Vampire Dragon (3 page)
The female bore a crown of tiny, fast-flapping air snacks, a whirr of red and green hummers and a purge of bony black pingers flitting about her head.
My name is Vivica Quinlan
, she said in telepathic dragon speak.
I’m here to acclimate you.
My name is Vivica Quinlan
, she said in telepathic dragon speak.
I’m here to acclimate you.
Quite the task, acclimating him to this odd place, he thought while the brightest of yellow smokes dissipated around her and she placed on his shoulders a cloak, black as his hair, and long as his overtall body. “For my acclimator,” he said, placing the island diamond in her hand. “From Andra, for Dragonelli expenses. She said you would understand.”
“That I do,” Vivica said.
He ducked several of her fluttering entourage until Puck held a wing straight out. From the corner of his eye, Darkwyn saw several of Vivica’s critters perched on, or hanging from, that wing.
“Don’t mind them,” Vivica said. “The bats are as harmless as the hummingbirds.”
Fine
, Darkwyn thought,
but which is which
?
, Darkwyn thought,
but which is which
?
“Follow me, Dragonelli,” his acclimator said. “Your brothers are on their way.”
Her air snacks quit their perch and hovered around her head, moving with her, like a wreath of living flowers.
If someone says something you don’t understand
, Vivica communicated,
say
“
okay
.”
, Vivica communicated,
say
“
okay
.”
“Okay,” he repeated. “But my heart mate?”
“Right,” she said, “your mandate on earth, among other tasks, is to find your predetermined heart mate and assume responsibility for her life quest, correct?” Vivica scanned the room and frowned. “Is she here?”
Darkwyn studied one female after another.
Their hearts varied as much as they. Hearts for money, Darkwyn saw in several. Hearts for lust. No kindness, no softness, a closed heart, one dark, one clouded, two as empty as the cloth-flicking bartender. “No heart mate here,” Darkwyn admitted, though he couldn’t forget the violet-eyed beauty with the cautiously shrouded heart.
Vivica nodded. “Fine. Let’s go. Give the man the bird.”
“No way!” the bartender yelled. “I’m giving
him
the bird. Literally.”
him
the bird. Literally.”
“Well, Puck me,” the bird said.
TWO
“Air,” Puck said, at the door. “A nutritious substance
supplied by a bountiful Providence.” And like a fair-weather friend, Puck paid homage to Providence by making a break for freedom. But the bird’s defection fell by the wayside as Darkwyn became distracted by the woman who seemed to own the sidewalk.
supplied by a bountiful Providence.” And like a fair-weather friend, Puck paid homage to Providence by making a break for freedom. But the bird’s defection fell by the wayside as Darkwyn became distracted by the woman who seemed to own the sidewalk.
She stood in front of the building he exited, at the base of its wide porch, that tall violet-haired goddess, not twenty feet distant, her breasts raised by a torso-cincher as black as her horned mask and leg boots.
Watching her controlled movements, her command, men doing
her
bidding, held him captive.
her
bidding, held him captive.
“Bronte,” Vivica said as they embraced. “I’d hoped to see you before I left today.”
His vision’s name slipped off the tongue, seductive as a song, and it matched her heart for beauty.
Bronte.
Bronte.
Caught by the aura of mystery surrounding her, Darkwyn’s heart raced, his hands began to sweat, and his inner dragon stirred.
Bronte glanced up, as if she knew. “Secure that cloak,” she said. “I
joked
about seeing your assets.”
joked
about seeing your assets.”
Vivica gave him a quick, telepathic translation
with
sarcasm.
with
sarcasm.
He caught his cloak tighter. “Okay,” he said, and wished he could speak Bronte’s language as well as he could think like a dragon.
Bronte had just diffused their taut attraction—mutual, he believed, however much it seemed to frighten her—by making another joke. Did she do that, always? Use humor to lighten serious moments? Whatever Vivica planned for him at Works Like Magick, he would eventually return to Bronte to learn as much about her as he could.
Despite her misgivings, he felt her reach out to him, in some nebulous way, her interest driven by an unwelcome anticipation and a longing that surprised, almost angered her, and how could he know so much about how she felt? “Vivica?” she asked in the same tone she’d use to give her workers their orders. “Do you know this man?”
“Darkwyn’s a friend,” Vivica said. “He lost a weird bet. Bronte McBride, meet Darkwyn Dragonelli. Darkwyn, Bronte.”
They reached with more than their hands—a moment in time. Fingers touched, held, silk on silk, no more than the brush of a flutterby wing.
Their eyes met, too, their hearts as well.
He read her confusion, her yearning, and answered with his own.
Vivica cleared her throat. “Sorry I didn’t bring his cloak sooner.”
The spell dissipated as Bronte quick-claimed her hand as if from a flame. “What weird bet? A drinking bet, I suppose,” she said with disapproval. “That figures.”
Vivica chuckled. “Don’t
run
a café with a bar if you don’t want the results.”
run
a café with a bar if you don’t want the results.”
“I don’t
run
Bite Me. The bartender does,” Bronte said, a possible evasion.
run
Bite Me. The bartender does,” Bronte said, a possible evasion.
Vivica nearly smiled. “But you own the Phoenix, the building that houses the bar and grille, do you not?”
“Yes.” Bronte looked miffed. “Zachary and I own the Phoenix and every business in it.”
Zachary?
Darkwyn caught his breath. The knowledge landed like a blow to his solar plexus. Who in floating starfields was Zachary? “You already have a man?” he asked.
Darkwyn caught his breath. The knowledge landed like a blow to his solar plexus. Who in floating starfields was Zachary? “You already have a man?” he asked.
Bronte’s head came up, her gaze snapping to his. “I beg your pardon?”
“Darkwyn,” Vivica said. “You’re getting ahead of yourself.”
He turned to the right, the left, then checked behind him. “I don’t see how that’s possible. I can only stand in one place at a time.”
Bronte chuckled, a marvelous sound, though she composed herself as if she’d broken some rule.
“Ignore him,” Vivica suggested.
Ignore?
Ignore? What did that mean? Darkwyn swore to learn this woman’s language, and well. Still, he believed Bronte understood his interest and returned it.
Ignore? What did that mean? Darkwyn swore to learn this woman’s language, and well. Still, he believed Bronte understood his interest and returned it.
Vivica examined the huge three-story brick building behind them. “Bronte, below the word ‘Phoenix,’ in granite, which seems part of your building’s structure, you added a sign that says: A PLACE FOR VAMPIRES. Why not call it ‘Dracula’s Castle’ for clarity’s sake?”
“There’s already one in Salem, so I named my second-floor vamp nightclub Drak’s Place.”
Vivica half nodded. “Wait. You give public day tours of your nightclub?”
“No, no, no.” Bronte’s denial took on a whole-body move, graceful and man-hardening. Darkwyn followed each curve with his hungry gaze.
The violet-haired vixen indicated the line of people at a far side door. “They’re waiting to get into Fangs for the Memories, our vampy fun/horror house tourist attraction. It starts in the hall beside Bite Me and continues through the entire basement level, exiting into our fairgrounds.”
“Ah, so Drak’s is a
private
club?”
private
club?”
“Members only.” Bronte nodded. “We cater to real vamps and vamp role players.”
Darkwyn wanted “vamps” defined, but Jagidy claimed his attention, because the tiny dragon blew purple smoke Bronte’s way, which meant the guardian was captivated.
Join the club
, Darkwyn thought.
, Darkwyn thought.
Thank the stars Jagidy remained invisible, because he hovered in Bronte’s line of vision, patting her lush breasts with both happy little dragon hands.
The receiver of Jagidy’s misplaced attention, Bronte shivered, stepped back, and crossed her arms, catching a tiny green hand exactly where Jagidy wanted it, smack between those luscious globes.
The pocket dragon glanced back at Darkwyn and gave him a “Look what I’ve got!” grin.
Jagidy
! Darkwyn scolded, telepathically.
Lady breasts are not for your pleasure. They are for mine
, he thought, and wondered how to bring
that
about.
! Darkwyn scolded, telepathically.
Lady breasts are not for your pleasure. They are for mine
, he thought, and wondered how to bring
that
about.
Bronte’s were breasts to feast on, feed on, with his gaze and more, pleasure for a closer acquaintance, so for now, he made an attempt to disregard Bronte, the way she tried, and failed, to ignore him.
For her protection, and because jealousy held him in its grip, Darkwyn yanked the pocket dragon away, not allowing himself to touch Bronte’s cream-silk skin, despite his itchy fingers and a distorted man part attempting to hard-mend itself.
“What are you doing?” Bronte asked, which made him check to see if his cloak remained closed.
“Bee!” Vivica said, having witnessed Jagidy’s obsession. “You were about to get stung.”
From Darkwyn’s shoulder, Jagidy nodded enthusiastically.
Feisty old dragon
, Darkwyn thought, holding the elder back so he, himself, could concentrate on the beauty, her cloak, crimson as blood, thrown over her shoulders, her attention now called upward.
, Darkwyn thought, holding the elder back so he, himself, could concentrate on the beauty, her cloak, crimson as blood, thrown over her shoulders, her attention now called upward.
She opened her arms, as if she could catch a man-sized box—like an uncarved sarcophagus—being raised toward a window on the second floor. The private club level, Darkwyn remembered.
He wanted to see her face, wondered why she and Vivica—he looked around—and many of the women in his view wore on their feet objects that resembled spikes.
Mostly, he wondered why his violet-eyed vision dressed in costume. Face covered, legs covered, arms gloved to the elbow, a black cincher at her torso, a black skirt long in the back but high in the front. Black, the color of shadows, paired with violet, symbols of mourning.
There was so much more to this woman than met the dragon eye, and Darkwyn figured himself as the man-beast to uncover each layer in every way possible.
From the moment she stopped his forward roll in that alley, she’d worn the demeanor and posture of a masked queen who towered over her subjects, tall, slender, regal, in command.
He had never stood eye to eye with a woman—nor man, nor dragon—at any point in his hulking lifetime. But Darkwyn suspected if he stood as close to this woman as he wanted, they would be of a height, all parts at the ready, and the invisible connection between them would spark and flame.
With her willingness and permission, his hands might always be busy about her person, but her breasts, he would leave to his mouth.
He had scanned the hearts of the women in Bite Me long after Bronte had left. Most were smallish, protected, dim, brittle, and self-focused. Now he turned his mind to scanning Bronte’s in earnest, though he realized—after those first women and the ones in the crowd around him—that his connection to Bronte, and hers to him, transcended the norm.
What he saw beating in Bronte’s breast stole his breath. A huge heart, open to great love, yet shrouded by fear. In each beat, he saw a protector, a nurturer, a woman who would sacrifice life and limb for those she loved. He saw so much,
felt
so much, he nearly backed away.
felt
so much, he nearly backed away.
She turned and, at her back, her hair fell from her shoulders and down her spine, almost into one long curl—violet; even her hair was in hiding—pointing to the wonder of her form. And though she struck him as stellar—struck in the way lightning strikes, awaking his inner dragon—nothing, but nothing, in his considerable life experience, touched the splendor of her heart.
So, did that make Bronte McBride his heart mate? As unlikely as it seemed that he would meet her on arrival, a thrumming yet invisible cord connected them. Taut. Unbreakable. Everlasting.
He believed in his head and heart that he’d found his mate. The trick? To convince Bronte that she belonged to him.
He understood her heart, like no other, and though she radiated loyalty, a fierce defense against injustice, and a vulnerable openness—especially to him—she saw her vulnerability as a weakness she should fight.
It wouldn’t be easy breaking her down, helping her achieve her goals, because that task required access to her secrets.
Yes, Bronte McBride harbored a world of secrets, and a powerful resolve to keep them.
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