Kiss of Fire (16 page)

“And you'll watch until I do?”

“Of course.”

Sara studied him, seeing the protectiveness that he tried to hide. It was primal and powerful. Seductive. Quinn would kill for her without hesitation, but he was trying to give her the space she needed to trust him.

“You sound very sure,” she said quietly.

His smile told her that he didn't have a shred of doubt.

She wanted to kiss that smile, but she knew that if she touched him at all, the decision would be made. Was that why he was keeping his distance in the cab? To let her make a logical choice?

Sara knew the truth when she thought it, but it only tempted her all the more.

“There isn't any old dragon magic that would allow a
Pyr
to cross the boundary mark of another
Pyr
?”

“There's no such thing as magic, Sara,” Quinn chided. The way he arched one brow made him look mischievous and unpredictable, and Sara found her resistance to him crumbling even further. “I wouldn't think I'd have to tell you that.”

Sara smiled. “Seriously.”

“Seriously.” Quinn sobered. “No
Pyr
can touch you when you're securely inside my smoke.”

“Except you,” Sara said, feeling obliged to clarify.

Quinn's eyes brightened as he held her gaze. “Except me,” he ageed quietly, his low words doing something to her equilibrium that felt a whole lot like magic. “But even that, princess, is invitation-only.”

He pulled a pad of paper from the glove box, his fingertips brushing her knees, his tough sending sparks over her flesh. He began writing in a decisive hand, then tore off the page. “Here's my cell phone number, and here's the hotel where I have a room. You can call me anytime.”

“I thought you'd hear me decide to scream.”

“I will.” He fired a hot look across the cab. “But you might just want to talk.”

Sara took the piece of paper and tucked it into her purse. Maybe she was too pragmatic, but having his cell phone number made her feel better. Quinn watched her, waiting for her to decide.

Sara had never been afraid of doing things on her own. Her family had been uprooted every two years and she'd made new friends every time. She'd traveled the world and walked into countless boardrooms and made a zillion presentations. She'd navigated cities with signs in languages she couldn't read; she'd tried local cuisine everywhere she'd traveled; she'd never backed down from a challenge. She wasn't afraid of counting on herself, and she wasn't afraid to let other people on her team do what they did best.

Protecting her was what Quinn did best. He'd messed up today and she knew he blamed himself more than she ever could. She was going to trust him to do his job.

And she was going to avoid temptation.

For now.

Which might be what she did best.

She wasn't going to think about that just yet.

“Thanks for your info. I think I'll be fine tonight.” Sara stretched across the cab and brushed her lips across Quinn's cheek. She felt his surprise at her quick kiss and then his pleasure. “But do the smoke again,” she urged in a whisper, her lips only a hairbreadth from his. “Lots of it.”

“I'll do it twice, princess,” Quinn said. He held her gaze and the heat kindled between them. Sara became aware that her breast was pressed against his arm, that her fingers were locked around his, that his mouth was only an inch away from hers.

Quinn leaned down so slowly that she thought she would die of anticipation. His mouth closed over hers with that blend of tenderness and conviction that could make her forget her own name. Sara closed her eyes and kissed him back. She lost herself in the magic that Quinn awakened within her, and knew that she wouldn't hold out long in the battle against temptation.

She couldn't, in fact, remember why she wanted to try.

He broke the kiss and smiled at her, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. That tantalizing taste of him had left her only yearning for more.

“You'd better leave now, Sara. Another kiss like that and we'll be shocking your neighbors.”

She opened her mouth, unsure what she'd say, but Quinn laid a gentle fingertip across her lips.

“I'll see you tomorrow,” he murmured. “Trust me.”

And Sara did.

Sara climbed the stairs to her apartment under Quinn's vigilant gaze. She closed her eyes as she crossed the threshold, concentrating, and felt the cool brush of his smoke on her legs as she stepped through it. She glanced back, but Quinn was concentrating again.

Sara could see that he was staring at the pavement. His breathing was slow and he appeared to shimmer around the edges. Quinn was intense and focused, and she knew what he was doing.

He was keeping his promise.

He was protecting her.

And if he knew that was good enough, then so did she.

Sara entered her apartment and locked the door against more mundane intruders. She was restless despite being exhausted and doubted she would sleep at all. She opened the windows and turned on the fans, trying to get rid of some of the muggy air trapped in the apartment. She changed for the night and made a cup of herbal tea. She cleaned up the kitchen, although it didn't really need cleaning. She checked her phone messages and sorted her mail.

Each time she glanced out the window, Quinn was still there, standing in the shadows of the quiet street and breathing smoke.

She went into the bedroom and sorted her laundry. She'd been in such a hurry to change that she'd just dropped it on the floor. In examining the damage to her favorite red dress, she felt something in one pocket.

It was the gold coin that had been outside the door of her shop earlier.

Sara turned it under the light. It looked old. There was a man on a horse on one side, a man who looked like a medieval knight. She couldn't make out the writing. She went to the window just in time to see Quinn getting into his truck and didn't want to call him back just for this. She watched the taillights of his truck disappear around the corner, and checked again that she had his phone numbers.

There had been a coin the night before, one thrown to distract her, one that had looked gold. There hadn't been one near the shop this morning, but then this one had appeared. Was it the same coin, or a similar one? There was no doubt in Sara's mind that its appearance had something to do with Quinn.

Gold coins, after all, didn't have a habit of dropping into her life. She didn't think she'd ever seen one before.

Maybe the coin was a message. Maybe it could tell her something about Quinn. Maybe she could summon a vision, the way she had earlier in the shop. Sara studied the coin, then closed her hand over it. She tried to relax, then tried to fall into the image on the coin, then tried to turn off her thoughts.

Nothing worked.

At last, she started to yawn. She put the coin on her nightstand and went to bed.

She was asleep in moments.

T
he nightmare fell upon Sara like a thief jumping her from behind in a dark alley.

It's hot. It's sunny, the sun so bright that the young boy has to narrow his eyes against its glare. The air is dry, so hot and dry that the boy might be breathing dust.

Or desert.

He's playing hide-and-seek with his brothers, a favorite game that he has no idea he'll never play again. He's found the perfect hiding spot behind the millstone in the mill. The great stone is cool, cold even, and the shadow is dark behind it. There is no grain being ground on this day and the stone is still, so he is very quiet in his secret spot. The space is small, too small for his older brothers, and the boy is sure that he'll escape detection.

If he can keep from giggling to himself in triumph.

He has seen four summers, and is as tall for his age as his siblings. He shares their dark hair and good looks, as well as the vivid blue eyes of his mother. He is happy and well fed, a boy with a secure present and a bright future before him.

Or so it appears.

The villagers say the smith's wife is proud of her brood, and rightly so. Five boys, each one a survivor and a credit to his father. Such gossip must be true, for the youngest son of the smith overheard it in the bakery that very morning.

He also heard about the approaching army.

The villagers are certain that the walls will hold against military might and injustice. The boy yearns to see the horses, and his eldest brother, Jean, has promised to take him to the summit of the walls that evening to look upon the mustered force.

The boy bounces in anticipation. It would be best if he can hide successfully from Jean first—then they will laugh and his mother will smile at him with pride—so he strives to be still.

When the boy hears the first clash of steel on steel, he thinks his brothers are practicing their swordplay again. He assumes, actually, that they have forgotten him. It has happened before, with less interesting distractions than an army at the gates.

Perhaps they watch the army approach.

Perhaps he is missing something.

Or perhaps they are trying to trick him into revealing himself.

Ha! He squeezes farther back behind the millstone and barely dares to breathe.

When the boy hears the first man scream in pain, he thinks Michel is feigning injury again, to take advantage of the elder Jean. He smiles at Michel's cunning and knows he can be more cunning still. He folds himself even more tightly into his place.

It is the echo of hoofbeats that tempts the boy to peek out of his hiding place. There are hundreds of horses from the thunderous sound, a marvel he has never seen. He begins to move.

But the horses must be inside the city walls, which cannot be. He knows the gates will be barred, for he heard of that in the bakery as well. He stops for a moment that proves to be precious.

The miller shouts in such rage that it cannot be a feigned cry. There is a sound of battle very close at hand, but not the practice fighting of his brothers. The thump and groan of blades finding their mark is all too real, as is the gasp of pain of a man done injury.

The boy catches his breath as red splashes upon the wall above him. He cowers behind the millstone in fear.

Something is wrong.

He hears the miller fall and another man laugh. It is cruel laughter and it frightens him.

He hears the clash of mail as other men enter the mill and pushes himself so tightly into the shadow of the millstone that he knows he will be bruised. He doesn't care. He hears the gurgle of the miller's pain, of men kicking baskets of grain aside and the kernels spilling across the floor. He hears the miller's wife scream in the chamber behind the mill proper, then a rhythmic thump he has heard before but does not understand. The men laugh some more. He hears the miller's wife beg and plead and cry.

And then suddenly she is silent.

He hears the men leave, hears them speak to each other in a language he does not know. He covers his ears with his hands, but not so well that he does not hear his mother call his name.

She calls a dozen times before he dares to peek. He eases out of the shadow, his breath coming in anxious spurts.

The miller sees him. The man lies in a pool of blood, the red glistening upon the stone floor and spreading quickly. He is injured, dreadfully injured.

The boy halts in shock at the violence done to his old friend.

The miller shakes his head once, with authority. The boy hesitates and the miller shakes his head again with vigor.

“Stay,” he whispers. His voice is faint but that single word is heavy with the weight of command.

Footfalls resonate in the street. The miller's eyes widen in fear and the boy nods agreement. He slides back into his hiding spot and holds his breath.

When the men have passed, he peeks out again.

“Good boy,” the miller murmurs, the words so faint that the boy reads the praise in the motion of his lips. He watches as the miller's eyes close slowly.

They do not open again, although the miller's blood continues to spread across the floor.

The boy crouches in his hiding place, terrified to disobey the miller even though that man moves no more. He watches the blood trickle down the stone wall behind him and knows that this is no jest of his brothers'. The church bells ring in summons, but the boy does not move. His mother has stopped calling his name and the street beyond the mill is quiet.

Too quiet.

It is not long before he smells the fire and hears the screams, although he is unable to make sense of what is happening. He smells another smell, the scent of burning flesh, and fears for the horses. When the soldiers ride past the mill again, laughing that cruel laughter, their horses cantering, the boy knows instinctively that the miller has given him good counsel.

He does not understand—not yet—that all he loves has been willfully destroyed.

Much less that it will happen again.

He smells the fire, sees the flames, hears the crackle of the fire consuming the cathedral. He stands outside its blackened walls as the fire finishes what it has begun. Smoke rises from the charred village and the streets are so silent that the boy knows he is alone.

That is the moment he sees the first dragon, circling in the twilight sky high overhead.

As if it's seeking something. It is ebony and pewter, a mythical magical beast, and one that strikes terror into the boy's heart.

That is the moment he runs.

Sara awakened immediately, her heart pounding. She felt helpless and heartbroken, so devastated that she wanted to cry.

The dream had been so vivid that she felt a bit sick. She didn't like the smell of roasting meat. It was part of the reason she was vegetarian. She sniffed her arms with their new burn, and wondered whether that was what had caused her dream.

But it had been as clear as a memory.

Quinn's memory. She instinctively knew it, even though it made no sense. Sara rubbed her forehead and tried to push the dream from her thoughts. She closed her eyes, hoping to doze, maybe snag a nicer dream.

It was going to be hot again. She was lying on her back in bed, a slight breeze wafting through the open window. She'd left the window open, because it was so small. Only a monkey could have scampered through it—not a dragon—and she would have suffocated without some air circulating. It was a hot breeze, the promise of a hotter day, but that wasn't why there was a sheen of perspiration over Sara's skin.

She couldn't stop thinking about that boy.

A woman screamed then, a scream of agony that set Sara's teeth on edge. She swung her legs out of the bed, meaning to help.

“It is forbidden—,” the woman began to shout, her sentence ending in a shriek of pain. “Great Wyvern, help me,” she whispered, her voice trembling in terror.

Then she screamed again.

It was the Wyvern, but this time Sara felt a knife cutting her own flesh. She arched in agony as pain sliced through the tendon at the back of her arm. She struggled but some dark force held her down and the knife bit deeper.

She was in a secluded place with no one to aid her. It was dark and damp and dungeonlike. Despair filled her heart. Blood was running from her shoulder; she could feel it spread onto the dirt floor. Her breath came in wrenching sobs as the pain spread down her arm.

Sara forced her eyes open and her breath caught. Her pulse was beating as if she'd run a race. Her shoulder throbbed.

She compelled herself to notice that she was in her own bedroom. Safe. She reached around to finger the wound and found her skin perfectly normal.

There was no cut.

There should be no pain.

The voice and the experience of the Wyvern was in her thoughts, not in her vicinity. Sara exhaled in relief, though she still trembled slightly.

The vision had been so real.

She got out of bed and went to the window. The curtain ruffled and the street was quiet below. A few birds chirped in the trees and the neighbor's cat stalked across the lawn. Everything was tranquil, even though Sara's hair was practically standing on end.

And there was a black pickup truck parked on the street in front of the house. Sara exhaled in relief as she recognized it.

The truck had a silver trailer and a dark-haired man in a T-shirt and shorts leaned against the passenger door. He wore a straw fedora that shaded his eyes but didn't disguise his identity one bit and had thrown a vivid Hawaiian shirt over his T-shirt. He held a cup of take-out coffee in one hand and sipped it as he watched the house. There was a second cup of coffee on the hood of the truck.

Sara smiled and her knees weakened slightly in relief. Quinn looked about as likely to move as the Rock of Gibraltar.

There was something sexy about a man who did what he thought was right, and who did what he said he was going to do. She took another long look. Quinn's arms were folded across his chest and he crossed his legs at the ankle. His legs were muscular and tanned; his shoulders stretched the T-shirt fabric taut.

There was a lot more that was sexy about Quinn Tyrrell than his sense of purpose. He lifted his gaze to the window she stood at; she was sure she could see the blue glint of his eyes, the intent in his expression. She watched him for a long moment, more reassured by his presence than she might have expected, then headed for the shower.

She felt lighter. Happier. More in charge of her universe.

Just because Quinn had brought her a coffee.

Had she dreamed of Quinn's past?

If so, when had that fire occurred?

What had happened to him after that? If it had been his memory, he had only been a little boy when everyone he knew had been killed. Sara's heart clenched in compassion. She was thirty years older than he had been, and she had been devastated by the loss of her parents, followed so quickly by Magda's death. How could a young boy have managed to survive?

He certainly would get used to taking care of himself.

Sara showered quickly, trying to scrub away the emotional wreckage of the nightmare with cold water and soap. She noticed the coin on her nightstand as she was dressing and, on instinct, she put it in her purse.

Quinn didn't move as she came down the steps, but smiled slowly when she waved at him. She stopped to pick up the newspaper on the walk, well aware of how intently he observed her every move.

Funny how she'd never felt sexy going to work in the morning before. She thought about what they'd done—what they hadn't yet done—and tingled right to her toes. Quinn smiled his languid smile and Sara knew that she could get used to having this man in her life.

In one way, she felt like they were from different worlds. In another way, she was the one who was hearing the Wyvern in distress. Maybe saving the Wyvern was something they could do together. Maybe it was a way that she and Quinn could merge their worlds.

Sara bit her lip as she remembered something. There was no denying that the dragon she had seen through his eyes, the one flying overhead as the church burned, had looked a lot like Erik.