Heart of the Dragon a-1 Page 10

  Darius arched a brow. "What good are you to them if you are dead? We do not know what kind of weapons these humans wield. We do not know how to protect ourselves from them."

  "He's right," Renard said, leaning forward. "We must discover what these weapons do."

  "I will be traveling to the surface," Darius said. "I will learn what I can."

  "The surface?" Zaeven gasped.

  "You cannot," Madox growled.

  "Lucky bastard," Brittan said with a wry smile.

  "Go now," Darius told them. "Sharpen your weapons and prepare your minds. Brand, your new duties will begin immediately."

  His friend opened his mouth to question him, but changed his mind. He nodded in understanding.

  Chairs skidded as they rushed to obey; then the shuffle of their footsteps sounded.

  Darius shut himself in his personal chambers. With Brand now guarding the mist, he closed his eyes and pictured Javar's palace. Within seconds, he stood inside the very walls he imagined. Except, these walls were barren, devoid of any type of jewel or decoration. He frowned.

  A billowing mist stretched to the prismed ceiling, and as he floated into the next room, he noticed what looked to be ice crystals scattered across the floor. Those crystals produced a thick mist. He bent down and smoothed his palm over a few shards, wishing he could hold them in his hand and feel their coolness. Why weren't they melting? His frown deepened, and he straightened. Unlike the emptiness of the first room, human men abounded in this one. No one saw him, for he was like the mist. There, but not there. Able to observe, but unable to touch.

  Some of the occupants were striding in and out, holding weapons just as Grayley described. Attached to their backs were strange, round containers with a single tube that stretched from the top. The men who weren't holding weapons were holding spikes crafted by Hephaestus himself. They jammed those spikes into the wall and pried at the jewels. Where had these humans acquired tools of the gods?

  Had he been a man who allowed emotions to rule him, Darius would have morphed into dragon form. Prongs of fury simmered to life just beneath his skin. He watched a female vampire glide casually inside the room and lick her lips as her gaze caressed the humans. A trickle of blood fell from her chin, testament of a recent feeding. She stopped to speak with a human.

  "Tell your leader we've done all that was required of us," she said in the human language, trailing a finger over his now pale cheek. "We are ready for our reward."

  The man shifted nervously, but nodded. "We're almost ready to venture further."

  "Do not take too long. We might decide to turn our appetites to you." With one last lick of her lips, which sent the man rearing backward in fear, she left as casually as she'd entered. Her white gown flowed behind her in sensuous waves.

  Darius watched in shock. Vampires and humans aiding one another? Inconceivable. Perplexed, he moved his gaze over the rest of the chamber. Sections of the walls and floor were blackened from fire. In a far corner lay the broken, dead body of a dragon. Veran, one of Javar's fiercest soldiers. A white film covered him from head to toe. He bore several injuries, yet there was no blood around him.

  What type of weapon could destroy such a strong creature? Vampires were strong, yes. Humans were resourceful, yes. But that wasn't enough to capture an entire dragon palace. His fury increased. Darius found himself reaching for one of the humans, intent on curling his fingers around the bastard's vulnerable neck, but his hands drifted through the man like mist.

  Now more than before he knew he could not send his own army here until he learned just how to combat these men and their weapons.

  Darius searched the rest of the palace. He did not find a sign of Javar or any more of his men. Had the rest met the same fate as Veran? Or had they merely abandoned this place? Left unsure, he whisked himself back inside his own chamber. Answers. He wanted answers. Answers he suspected lay with Grace. If he hoped to gain what he wanted from her, he needed to be focused, distant. Utterly unfeeling.

  Heartless.

  He only wished he did not feel so alive each time he thought of her. So vital.

  Well, he would remove the sight of her from his mind. All of that glorious hair tumbling down her shoulders. Eyes more vibrant than the sea. He would even remove the sound of her voice from his ears. That sweet voice entreating him to continue their kiss.

  Instead of forcing her from his thoughts, he only managed to strengthen her hold.

  He easily saw himself carrying her to his bed, laying her down and stripping the clothes from her body. He imagined himself parting her sweet thighs, luxuriating in the softness of her skin, then sliding deeply inside her. He could see her head thrashing from side to side. Could almost hear her moans of rapture.

  Desire became a heady essence in his veins, his cock strained to an unbearable thickness. He growled from the pain of it. Jaw clenched, he removed the medallion from his neck and held it in his palm. "Show me Grace Carlyle," he commanded.

  The twin dragons glowed incandescent with energy. Power whirled inside them, mighty, burgeoning, and when it became too much for them to bear, blood-red beams shot from their eyes, creating a circle of light. Inside the light, air crackled and thickened.

  Grace's image formed in the center.

  In that instant, his senses came to life. He didn't understand how a simple glance at her could undo centuries of safeguards. She lay in a small bed, and he studied her. Her eyes were closed; her cheeks were pale, making the freckles scattered across her dirt-smudged nose and forehead appear darker. Her carmine curls were wound atop her head, all but a few loose tendrils framing her temples.

  She wore the same dirty shirt, and some sort of small, clear tube protruded from her arm, partially covered by the thin white sheet draping her from the chest down. Two male humans approached her bed.

  Darius scowled as his possessiveness resurfaced.

  "Looks like the morphine is working," the man with dark hair said, his voice a smooth baritone.

  "Not just morphine. I gave her three different sedatives. She'll be out for hours."

  "What are we going to do with her?"

  "Whatever she wants us to do." He chuckled. "We're to play the gracious host."

  "We should just kill her and be done with it."

  "We don't need the attention her disappearance would bring-not when her brother is already missing."

  "She won't stop searching for Alex. That much is obvious."

  "She can search all she wants. She'll never find him."

  The dark-headed one reached out and trailed his fingers over Grace's cheek. She didn't awaken, but mumbled something unintelligible under her breath. "She's pretty," he said.

  A low, menacing snarl rose in Darius's throat.

  "She's too fat," the other said.

  "Not fat, just not anorexic. She's soft in all the right places."

  "Well, keep your hands to yourself. Women know when their bodies have been used, and we don't need her bitching about it. The boss wouldn't like it." With a disgusted shake of his head, he added, "Come on. We've got work to do."

  The two humans walked away-which saved their lives. Grace's image began to fade. With much regret Darius hung the chain back around his neck.

  Soon. Soon he would be with her again.

  CHAPTER 9

  "Home," Grace sighed as she tossed her keys and purse on the small table beside her front door. She padded to her bedroom, the sound of honking cars filling her ears. Sunlight burst directly into her line of vision from the open blinds, too bright, too cheery.

  She was not in a good mood.

  She'd spent the past week with the Argonauts. While they had been perfectly solicitous of her, they had failed to find any clue as to her brother's whereabouts. Neither had she. Every day she'd called his cell phone. Every day she'd called his apartment. He never answered. She'd had no luck tracking down what flight he'd taken out of Brazil.

  She finally caught the red-eye and here she was, though she didn't
know what she was going to do. File a missing person's report? Hire a P.I.? Uttering another sigh, she picked up the cordless phone perched on the edge of her desk. Three new voice mails, all of them from her mom. Grace dialed her brother's number. One ring, two. Three, four, five. No answer.

  She called his cell. No answer there, either.

  She hung up and punched in her mother's number.

  "Hello," her mom answered.

  "Hey, Mom."

  "Grace Elizabeth Carlyle. My caller ID says you're calling from home." Accusation layered her voice.

  Grace pictured her sitting at the kitchen counter, one hand on her hip while she glared at the red checkered curtains hanging over the window.

  "I flew home last night."

  "I didn't realize Brazil had yet to embrace modern technology."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Phones, Grace. I didn't realize there were no phones in Brazil."

  She rolled her eyes. "The rumor that you heard, the one that says there are pay phones on every tree in the jungle. Well, it's false."

  Ignoring her, her mom said, "Not one call did I receive from my only daughter. Not one. You know how your aunt worries."

  "Is that Gracie?" a second female said in the background. Her "worried" aunt Sophie was probably standing over her mom's shoulder, grinning from ear to ear.

  The two sisters had lived together for the last five years. They were polar opposites, but managed to complement each other in a strange sort of way. Her mom was schedule-oriented and thrived on fixing other people's problems. Sophie was a free spirit who caused problems.

  "Yes, it's Grace," her mom said. "She's calling to tell us she's alive and well and not dead in the jungle like you feared."

  "Like I feared?" Sophie laughed. "Ha!"

  "How are you feeling, Mom?" Her mom's health had been dismal lately. Weight loss. Fatigue. They didn't know exactly what the cause was.

  "Fine. Just fine."

  "Let me talk to her," Sophie said. Slight pause, crackling static, then, "Did you get lucky?"

  "I don't want to hear this," her mom groaned in the background.

  Automatically Grace opened her mouth to say yes, she'd made out with a sexy, tattooed warrior and had nearly given him everything a woman could possibly give a man. Then she clamped her mouth closed. Dreams, or mirages, or whatever Darius had been, did not count in Sophie's estimation.

  Over the past week, she'd mulled over her experience in Atlantis. She always came back to the same conclusion. None of it had been real. Couldn't possibly have been real.

  "No," she said, careful to keep the disappointment from her voice. "I didn't."

  "Did you wear the outfit I bought for you?"

  The leopard-print spandex skirt with matching low-cut, too tight shirt? "I didn't have a chance."

  "Men go crazy for that sort of thing, Gracie honey. They're like fish. You have to hook them with the proper bait, then reel them in."

  Her mom reclaimed the phone with a muttered, "I will not allow you to give my daughter lessons on seduction." Then to Grace she said, "How's Alex doing? Is he eating enough? He never eats enough when he goes on these expeditions of his."

  With each word, dread uncurled inside of Grace. "So you haven't talked to him?" she asked, hoping her fear and uncertainty were masked. "He hasn't called you?"

  "Well, no," her mother said. "Is he back? He's back, isn't he, and just didn't call?"

  "No, I just-" Just what? Don't know if he's eating enough because no one's heard from him in several weeks?

  "What's going on, Grace?" Worry tinged her mom's tone. "You took tins trip specifically to see your brother. Why don't you know how he is?"

  "Does this have anything to do with the man who called us?" Sophie asked, her voice clear enough that Grace knew she was still standing over her mom's shoulder.

  "What man?" she demanded. "When?"

  "Someone called for Alex about a week ago," her mom said. "Asked if we'd heard from him, if we knew where he was. Grace, what's going on? You're worrying me."

  To tell the truth, or not tell the truth… She loved her mom and hated to cause her any worry. Yet, as Alex's mother, Gretchen had a right to know that her son was missing. The worry might make her sicker, though. She'd tell her, Grace decided then, but not now, and not over the phone. She'd wait a few days and see if she learned anything new. No reason to cause her mom anxiety until absolutely necessary.

  "You know how Alex likes those doughnuts," she said, evading. And not lying. "I can say with one hundred percent surety that he's not eating right." He never did.

  "So he's okay?" her mom asked, relieved.

  "I'd tell you if anything was wrong, wouldn't I?" Again, evading and not lying, since she'd posed the words as a question.

  "You've always told the truth," her mom said proudly, then tsked under her tongue. "I swear, your brother is a walking advertisement for heart disease. Maybe I'll send him some soy muffins. I can FedEx them. Does FedEx deliver to Brazil?"

  "Not in the heart of the jungle."

  "I'll send him a Cindy Crawford workout DVD ," Sophie called.

  "I doubt his tent has an electrical outlet."

  "He has to go to his hotel room sometime," her mom said.

  Grace rubbed her temple. "I hate to do this, but I've got to let you go."

  "What! Why? You haven't told me about your trip. Did you do any shopping? Did you visit with the natives? I hear they walk around… " She paused and uttered a scandalized gasp, "Naked."

  "Unfortunately I didn't see them. Which is too bad, since I'd promised to take pictures for Aunt Sophie."

  "Speaking of Sophie, she's wondering if you brought her a souvenir."

  "I was not," her aunt said.

  "I'll come by in a few days and give you all the details. Promise."

  "But-"

  "Bye. Love you." Grace gently placed the receiver in its cradle and cringed. Oh, she was going to be punished for that one. A never-ending lecture, followed by a reminder every time her mother needed a favor. "Do you remember the time you hung up on me? I cried for days."

  Rolling her eyes, Grace punched in one last number. Her friend Meg was head of reservations for a major airline, so she had Meg check all databases for Alex's name. He wasn't listed, but that didn't mean anything. He could have flown private.

  Not about to give up, Grace stuffed her keys, wallet and a can of Mace into her favorite backpack. She caught a subway to the Upper East Side. She needed to find her brother, or at least find proof that he was okay.

  He'd always been there for her as a child. He was the one who bandaged her cuts and bruises. He was the one who held and comforted her when their dad died. They both traveled extensively, but they always managed to make time for each other.

  Please, please let Alex be home , she inwardly recited, a mantra in rhythm to the rocking of the car against the rails. If he was home, they could spend the rest of the day together. Maybe have dinner at Joe Shanghai in Chinatown, a favorite restaurant of theirs.

  Soon she was strolling past the security desk at Alex's apartment building. He'd lived in the ritzy building only a short time. Despite her few visits, the doorman must have recognized her because he let her pass without a hitch. After a short elevator ride, she found herself knocking on Alex's door. When he didn't answer, she used her key and let herself inside. Only three steps in, she paused with a gasp. Papers were scattered across the thick, wool carpet.

  Either someone had broken in (again!), or her brother the neat freak had left in a hurry. "Alex," she called, remaining in the foyer.

  No response.

  "Alex," she called again, this time louder, more desperate.

  Not even the shuffle of footsteps or the hum of a fan greeted her.

  Though she knew she shouldn't, knew she should call for help first, Grace withdrew her Mace, holding the can out as she inspected every inch of the spacious apartment. Her need to know Alex's whereabouts completely obliterated any s
ense of caution.

  There was no intruder lying in wait for her, but there was no sign of her brother, either. She walked to the living room and lifted a framed photograph of her and Alex, smiling and standing in Central Park, the sun glistening around them. Her aunt had taken the picture several months ago when they'd all decided to jog around the park. Two minutes into their run, Sophie had panted that she was too tired to continue. So they'd taken a break and snapped the picture. The memory made her ache.

  Disheartened, Grace locked up and leaned her back against the door. A few seconds later, a man strolled past. "Excuse me," she called. She flashed him a quick, I'm-a-sweet-Southern-girl smile that proclaimed you-can-tell-me-anything. She only hoped it worked. "You live in this building, right?"

  He nodded wearily. "Why?"

  "Do you know Alex Carlyle?"

  "Yes." Again, he asked, "Why?"

  "He's my brother. I'm looking for him and was wondering if you'd seen him."

  Her words relaxed him, and he gave her a half smile. He even held out his hand to shake. "You're Grace," he said. "The picture Alex has of you in his office is of a little girl. I thought you were younger."

  "At the office?" Grace asked. "You work for Argonauts?"

  "Nearly everyone here does. They own the building." He paused, his smile fading to a frown. "Unfortunately I haven't seen your brother in weeks. He hasn't been home, or even to work."

  "Do you know anyone he might have contacted?"

  "Well, Melva in 402 has been picking up his mail… I saw her this morning. She's rent controlled," he whispered, as if it were a shameful secret. "Argonauts can't get rid of her. Not legally at least."

  Grace gave him her biggest, brightest smile. "Thank you," she said, taking off. Her first break. Another elevator ride and she was hammering on Melva's door.

  "Coming. I'm coming," a craggy voice called. Moments later, the door swung open. Melva was thin, wrinkled and wrapped in a fluffy white bathrobe. She held herself up with a walker. The only difference between her and every other great-grandma across the country was that she wore a diamond choker and sapphire earrings.

  "Can I help you?" she asked, her rough voice testament to years of smoking.