Kiss of Fate by Deborah Cooke
“The Wyvern.”
“But there is no Wyvern,” Erik argued. Before he could explain that Sophie had died after Sigmund’s death, his son smiled mysteriously.
“Isn’t there?” Sigmund asked quietly. He smiled, waved, then turned away. Before his back had fully turned, he faded to nothing.
Erik blinked and stared at the ceiling, his throat tight that he had had one last precious exchange with Sigmund. His heart leapt that Sigmund had given him the piece of the puzzle he needed to eliminate Magnus, the Slayers he made immortal, and the shadow dragons. And he wept that he had not made peace with his son sooner.
Eileen stirred in the darkness and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “What’s wrong?” she asked sleepily. “You were gone.”
“No, just dreaming.”
She braced herself on her shoulder and looked down at him sleepily, then touched her fingertips to his cheek. “And what kind of dream makes the leader of the Pyr weep?”
“I dreamed of our son,” Erik admitted, his words thick.
Eileen shook her head and yawned, nestling down beside him. “Don’t be silly; we aren’t having another son.”
“But the Pyr . . .”
“Yes, I know, but your big myth is going to be proven wrong. We’re having a daughter. I know it as well as I know my own name.”
“How?” Erik whispered.
“I dreamed of her.” Eileen opened one eye to give him a look. “Definitely a girl.” Then she smiled at his shock and settled back to sleep again. “You’ll see in seven or eight months,” she threatened, her words already slowing.
Erik couldn’t sleep then because his heart was pounding. The stories of the Pyr weren’t being proven wrong at all. There could only be one female Pyr, a prophetess who returned to flesh time and again to aid the Pyr in their quest.
Another Wyvern was coming into the world.
She would be their daughter.
Erik was honored and awed by the responsibility, and he marveled that this Wyvern was already dispatching dreams. The luck of the Pyr was turning, and it was because of Eileen.
He pressed a kiss into her hair, overwhelmed by the abundance of his blessings.
The future was theirs to command.
Read on for a preview of the next book in the Dragonfire series from Deborah Cooke. . . .
Delaney had realized that he was on a suicide mission.
He drove his rental car aimlessly through the southern Ohio countryside as he came to terms with that truth. He’d vowed to destroy the source of the Dragon’s Blood Elixir, and he hadn’t imagined for a moment that it would be easy. But now he’d found the refuge and spent a week observing Magnus’s security measures, and he knew the truth.
He could destroy the Elixir, but he wouldn’t survive.
In fact he knew that he would die in his attempt. The trick would lie in ensuring that he actually did destroy the source of the Elixir once and for all before he died.
He didn’t mind dying—his life had become a living hell since Magnus had force-fed him the Elixir—he just wanted to make a difference. He wanted to do something for his fellow Pyr, other than being unpredictable and a burden. He hated how the shadow Magnus had planted in his heart refused to be banished, hated how he had been unable to stop himself from attacking Donovan’s pregnant mate, Alex. It was disgusting and reprehensible. If dying eliminated that threat to the Pyr he loved, Delaney was okay with it.
But he wanted more. He wanted to ensure that none of them ever had to endure what he had suffered. He wanted to give them a better chance to defeat Magnus and the Slayers.
Which meant that he had to destroy the Elixir, before he died in the attempt.
He could smell Magnus’s presence, as well as that of Magnus’s current favorite, Jorge. The Slayers seemed to be gathering, maybe to fortify themselves with the Elixir.
Delaney had to act.
He had already decided to attack the next day, early, so as a result there was no question of his sleeping on this night. He drove on endless country roads, past fallow fields, past snow under moonlight and forests of bare branches. Just when he tired of his own company, he saw lights.
Delaney pulled into the parking lot of the roadhouse on instinct, and realized he was craving the company of the humans that he and the Pyr were charged to protect. He didn’t give himself time to think twice.
He strode into the noisy bar, savoring the sounds of laughter and music, the sight of people dancing and celebrating, and knew there was a point to his sacrifice. They would all be oblivious to what he did, just as humans were always oblivious to the efforts of the Pyr, but their optimism and energy would carry on.
That made it worthwhile.
He had ordered a beer and a tequila shooter before a woman rapped him on the elbow. “Hey, this is a private party,” she began, falling silent when a spark leapt between her fingertip and Delaney’s elbow.
He felt his own eyes widen as an unfamiliar heat spread through him like wildfire. Even though he’d never felt it before, Delaney knew exactly what it was.
His firestorm.
His last chance to do something right.
His blood seemed to sizzle and he became keenly aware of everyone around him. He felt a desire so sharp and hot that it nearly took his breath away, and he knew then the role of this woman in his life.
It didn’t hurt that the petite redhead at his side was the cutest woman he’d ever seen. She was as small and delicate as a fairy, but more curvy than any fairy could have been. Her hair was a mass of golden red curls and her eyes were blue and bright with curiosity. She looked on the verge of laughter, reminding him of a beam of sunlight dancing on the sea.
She wore a black sparkly camisole that highlighted the curve of her breasts and a flirty black skirt that danced around her hips. Her dangly earrings were set with amber, one of his favorite stones, and they swung against her cheeks as she talked. She was wearing very high-heeled, strappy black sandals, but even with them, she stood only as high as the middle of his chest.
She was also a bit unsteady on them, as if she wasn’t used to wearing such high heels.
She pursed her lips, flicked him a look, and touched her fingertip to his elbow once again.
The spark of the firestorm flared right on cue, lighting her features with its golden splendor. She stepped backward in astonishment, caught her balance by grabbing the edge of the bar, but didn’t run away.
Instead she whistled in admiration, licked her fingertip and made a hissing sound. Then she laughed.
It was the most enchanting sound Delaney had ever heard.
She wasn’t afraid of him or the firestorm, which had to be a good sign. Delaney held her gaze and knew with utter clarity how he’d be spending his last night. He’d make one more play for the team. He’d consummate his firestorm and give Erik another Pyr for the ranks of his warriors.
It would be the right thing to do.
“You’re a real firecracker,” he teased, and she smiled. Her smile lit her face, and Donovan sensed that she smiled often.
He liked that.
“You stole my joke,” she said, not looking offended in the least. “I was going to toss you out, but maybe there’s more to you than meets the eye.” She gave him an appreciative survey, her eyes shining with mischief. “Maybe I should say that you’re hot stuff.”
“Maybe we should find out just how much sparks fly.”
She laughed again and Delaney felt less burdened. “Or whether those who play with fire have to get burned.”
“Now you stole my joke,” he complained, unable to keep himself from grinning.
“Turnabout is fair play.” She laughed again, then put out her hand. “Ginger Sinclair. Eternal bridesmaid, go-to party organizer—”
“And the light of the night,” Delaney said, wanting only to make her laugh again. She did, and he felt triumphant.
“Delaney,” he said, taking her hand. When his fingers closed over hers, the firestorm’s hea
Leaving him unable to think of anything except peeling Ginger out of that camisole and skirt. There were freckles in her cleavage, a smattering of them that would extend across her breasts and over her shoulders. He wanted to find them all, caress them all, kiss them all.
Meanwhile, Ginger’s eyes widened and she caught her breath, a flush launching over her cheeks as she stared up at him. She swallowed visibly. “Delaney what?”
“Just Delaney.”
Her eyes sparkled again. “All this and mystery, too. That could be too much for a little country girl like me.”
“I think you can handle anything I’ve got.”
Her smile turned coy and she let her gaze slide over him again. “Maybe.”
“Everything I’ve got.”
Her smile broadened. “Maybe.”
“Maybe a little chemistry is all we need.”
“Maybe.” She nodded, and her gaze flicked to their interlocked hands. Donovan let his thumb slide across her skin, savoring the silky smoothness of it. A trail of embers followed the wake of his slow caress.
Ginger stared at it, then licked her lips. “I think I’ve had too much to drink,” she said, and fanned herself. “Do you find it hot in here?”
“It’s only going to get hotter,” Delaney said. The bar-tender brought his beer and shooter, but Delaney wasn’t interested in drowning his sorrows anymore.
He was interested in seducing tiny, perfect Ginger.
ASAP.
The DJ put on a slow song and Delaney knew his luck had turned. He paid for the drink and spun Ginger toward the dance floor. “Come on, they’re playing my tune.”
She spared a glance over her shoulder at him, tilting her head to meet his gaze. “My momma told me not to slow dance with strangers.” She was smiling, so he knew she was teasing him.
Flirting, maybe.
It felt good.
Delaney grinned. “I only slow dance. Are you turning me down?” He let his fingers slide up her bare arm and Ginger shivered with what he knew was desire.
“My momma also said that you only live once,” she said firmly, and took his hand in hers. She pivoted on the edge of the dance floor to face him, anticipation in her eyes. The floor was old, with lights pulsing up from it, and the pink and blue light made intriguing shadows as her skirt flared out. “Show me your best moves, Delaney No-surname,” she challenged, and Delaney didn’t need a second invitation.
He knew they’d be doing more than one slow dance together before the night was through.
When he pulled Ginger into his arms and the firestorm shimmered between his chest and her breasts, she caught her breath and looked up at him in awe.
That was when he knew that she knew it, too.
“Only if you show me yours,” he teased.
The mischief in her smile made his heart skip. “You’ve got a deal, hotshot.”
About the Author
Deborah Cooke has always been fascinated by dragons, although she has never understood why they have to be the bad guys. She has an honors degree in history, with a focus on medieval studies, and is an avid reader of medieval vernacular literature, fairy tales, and fantasy novels. Since 1992, Deborah has written more than thirty romance novels under the names Claire Cross and Claire Delacroix.
Deborah makes her home in Canada with her husband. When she isn’t writing, she can be found knitting, sewing, or hunting for vintage patterns. To learn more about the Dragonfire series and Deborah, please visit her Web site at www.deborahcooke.com and her blog, Alive & Knitting, at www.delacroix.net/blog.
Deborah Cooke, Kiss of Fate