her shoulders and arms like he would with, say, one of his students. The action held no sensuality, no sense of impropriety, and yet, his hands left a heated imprint on her skin.

“At least you're in good shape. That will help.” He nodded to the gun on the floor. “You came to take me down for killing your uncle. Because he uttered my name on his dying breath.” Amusement glittered in his eyes. “You, a mere girl, would take me down.”

“I'm not a
girl
, and don't underestimate me.”

“I admire your bravado. You'll need that. Still, you must never walk into the enemy's den without knowing anything about him.”

“To be clear, I came here to snoop, because that was the only way I could find out more about you. The gun was for protection, just in case. You were supposed to be busy teaching your class.” How had he known she was there?

“
To be clear
, if I was your enemy, you would be dead now. Moncrief wasn't naming his murderer. He was trying to send you to me because, as his life ebbed, he knew I was your only chance of surviving.” In a voice under his breath, he added, “I'm sure he loved that.” He picked up the letter opener from his desk and ran his finger down the edge. “You want his murderer to face justice, do you not?”

“With every cell in my body.”

“Good.” He held the opener out to her, handle first. “Take it.”

She did, feeling the warmed metal against her palm and the curves of the dragon.

He raised his arms out to his sides. “If you're sure I killed him, go ahead then. Take your revenge.”

She squeezed the handle and stared at a chest that looked so hard she wasn't sure the tip would penetrate. He was taunting her. Daring her. She pressed the tip to the molded pec over his heart, just below the dragon's mouth, and met his gaze.

“Could you do it, Ruby? As tough as you like to appear, could you sink a sharp object into someone's flesh? It's harder than you think. Physically and psychologically, even when you feel justified. Could you handle the feel of warm blood gushing between your fingers and down your arm?”

Every bit of the rage she felt since seeing the bolt piercing her uncle's chest rushed in around her. “Yes.”

“Good.” He paused, staring into her eyes in a way that twisted her stomach. But nothing like his next words did. “You've felt it, haven't you, a rage so hot and fierce that you believe you
could
take someone's life? Even though that sane and civilized part of you abhors that ferocity, a darker part craves it.” Her denial withered on her tongue. He didn't press her because he seemed to know she had. “Have you ever killed someone?”

She wanted to say
one or two
but somehow she knew he'd spot her lie. “I threatened someone. And I would have gone through with it, too, if he hadn't paid for the merchandise.” She could hardly push the words out of her dry throat.