She sighed. “And there’s that mate stuff. Let’s save that for tomorrow, shall we? I’m approaching information overload right now.”
“That’s fair.”
She eyed him closely, and he wondered how much of his thinking she discerned. He already knew she was more observant than most. “So, I’ll leave you to the navigation, then.”
“Sleep well, Melissa.”
She watched him, but Rafferty avoided her gaze studiously. He attended to the wind and the pull of the earth’s magnetic field, charting his course and remaining alert to any possible observers. He was using his favored route, the one less likely to be used by commercial airlines. It was longer and lower, but he just wanted something to be easy for a few hours.
As if she understood as much, Melissa fell asleep, curled against his chest. He could feel the moment that sleep claimed her, and her inquisitive mind finally slipped into rest.
The flames of the darkfire did abate somewhat, letting him think more clearly than he had in hours. He could think about strategy, as well as sex.
All Rafferty had to do was seduce his mate, satisfy the firestorm, ensure the defense of the Sleeper when he awakened, destroy Magnus, and get the world of the
Pyr
back to normal.
Or as normal as it could be after these events.
It wasn’t going to be easy.
He was looking forward to the reassurance of home.
M
elissa awakened in a comfortable bed. It was such an unexpected difference from the warm embrace of an opal and gold dragon that she sat up abruptly and looked around. The sheet fell away, cool air touching her bare skin, and she realized she was naked.
She blushed, imagining who had undressed her, then took stock of her surroundings.
Melissa was in an old house, on an upper floor. She could hear the distant hum and honk of traffic, and the steady pounding of rain on the roof. Rain tinkled against the panes of the window, too, sounding icy and cold. There was a damp chill in the air, and it was light outside the windows.
Was it morning or afternoon?
The room was cozy, if not as cozy as a dragon’s embrace. The floor was hardwood, the planks wide and the wood stained dark. The floor was worn and not entirely level, and Melissa found its visible history reassuring in a way. The walls were painted a honeyed beige, which was both warm and bright. She could see by the uneven surface that they were plaster.
There was a crown molding, probably also plaster, around the perimeter of the high ceiling, and a simple brass chandelier hung from the middle of the ceiling. Its shades were art glass. Melissa stretched to look at the shadings of mauve and amber and blue in their swirled surface. Their beauty had no competition, the white ceiling showing them to advantage.
The rest of the room was the same, furnished with minimal clutter. The furniture itself was so well crafted and solid that it needed no ornamentation—the grain of the wood and the rich patina were enough. The bed had a headboard in arts and crafts style, solid quarter sawn oak that reminded Melissa of the mission style furniture her brother loved so much. The house he and his wife shared in California was filled with it, and Melissa always found its clean lines attractive.
There was a quilt on the bed, pieced of brilliant cotton paisley prints. Melissa found the words
Liberty of London
carefully framed in more than one piece. Its colors echoed the mauve and gold of the art glass and gave the room a coherence that she liked a lot. The rug on the floor was hooked by hand, cut from wool in various shades of purple and blue. At a glance, it looked to be all one color, but closer inspection revealed myriad hues mingled together.
Melissa thought of William Morris’s injunction to have nothing in one’s home that was not beautiful or useful. She’d bet Rafferty had that stitched on a sampler somewhere.
She had no trouble believing she was in Rafferty’s house. Even this one room had an integrity, a solidity and warmth, that she already associated with him. There were no blue flames, and she felt only a distant tingle of heat.
Had Rafferty abandoned her?
Melissa couldn’t hear anything beyond the rain and the traffic, but she didn’t feel alone, either. She went to the door, and the heat of the firestorm increased slightly. She watched in fascination as the blue-green flames danced around the hand she placed on the door. They seemed mercurial, there and not there, more fluid than fire usually was.
That desire filled her again, her thoughts turning to the pleasure she and Rafferty had shared. She had a sudden and vivid idea of how best to spend a rainy morning in his company.
He had called her “mate,” after all. Melissa grimaced, well aware that if his expectation of a partner was as basic as it sounded, she wouldn’t be able to deliver.
Literally.
Maybe she’d just go with the moment and worry about the implications (and her limitations) later.
The light flared around her hand, as if to endorse the notion, and Melissa caught her breath at the way her knees weakened. A particularly bright flame dropped from her hand to the floor. She snatched at it, fearing the carpet would burn. Instead, the flame rolled through the gap beneath the door and disappeared.
Melissa opened the door in time to see the cluster of flame slip and skip across a foyer, then slide down the stairs.
In pursuit of Rafferty.
Or maybe guiding her to him.
Either way, he was here.
Melissa’s heart leapt, and she knew she had to go to him. She used the compact cream and black bathroom adjacent to her room, admiring the antique wall tiles even as she hurried. She really liked his house. It was authentic and original in a way she found appealing.
But then Rafferty couldn’t be mistaken for anyone other than who he was. His confidence was very sexy. He was proud of his
Pyr
nature, sure of his objectives. He’d implied that he was more than a thousand years old, which she supposed gave someone time to refine likes and dislikes. She tugged on the fluffy white robe hanging on the back of the door, then set out to find her host.
It was easy. She lifted her hand in front of her and watched for the blue flames. They flared and leapt; then the tips of the flames bent toward the top of the stairs. Melissa descended the stairs, her bare feet sinking into the thick Persian runner, her other hand trailing down the carved wooden banister.
Melissa studied Rafferty’s home, wanting to know every detail about him that could be discerned from his residence. She had no doubt that everything had been chosen with deliberation.
There was a magnificent newel post at the end of the banister, one that looked as if it had been carved out of the trunk of an ancient tree. It certainly seemed rooted to the foyer, which had the same dark wood floors and thick carpets. The colors of choice here were red and gold, a deep oxblood red and a gold that approached bronze.
There was an old fireplace in the foyer, with a tiled surround in that same red and gold, and with an elaborate metal grate. A fire burned low there, casting a welcome heat into the foyer. It burned a little higher and hotter as she passed, as if the flames there were responding to the blue heat that danced from her fingertips.
The front door was solid and substantial, at least three feet wide, with stained glass sidelights and a transom. Melissa noted that the glass had been sandwiched between sheets of modern glass, probably to protect it and to provide better security. The lock on the door had been refitted with a modern lock, one that was set into the antique brass of the original.
Melissa smiled. It made sense to her that Rafferty would do sensitive restoration and modernization. He would be the kind of person to respect the past but look to the future.
He wasn’t afraid to experience the moment fully. She could take a lesson from that.
Rafferty’s house felt like a haven. Melissa wasn’t sure she’d ever want to leave it.
She couldn’t help but compare this to her own home, which was infinitely forgettable. She’d made her town house easy to leave, by conscious choice, so that she could answer the call of her profession and go wherever was necessary without a backward glance. It had never held the same promise as the house she and Zach had bought together, and when that had been sold, she hadn’t wanted to invest emotionally in bricks and mortar.
She’d done the same with relationships since her marriage had ended, never investing the increment that would make another person a cornerstone of her life. She’d always been sure that was the sensible choice. Now, in Rafferty’s home, Melissa realized she had denied herself a kind of solace and comfort that would have been very welcome in recent years.
No wonder she had gone to her brother’s house to convalesce. Her town house hadn’t been much more personal or welcoming than the hospital. Even then, she’d stayed in California for only a week, telling herself she didn’t want to impose.
No. She’d been afraid of not ever being able to leave, of being drawn in so tightly that she’d want only to stay.
Cool as a cucumber
her brother called her.
Ice queen
Zach had called her.
Chicken shit
was what Melissa decided to call herself. Was she ever going to invest in herself? In a personal relationship she wanted? In living instead of simply marking time—or working all the time?
Maybe the moment to change was right now.
Melissa stood in the central foyer and held up her hand for directions. The flames indicated that Rafferty was at the rear of the house, in the room directly beneath the bedroom where she had awakened. That heavy wood door was closed, but the hungry lick of the blue flames when she touched the doorknob told her all she needed to know.
Not just about Rafferty, but about herself and her choices.
It was time to live in the moment.
It was time to want something more than survival.
It was time to do something about getting what she wanted.
Melissa rapped once, then opened the door.
“I will make you a wager,” Magnus said, even as Jorge was thrashing the old
Slayer
. He was within a heartbeat of death, badly wounded, and Jorge wasn’t surprised that Magnus would use his last breath to try to negotiate.
“You have nothing I want,” Jorge retorted. “Except the Elixir in your veins.”
“Which is diluted,” Magnus replied. “Look at me! If the Elixir ran strong within me, would I be so sorely wounded?”
Jorge hesitated. That argument did make some sense.
“I have more,” Magnus said. “I have only to get to it. If you release me, I would share.”
“Eighty-twenty,” Jorge said.
Magnus laughed, coughing blood. “Twenty-eighty was more my thinking”—Jorge drove a talon into the old
Slayer
’s chest, and his next words required more effort—“but it appears you have the upper talon.”
“Take me there,” Jorge insisted. “Show it to me.” He knew better than to trust Magnus Montmorency.
“I can’t when you clutch so tightly.” Magnus closed his eyes, his breath rasping. “I can barely breathe,” he whispered, his strength apparently fading.
Jorge studied him. Magnus could be lying. But if Magnus wasn’t lying, if he died, Jorge would never find that stash of Elixir. He eased his grip ever so slightly on the old
Slayer
, on his guard for treachery.
Jorge wasn’t quite quick enough. Magnus twitched and shifted shape, becoming a green salamander. Jorge snatched after him, but no sooner had his hand closed around the reptile than Magnus disappeared before his eyes.
“Better luck next time.”
The old-speak resonated in Jorge’s own thoughts. Then Magnus laughed.
Jorge’s eyes narrowed. If there was a next time, he knew who would trick whom.
Next time, Jorge would triumph.
The door opened before Melissa to reveal a library, paneled completely in carved dark oak. The fire was built up to burn more vehemently, its flames painting the room with flickering orange light. The burgundy velvet drapes were closed against the morning; the walls were lined with books, old leather-bound books with gold lettering on the spines; and a massive desk reposed in one corner. There was a pair of armchairs before the fire, their caramel leather worn to wrinkles and shine.
Rafferty sat in the one facing the doorway. He wore only his jeans, his bare feet stretched out before the fire. His dark hair glinted; his eyes glittered. He looked both thoughtful and formidable. He was utterly still, except for his thumb, which worried that black and white ring. In his other hand was a large quartz crystal, and there were many mineral samples on the bookshelves. They made earthy and interesting bookends.
Melissa understood he had been waiting for her.
She halted in the doorway, heart in her throat. “You knew I was coming.”
“Our senses are more keen than those of humans.” His words were softly uttered but seemed to resonate in the room. “I heard your breathing change when you awakened. I thought your curiosity would bring you downstairs.” He looked into the fire, and she had the sense he was trying to make a decision about something.
Maybe about her.
Melissa stepped into the room, closed the door, and leaned back against it. She felt as if she had entered a refuge—one of the most secure kind. “Can they follow us here?”
“Magnus and Jorge can follow us anywhere.” Rafferty pushed to his feet, bending to tend the fire that didn’t need tending. The golden light slid over his muscles exactly as Melissa would have liked to slide her hands over him. “When a
Slayer
can spontaneously manifest wherever he chooses, there can be no barriers to hold him out.”
“Not even dragonsmoke?”
“No.”
“Can you manifest like that?”
“I did not drink the Elixir.” His reply was emphatic, just like his gesture as he shoved the poker into the fire. Sparks scattered and danced.
“That doesn’t exactly answer my question.”
Rafferty pursed his lips and frowned. “I believe only those who have drunk the Elixir have the power to spontaneously manifest in alternate locations.”
Again, Melissa sensed this was only half of the story. What wasn’t he telling her? “So, you’ve never done it?”
He frowned. “I did. Twice.” His gaze flicked to hers. “Although both times I was trying to do it, I’m not sure I was ultimately responsible for my deed.”
“What does that mean?”
“I wanted to find Magnus. I wanted to be with Magnus. I spontaneously manifested in Magnus’s presence. But both times, Magnus wanted something from me.” Rafferty shook his head thoughtfully. “I have come to think I did not make the choice to move, but he summoned me.”
“Because he had drunk the Elixir, and he needed your help.”
Rafferty nodded, that frown still furrowing his brow.
“Did you try again? To make sure?”
“I have failed to repeat the deed.” He flicked her a look. “I was trying again, on the night we met.”
Melissa had to respect his conclusion, given that. Desire couldn’t have much to do with it—she knew he had wanted to destroy Magnus that night in DC.
As the Elixir—and those who had consumed it—was a topic that clearly troubled Rafferty, Melissa didn’t want to talk about it. She wanted Rafferty to be in a different mood.