Firestorm Forever: A Dragonfire Novel Read online

  Maybe it was somebody’s favorite thing.

  “I’m not expecting anything,” she said, then took it from him.

  “Maybe it’s a gift from a secret admirer,” he said, obviously having also noticed that there was no return address.

  Jac smiled. “I should be so lucky,” she said, then tucked the parcel under her elbow. “You’d think with so few people left in the building, the delivery guy could get it right.”

  “The odds would seem to be on his side.”

  “I’m Jacelyn,” she said, offering her hand. “But people call me Jac.”

  His smile started in his eyes and they were twinkling long before his lips curved. “I’m Marcus,” he said, his hand closing resolutely around hers. “But people call me Marco.”

  Jac smiled because she couldn’t do anything else, not when the hottest guy she’d met in years was holding her hand, smiling at her, and looking as if he felt the same powerful attraction she did. Was her luck turning? Or was he another good-looking loser who would use her, break her heart and disappear forever? She had a gift for finding them.

  Jac couldn’t quell her optimism. That was a gift, too. “We go to the same gym, don’t we?” she said. “I was just going down for the kickboxing class.”

  “Sounds good, but I’ve got a commitment this morning.” Marco’s gaze dropped to the parcel. “Maybe you should open it, in case it’s important.” Then he released her hand and stepped back. “Nice to meet you, Jac. Maybe I’ll see you at the gym one day.”

  Maybe?

  She’d make sure of it.

  Jac took a good look at Marco’s tight butt as he strolled down the hall and admired it mightily. Then she shut the apartment door and considered the parcel. Maybe it was important. It couldn’t hurt to find out and she did have a few minutes.

  She tore open the corner to find a plain box inside. She got the scissors from the kitchen to cut the string and opened the package, surprised by the weight of it.

  There was an old book inside, but no note or message of any kind. She looked through the paper, but she hadn’t missed anything.

  She turned the book over. Habits and Habitats of Dragons: A Compleat Guide for Slayers by Sigmund Guthrie.

  A shiver slipped down Jac’s spine.

  Seriously?

  She flipped open the book to discover that it was about the Pyr.

  Even better, it specified how best to hunt and kill them.

  How had anyone known to send her exactly what she needed? She fanned the pages, amazed by the age of the volume, and started to read. In no time at all, she’d forgotten all about kickboxing class.

  But not about her new neighbor.

  It was only when her hunger compelled her to put the book aside that she wondered. Did Marco know more about this parcel than he’d let on?

  * * *

  Chicago

  Erik Sorensson, leader of the Pyr, awakened suddenly. The shards of his dream were fading quickly, but he remembered that he had seen his lost son, Sigmund, in his dream. He had dreamed that Sigmund had come to him with a message, and that his son had been agitated.

  It had been the second time he’d had the same dream.

  This time, though, he could remember Sigmund’s words.

  The blood moon will ripen the eggs.

  He could still hear Sigmund repeating the words, his anxiety increasing each time. That was probably because Erik hadn’t understood his meaning and Sigmund had known it.

  The blood moon will ripen the eggs.

  Erik frowned and rolled out of bed, striding to the living room for a pen and paper. He wrote the words down, but could make little sense of them.

  What eggs?

  He knew that the Dragon’s Tail of the moon’s node would culminate with three blood moons in succession, three lunar eclipses in which the eclipsed moon would appear to turn a russet red color. He knew the first one had occurred earlier today, on the morning of October 8, 2014. Actually—he checked his watch—it had occurred the day before. It was after midnight. The next would be on April 4, 2015 and the third on September 28, 2015. The moon’s node would turn to the Dragon’s Head on October 1, 2015, ending the prophesied cycle of rebalance and retribution.

  That would also mark the end of the Dragon’s Tail Wars. Erik didn’t want to jinx the result by speculating on whether it would be the Slayers or the Pyr who survived. One kind of dragon shifter would be eliminated from the earth by that final eclipse, and Erik knew which kind he wanted it to be.

  There were few Slayers left, and he knocked his knuckles on the wood desk for luck even as he thought as much.

  Erik also expected the three lunar eclipses to spark three important firestorms for the Pyr. Did Sigmund refer to the eggs of the women who would be the mates of those three Pyr? It seemed an unnecessary detail to confide in Erik, and somewhat more intimate than he preferred.

  But what other eggs could Sigmund have meant?

  He spun in his chair, then booted up his laptop, verifying that there were three full moons in a row. There were photographs online of the one that had just occurred, including some dramatic shots from Hawaii.

  Erik looked up “blood moon,” because he knew that humans had a number of superstitions about them. In fact, there were four blood moons in a row, the one the previous April that had sparked Thorolf’s firestorm being the first of the sequence. He found a Blood Moon Prophecy, which declared this sequence of eclipses to be a mark of the end times, based a line in the Book of Joel, a minor prophet. Erik supposed that wasn’t overly different from the Pyr’s view that karma must be rebalanced before the end of this cycle of the moon’s node. He knew that the first full moon after the equinox was called the Harvest Moon and the subsequent one, the Hunter’s Moon, but wasn’t sure it mattered which this one was.

  He pushed back the laptop with disgust, just as Eileen came into the living room. She yawned when she saw him, then smiled. “Oh good, you’re still here. I thought maybe there was some drama over the firestorm.”

  “Not so far.”

  “Excellent. I do love a world with fewer Slayers.” Eileen frowned then. “Unless there isn’t a firestorm?”

  Erik closed his eyes and smiled as he attuned himself to the spark. He could feel the firestorm, even at a distance, and the heat of its burn. “Yes. In Virginia.”

  “Are you staying up? Do you want coffee?”

  “No and no.” Erik went toward the couch, extending a hand to his partner, mate, and lover. “Come sit with me for a minute.”

  “Whose firestorm is it?” Eileen asked, curling up beside him on one of the black leather couches.

  “Drake’s.”

  “Really!” Eileen twisted around to smile at him, as if she didn’t believe him. “I thought he’d had one before. He had a son he left behind, right?”

  Erik tightened his arm around her. “He wouldn’t be the first to get a second chance.”

  “True.” Eileen nestled against him with satisfaction. “Maybe a new life means a new firestorm.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, either way, I’m pleased to hear that. I like Drake.”

  “I didn’t realize you’d talked to him much.”

  “I haven’t, but I have a weakness for strong, silent types,” Eileen confessed with a smile, then kissed Erik’s cheek when he snorted. She studied him for a moment. “Why are you up if there’s no trouble?”

  “A dream.”

  Eileen sobered. “The same one?”

  Erik winced. He got up and retrieved the pad of paper, then gave it to Eileen.

  “What eggs?” she asked immediately.

  “I don’t know.”

  There was a shuffling then and their daughter Zoë appeared at the end of the corridor that led to her room and Eileen’s office. She’d be six in November, but already resembled Erik so strongly that Eileen joked that she’d been just a womb for rent. Erik saw his partner in his daughter, though, in her creativity and her intelligence, as well as
the warmth of her smile. Zoë was carrying her favorite stuffed toy of the moment and looked like she was sleepwalking.

  “The blood moon will ripen the eggs,” she said, her words devoid of inflection.

  The hair on the back of Erik’s neck stood up. Had Sigmund appeared to Zoë in a dream, as well? Or was this some mustering of her prophetic abilities as Wyvern? He would have gone to their daughter but Eileen moved first and more quickly, and he settled back against the couch with reluctance.

  His desire for Zoë to show her abilities sooner rather than later was a sore point between himself and his mate, so he tried to temper it.

  Erik didn’t feel any more successful than he usually did.

  “Shhh,” Eileen counseled, then went to Zoë and picked her up. “You’ll get cold,” she whispered. “Let’s get you back to bed.” She kissed her daughter’s temple as she picked her up, grimacing at the weight. Erik bit back a smile when Eileen glanced his way. Zoë curled instinctively around her mother, settling against her shoulder to doze contentedly.

  Erik beckoned, wanting his family close for the moment, although he couldn’t have said why.

  “She’s growing up so fast,” Eileen whispered, guessing the wrong reason for his invitation.

  Not quickly enough for Erik, although he tried to savor every day. The fact that he and Eileen had had a daughter indicated that Zoë would be the Wyvern of the Pyr, the only female of their kind and the one Pyr with the powers of prophecy. Zoë, though, seemed to have no such powers, and Erik suspected she would develop them at puberty—if at all—which was when male Pyr came into their powers.

  Eileen carried Zoë back to the couch, settling beside Erik, and he pulled a blanket over the two of them. Zoë looked like any other child then, nestled against her mother and spared any dark dreams. Erik had a moment to hope that the Pyr would triumph in this war with the Slayers, even without the assistance of a Wyvern and her abilities, before the glass in the living room window shattered.

  Zoë awakened immediately. Eileen gasped and clutched their daughter close.

  Erik was on his feet, already shifting shape to defend his family.

  Because there was a large ruby red and brass dragon on the other side of the cracked window, and he was swinging his tail to finish what he had started. He was the spitting image of Boris Vassily, the Slayer Erik had killed, dismembered and incinerated seven years before.

  But Boris didn’t look as if he were dead anymore.

  Chapter Two

  Ronnie hadn’t realized her kitchen was so small, not until Drake was in it. He leaned against the counter at one end of the room and watched her, his presence so powerful that Ronnie almost forgot her own name. She was keenly aware of him, and hotter than she could have believed possible.

  She was aroused, too, all of her fantasies about Drake at the fore of her thoughts. That bright yellow light she’d noticed in the parking lot seemed to be even brighter inside, and it might have been the middle of summer. She felt flushed and self-conscious, aware now that they were alone in her kitchen that it had been decades since she’d had a first date.

  If that’s what this was.

  “It’s so warm in here! That thermostat must be off again,” she said, hurrying to the living room to adjust it. It looked fine and was set low, but there was no doubt that the kitchen was hotter than a July day in Texas. She closed the drapes over the windows and was amazed by how cozy her home felt.

  She’d already hung up her jacket and now removed her cardigan, casting it across the back of a chair on her way to the kitchen. She felt that her skin was a bit pale for a sleeveless top, but Drake didn’t seem to have any issues with her appearance.

  In fact, his eyes glowed when she came back into the kitchen and her pulse raced when he surveyed her with obvious approval. She felt competent and composed most of the time, had felt feminine a few times since Mark’s death, but hadn’t felt sexy in a very long time. It was good to be with a man who was obviously attracted to her, especially as the feeling was reciprocal. Ronnie knew that Drake wasn’t always easy to read, and she appreciated that he was letting her see his reaction so clearly.

  Maybe he’d noticed her nervousness. Ronnie stepped past him to retrieve her groceries and felt the heat emanating from his body. The light in the kitchen seemed brilliant but it wasn’t a harsh light—it seemed to gild everything, making Drake look delicious. She had to hope it did the same trick for her. Ronnie opened the fridge and piled the groceries in, a part of her mind concluding that it would be a miracle if any of those eggs survived. She felt a trickle of perspiration slide down her spine, yet her nipples were as tight as pebbles.

  She was glad she’d worn this flattering skirt and heels to work on this particular day. She felt more like a woman and less like a mom in this outfit, even though it had been more expensive than what she usually bought for herself.

  She pivoted to find that tiny smile on Drake’s lips and her heart skipped. Had there ever been a man so still, so patient, as this one?

  It would take forever to make love to him—or for him to make love to her. Ronnie felt dizzy in anticipation.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asked, losing her nerve for a moment.

  She reached for a mug from the cupboard and her hand shook so much that she dropped it. She didn’t see Drake move, just found his solid strength suddenly beside her. He caught the mug, then his hand closed over hers as he gave it back to her. His other hand landed on the back of her waist. It wasn’t an embrace, exactly, but she felt surrounded by him.

  Protected.

  Safe.

  Ronnie let out a long breath, knowing she could get used to this sensation. It wasn’t easy to parent alone, but she was getting way ahead of things to assume that Drake wanted that much of a part in her life.

  She licked her lips. “It’s been a long time,” she whispered, hearing how husky her voice was. “There’s been no one since Mark.”

  Ronnie wasn’t sure what she expected from Drake, but when he bent, his lips touching her ear, she shivered with need. “No one since Cassandra,” he murmured.

  She looked up at him at this confirmation of her earlier guess that they had both known grief. “Your wife?”

  Drake nodded, and she saw again that shadow touch his features.

  “How long?”

  “Too long.”

  There was a weariness in his tone that touched Ronnie deeply. They had this in common, this loss of a beloved, and she lifted a hand to his chest. “I thought once that you had a son, too.”

  Drake frowned and his throat worked. “Theo is also lost to me.”

  It was an odd way to express it, but Drake often spoke formally and there was no mistaking his pain. Ronnie didn’t know how she would have survived if she’d lost both Mark and Timmy: many of those early days, she’d dragged herself out of bed to keep up appearances for her son. She flattened her hand against Drake’s chest and felt the steady pulse of his heart beneath her fingers. To her surprise, their hearts seemed to be beating at the same rhythm, and she glanced up to find Drake gritting his teeth.

  When he opened his eyes to look down at her, his eyes glittered with a thousand lights. “Veronica,” he whispered, as if he were powerless to do anything else.

  There were so many similarities in their experiences. That was why this felt right. He’d said she’d given him purpose before and on this night, Ronnie knew she could give him solace.

  Perhaps they also understood each other’s unspoken needs. He’d certainly gone into danger to get the answer she’d needed, four years before. He’d filled her dreams, but had given her time to heal. He was trustworthy. He was honorable. He was precisely the kind of man she found most appealing.

  And even though there was a lot Ronnie didn’t know about Drake, she realized she knew more than enough.

  “I don’t want coffee,” Drake whispered, his voice hoarse.

  “Neither do I,” Ronnie admitted and put the mug down on the co
unter. She turned to face him. Her heart was racing and she couldn’t take a full breath, but she knew what she wanted and she wasn’t going to chicken out now. “I want you, Drake,” she said, amazed by her own audacity. Once she wouldn’t have been able to say such a thing aloud, but Ronnie had changed.

  She hoped Drake would still want her.

  Drake’s smile was so satisfied that Ronnie could have no doubt. He moved slowly but with purpose, his hands locking around her waist. His grip almost encircled her, and he made a little growl in his throat, as if that pleased him. He pulled her closer, so that her breasts collided with his chest, and backed her into the counter. It felt good to have his erection press against her and the radiance of the light between them—never mind the heat it generated—made Ronnie gasp in awe.

  She might have asked after it, but Drake’s mouth closed over hers in a possessive kiss. Ronnie surrendered completely. His was a kiss that turned her blood to fire and destroyed any vestige of doubt, a kiss that melted her bones and branded her with his touch. It was a kiss that claimed her, a proprietary kiss of such passion that she knew she’d remember it forever.

  She was Drake’s, at least for this night, and Ronnie Maitland was glad.

  In fact, she couldn’t imagine anything better.

  * * *

  The firestorm was a gift unexpected.

  That it should spark for Drake again was good fortune beyond any he had ever known.

  That it should burn between himself and this woman, this woman who had haunted him for four years, was a marvel he refused to question.

  He could have found Veronica even without the spark of the firestorm, for the scent of her was seared into his very being. It had been her blend of resilience and vulnerability that had snared him four years before, her fragility matched with a conviction that she could change her own circumstance. She wore her heart on her sleeve, and her thoughts were clearly read in her eyes, but she had a resolve that would surprise most people.

  Veronica fascinated Drake. Contrast seemed to characterize her, not just in her nature but in her choices. He had to think it would have been simpler for her to have married again than to have raised her son alone. He hoped she was a person guided by principle and that they had that trait in common. He liked that though her life was modern, the necklace she wore was of pearls old enough that they’d been perfectly matched. Her home showed the same contrast, being simply decorated but elegant, with a few well-chosen pieces. It felt like a sanctuary.