Hidden Dragons (8 page)

He could have been wrong. After Cass left Resurrection, he’d sworn off glomming onto every story about the Maycees he came across. What would have been the point? She’d been beyond his reach when she lived in the same city.

She’s still beyond it
, he told himself. No matter what that faerie had or hadn’t been telling him.

Nervous, he tapped the wheel with restless fingers as he turned into the public parking beneath Resurrection’s main Maycee’s. The faerie’s knuckle-dusters were once more in his pocket. He’d knocked them on the floor during his crazed masturbation session. Naturally, they hadn’t broken or poofed away. He couldn’t be that lucky.

The memory of how intensely he’d blasted off inspired an unwelcome stirring between his legs.

“Fuck,” he cursed, parking the Buick with a small screech.

He was partially hard by the time he unbuckled and climbed out. Pressing the button for the store’s elevator brought him up all the way. He wasn’t even certain Cass was staying at her grandmother’s. Coming here was a what-the-hell long shot.

By nature, werewolves ran hot. Despite the plummeting October temperatures, Rick had dressed in old jeans and a long sleeve T-shirt, plus a light sport jacket to cover his shoulder rig. He buttoned it with a grimace, not cold but needing its length to conceal the effect his old crush had on him. The elevator took him as far as Twelve, at which point his cock was shoved so tight against his zipper he had to work to walk normally.

Rick’s pack had answered calls here a time or two. He’d been aware the Maycee matriarch lived here. The security station was where he remembered, in a corporate looking atrium with a sunburst-patterned terrazzo floor. A horseshoe desk on a platform sat in its center. The rent-a-cop behind it looked up from his surveillance screens.

“RPD,” Rick said, badging him. “I need to speak to Miss Maycee.”

The rent-a-cop studied his badge and him. “She expecting you?”

“No,” Rick said. His pulse picked up at the indicator that she was here. “I’d appreciate it if you’d ring her for me.”

The guy didn’t argue, though he also didn’t promise him entry. Picking up his phone’s receiver, he pressed a speed dial button.

“Miss Maycee?” he said after a short delay. “This is Security on Twelve. There’s someone from the RPD to see you, a Detective Lupone. Would you like me to send him up?”

Somewhat embarrassingly, a bead of sweat rolled down the channel of Rick’s spine. His wolf-enhanced hearing told him the guard’s announcement was met with silence. After two heartbeats, it ended.

“Lupone?” said a muffled but familiar voice.

The effect this had was ridiculous. Waves of chills chased each other along Rick’s vertebrae. His cock throbbed, his jeans front stretched enough for a couple socks to be stuffed inside. The sudden roaring in his ears prevented him from deciphering Snow White’s next comment.

Fortunately, the guard heard it. “She’ll see you,” he said to Rick. “The residence’s elevator is at the end of the hall behind me. Just press the ‘P’ button.”

Exiting the private elevator was disorienting. Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t this. The Maycee penthouse wasn’t some modern loft; it was a mansion in the sky. The floor his worn running shoes landed on was marble, the walls to this—antechamber, he had to call it—paneled in impossibly beautiful tigerwood. Two exquisite Chinese vases, both as tall as he was, both valuable antiques, flanked either side of the residence’s double door.

Shit
, he thought, hitching his jacket straight on his shoulders. He was so out of his depth here.

He jabbed the bell before he lost his nerve.

Then he braced himself to see Cass.

“Coming,” she said from behind the door.

A second later, she opened it.

He wasn’t prepared. All the time in the world and all the sensible intentions couldn’t have accomplished that. Rick was no faerie groupie—never had been and never would be. Fae beauty was too cold for a hot-blooded wolf like him, too arm’s length and elitist. Cass, though . . . Cass married vulnerable human sweetness with faerie perfection. Yes, she had the reserve all faeries did—the effortless air of being a notch or two better. Despite this, Cass’s soft blue eyes invited a man to drown; they didn’t demand it. Cass was
almost
real enough to believe in.

She was dressed in the fancy sweats rich people were fond of. Hers were navy with a white zipper. Helpless not to admire how they hugged her figure, his gaze traveled down her and up again. Her wavy black hair was wet. He wasn’t sure, but it seemed shorter than in high school.

“Sorry,” she said, her hand going to it. “I’d just gotten out of the pool when Security called.”

She sounded nervous. Her velvety cheeks were pink.

“Actually, I’m sorry for intruding.” He was proud of how steadily the words came out. He was
not
going to think about her swimming, possibly in nothing but her shimmery faerie skin. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Rick Lupone, Detective Lupone now. We went to school together at North Heights. I’m working on a case, and your name came up.”

He’d decided this was how he’d put it, rather than make himself seem crazy from the start.

“Oh.” Her graceful hand, every bit as slender and tantalizing as he remembered, slid from her hair to her throat. “I . . . um . . . I do remember you, as it happens. Won’t you come in?”

~

Rick Lupone was at her door. Given how recently she’d been thinking of him, that was too weird for words. And he wanted to talk to her about a case. What on earth could
she
know that would help him?

She was somewhat stunned by the fact that he knew who she was—unless he remembered because he’d looked her up in preparation for coming here.

“Would you like coffee?” she asked. “Or soda?”

He shook his head. She reminded herself this wasn’t a social call. God, he looked good. He’d been tall in high school. Now he had to be six foot four—every inch of it honed muscle. His beautiful green eyes were as kind as she remembered, his dark brown hair as thick and shiny. Werewolves aged slower than humans, so of course it would be. He did seem a
little
older. More solid. More . . . rooted somehow. His chest was broader. His shoulders too. She started to feel heated between the legs.

“Could I take your jacket?” she blurted.

“I’m fine,” he said politely. “Is there somewhere we could sit and talk?”

For a moment, she couldn’t remember the location of a single room in her gran’s penthouse.

“In here,” she said, once her brain recovered from its stall. Rick preceded her through the archway into the big living room, striding through the various furniture groupings to the long line of arched windows. She knew why they’d drawn him. They overlooked Fifth Avenue and the Ramble in Resurrection’s version of Central Park. Down below, leaves glowed with bright fall colors, the winding paths curving in and out of sight between the treetops.

“Wow,” Rick said, leaning into the deep embrasure. The walls of this room were stone. That and the Gothic tracery on the windows made the space castle-like. Rick looked oddly right in the setting, despite his modern clothes. But cops were sort of like knights, she supposed.

“Gran liked her views,” she said.

The sill was wide enough to perch on. Turning back to face her, Rick rested his hips on it. His eyes held hers, warming her deep inside. To her embarrassment, a spark of faerie glitter leaped off her hand. Hoping he hadn’t seen, Cassie shoved it in the pocket of her Juiced Couture sweat jacket. For adults, faerie dust was a mild aphrodisiac. She didn’t want Rick thinking she was trying to seduce him.

“About the case,” he said, one wide shoulder braced on the window’s glass. Sunshine lit his smooth olive skin. As if reluctant to continue, he cleared his throat. “What do you know about dragons?”

The question took her by surprise. “Dragons? Nothing especially.”

“Nothing.” He didn’t sound like he believed her.

“I know what everyone else does of course.
Mini-Dragons to the Rescue
and all that. I assume that’s not what you’re here to ask.”

“Your dad is a pureblood.”

“Yes,” she agreed slowly. If he wanted her to share privileged information about her father’s people, this could get awkward.

“Didn’t he tell you stories about the original race? The ancient dragons who sailed the sky like ships?”

She smiled. She couldn’t help it. The way he put it was poetic. She seemed to have embarrassed him. Color washed onto his cheekbones.

“I’ve heard those stories,” she said, pushing back her amusement, “but not from my father. He read me human books when I was a kid. He said he liked them better. He didn’t talk much about the Old Country.”

Rick was listening with more attention than she understood. “And you didn’t think that was strange?”

She thought lots of things were strange, including the fact that in the last five minutes she’d exchanged more words with her long-ago secret crush than in all four years at high school.

“Faeries are private people. I assumed my father’s memories of where he came from weren’t sunny. If you think I’m some sort of expert, I’m afraid I’ll disappoint. You might try the Dragonati. They claim their kind descends from the ancient ones.”

Dragonati were eight-foot-tall bipedal talking lizards. They looked a bit like dragons, though opinions differed as to whether the species were related. For that matter, opinions differed on whether ancient dragons existed. Cass was inclined to believe, but a lot of residents of the Pocket dismissed them as legends.

Rick rubbed the back of one finger across very kissable full lips. “I’m not sure the Dragonati can be relied on to be objective.”

The sun that struck the side of his face turned his dark lashes gold. He had great bone structure: not too pretty, not too rough, but a perfect blend of both. Cass struggled to keep her thoughts on track.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “What exactly are you hoping I can tell you?”

Rick let out a quiet sigh and dug in his pants pocket. When he’d sat, the bottom of his buttoned jacket had parted. His jeans weren’t tight, but the denim displayed the same tantalizing fade marks that had fascinated her as a teenager. The thighs were lighter of course. His leg muscles were well developed. More distracting were the paler patches around his crotch, where the weight of his balls habitually rubbed the cloth. God, he had a substantial package. Cass shook her head to herself. Could he really be that hefty when he wasn’t aroused? She could see the thickness of his penis pressing against his zipper and stretching down his pant’s leg. The head was discernible—rounded and big and . . .

Arousal and awareness flashed through her like lightning bolts. He
was
hard. That was a full-blown boner she was ogling. She must have dusted him without realizing, because he attracted her. Shit, this was embarrassing.

Face blazing, she yanked her gaze to his.

He knew what she’d been staring at. His darker skin hid his flush better, but it was there. Apparently, he wasn’t going to mention her faux pas. He clenched his jaw—in annoyance or determination—and pulled his hand out of his pocket. Metal gleamed in the sun.

“Have you seen anything like this before?” he asked.

Her eyes saw the brass knuckle thingie he’d drawn out, but her brain couldn’t quite catch up. It assumed he was referring to his prize-winning erection.
No, Detective
, she thought with slightly hysteric humor.
I’ve never seen anything quite like that.

Cass was certain her friend Jin would have uttered the wisecrack aloud.

~

This interview was turning out even more awkward than Rick had feared. That Cass had seen Mt. Everest rising from his crotch was obvious. Ignoring his embarrassment and hers, he held out the electrum knuckles. Cass touched them before he could warn her not to. Nothing happened—or nothing to do with them giving her a shock. Her little finger bumped his palm accidentally. Tingles streaked through him so strongly he shuddered.

Rather than take the weapon from his hand, she brushed over it with her thumb and forefinger. “I’m not an expert on reading objects, but I can tell you this is millennia old. The runes are an obscure dialect of High Fae.” She lifted her hand, her palm now hovering an inch above his. When she closed her eyes, the fans of her black-black lashes rested serenely on her cheeks. “The energy inside the electrum feels transformative.”

“Transformative.”

She nodded without lifting her eyelids. “That’s the best description I can give. I can’t tell if the enchantment is meant to change itself or something else. For what it’s worth, these things have been keyed to match your energy. I assume you were given them as a gift?”

Deeply ingrained cop habit kept him from confirming this. “Are they dangerous?”

She shrugged and opened her eyes again. “Any magic can be. I don’t sense an intent to harm you. The opposite, actually. If I were forced to guess, I’d say they were protective.”

She’d spoken as casually as someone reading the newspaper, this sort of thing second nature to her.

“If I’m allowed to ask,” she said, “where did you get them?”

This was his opening if he wanted it. He hesitated. Did he really want to share the cockamamie story of a dying fae
maybe
suggesting she was in danger and—also maybe—claiming
he
was her protector?

“Is this related to the faerie who died in the subway last night?” she asked.

Little hairs stood up on his arms. “Why would you say that?”

Again she shrugged, her eyes watching his closely. “I’m half faerie. We get hunches. Forgive me for saying so, but your reaction tells me I’m right.”

“Yes,” he admitted, oddly glad she’d pushed him to. “Here’s the thing. When the faerie gave them to me, she implied her enemies were watching and that I needed to warn someone they were in danger. She failed, but I mustn’t. She said the destiny of the city depended on me protecting this individual.”

Cass was wide-eyed. “Who did she mean?”