Hidden Passions (31 page)

Every morning he got to wake up and be himself. Every day he performed the job he was born to do. Every night he crawled into bed with the man he loved.

And then there were the dragons.

The Society for the Protection of Rare Creatures took the news that Tony and Chris were guardians with barely a batted eye. The Dragon Guild wasn't as agreeable. They'd wanted to fill the posts themselves. Even so, they came around. Every few weeks the SPORC folks, the two Guild members on their board, and Cass's father put Rick, Cass, Tony, and Chris through an intensive training day.

They worked on communicating with the brood, learned dragon history, and practiced sword fighting. Getting their protector gauntlets to change shape on demand was tricky, but they were all improving. The dragons viewing everything as a game made the lessons enjoyable. Chris knew none of the caretakers minded the time required.

"It's like joining the National Guard," Tony said. "It's serious but it's fun."

Tony made Chris proud to be his lover.

Tony deserved a partner who held back nothing.

The corner Chris couldn't quite commit was why he was at Rykers Maximum Security today, handing a tan-uniformed red-eyed guard his watch, wallet, and house keys. The Monk demons who ran the prison were pale-skinned and slightly built. They rarely spoke--hence the name they went by in the Pocket. Monks were longtime residents who specialized in keeping locked-up things secure. A metal sign bolted to the wall promised Chris his belongings would be returned. He was scanned all over for hidden spells, which made him glad he'd given his dragon cuff to Tony for safekeeping.

When the demon was satisfied he wasn't here to break convicts out, he was given a metal-cased palm computer that issued instructions in a machine voice--perhaps from some other demon typing them. Whatever the voice's source, it directed him through another secure door and down a corridor big enough for an eighteen-wheeler to drive along. The size of the passage made Chris wonder what other creatures Rykers housed.

He'd have to ask Tony later. Thus far, he hadn't encountered another soul.

"You have reached the visitors facility," the palm unit informed him. "Please wait while we activate the entrance."

Until the door was activated, it was invisible. When the illusion that hid it fell, the entrance emerged from the gray cinderblock as heavy riveted steel. A buzz and a click announced its lock being sprung. Chris inhaled and then blew out his breath. He thought he was ready for this but couldn't predict exactly what
this
would be. Truthfully, he wasn't sure what he hoped to accomplish. After all these years, what was he going to prove?

That you can face him
, he thought.
That you're willing to
.

He stepped through the opening.

A dim room lay behind it, furnished with a single chair, a carrel desk, plus the magic-proof glass so popular for prison visits on TV shows. Chris pulled out the plastic chair and sat. As he did, the opposite half of the room lit up. The chair on that side held a large male shifter in an orange jumpsuit. For the first few seconds, he seemed a complete stranger. Gray laced his hair, and he was bulky from weightlifting. The terms of his sentence must have prohibited him from changing. More than one bone had been broken in his face--in inmate fights, Chris assumed--without healing completely. Though no longer handsome, Chris could tell the cat used to be. Unexpectedly, he was taller than Chris recalled.

Then Chris recognized his eyes. They were dark brown and not quite
right
, as if the brain behind them were interpreting the world in askew ways. Chris was looking at Mark Naegel: his mother's one-time boyfriend, his brothers' murderer.

"Chris," Naegel said, which struck him as so strange a shudder ran down his spine.

Thirty years later, the tiger remembered him. Then again, Naegel's normal life ended back when he knew Chris. Probably everything surrounding those events was etched in his memory.

"Why are you here?" Naegel asked, rationally enough.

Why was he there? "I needed to see you," Chris answered.

"Did you get religion or something? Did you come here to forgive me?"

"Do you need me to?" Chris asked curiously.

Naegel gave him his off-kilter stare. His fingers rubbed back and forth along the edge of his carrel desk. "I'd have killed you too if you'd been there that night."

Chris didn't doubt he'd have tried. His tone was so matter-of-fact. "Are you sorry you killed my brothers?"

If Naegel was sorry, it wasn't in his eyes. In truth, he seemed to have trouble understanding what Chris had asked, as if
life is sacred
was in some language he didn't speak. Was he a killer because he'd been born with a few bad genes? Or was he one because he'd let those genes control him?

"I'm sorry your mother committed suicide," Naegel finally said. "She was a hot piece of ass."

He didn't seem to be saying this to make Chris angry. No doubt he'd have liked it if she'd been available for conjugal visits. That his mother
wouldn't
have visited the man who'd slaughtered her children didn't compute for him.

Realization clicked inside Chris. The ghosts he'd been fighting weren't real. He'd invented them in his head. Certainly, they weren't residing in this prison.

Chris scraped back his chair and rose.

"Will you come again?" Naegel asked. His face was lifted, his strange dark eyes hopeful. He'd shamed his clan and his family by turning killer. Chris doubted he got many visitors.

"No," he said. "We're not really anything to each other. You probably only want to see me because you're bored."

Naegel sat back without disputing this. Chris sensed his emotionless eyes tracking him as he departed.

The dark gaze felt like it followed him up the vast gray hall, prickling his hackles in icy waves. That was impossible, of course. Only Chris's memories pursued him.

At the security post, he turned in his palm computer and was given back his belongings. The silent Monk demon pointed the way to the outside door. Chris hadn't forgotten how to find it, but he was grateful to be dismissed even so.

A final pair of guards buzzed him through the last exit. Then he was in the fresh air again. Rykers had no yard. Prisoners exercised within its walls. Chris had the sunny April sky to himself as he strode along an asphalt path to the parking lot. The spring day was warm enough to chase the chill from his soul. Every step he took was lighter, every swing of his arms more free. By the time he reached his slightly dirty white Explorer, he felt like he'd regained a self he'd forgotten he could be.

Tony waited for him in the front seat. He unlocked the door to let Chris in.

"That was quick," he said, tilting his head to consider him. "You look better, like you found what you were looking for."

Chris slid behind the wheel and shut the door behind him. "I think I did. Naegel was . . . different."

"Different as in changed or different than you remembered?"

"Different than I remembered, but also--" Chris pressed a fist to his lips and thought. "He's different than normal people, like important pieces are missing from his brain. Maybe he hid that better when he was younger. All I know is if I were that off, someone would have noticed by now. Hell, I'd have noticed myself."

Tony's mouth slanted. "I could say 'I told you so,' but I'm far too mature."

Chris wagged his head in amusement and dug out his car keys.

"You okay to drive?" Tony asked.

"I'm good," Chris assured him. "I just want to get home and enjoy the rest of our day off."

Tony nodded. He was unusually quiet as Chris headed back to town. Normally he'd talk about work or friends or some fun thing he'd like them to do. Chris wondered if Tony had expected this confrontation to be more momentous.

Frowning, he rubbed one finger across his lips. He'd thanked Tony for coming with him already, and the wolf had waved it off as nothing. He'd said he was glad Chris wanted his company. Maybe Chris should take him out for a nice dinner. Right then, he preferred staying home and hanging out together, but if Tony needed to mark Chris conquering this hurdle . . .

Chris opened his mouth to speak, then had an epiphany.

Tony didn't need to mark the changes Chris had made inside himself. Chris was the one who wanted to test his readiness for the next level.

Butterflies fluttered in his stomach--part nerves but part excitement too. He glanced quickly at Tony.

"So," he said. "You probably know Resurrection has liberal marriage laws."

Tony's eyes widened. "Right," he said almost casually. "Because we have a lot of species and cultures here."

"So we, um, could think about doing that."

His butterflies did backflips in the heartbeats before Tony twisted toward him on the seat and grinned. His hand came up to stroke Chris's jaw. "Any time you want, lover."

God, it was awesome that Tony was so sure. And maybe Chris was sure too. Maybe he wouldn't have to think long at all.

"July is my favorite month," he announced impulsively.

Tony rubbed Chris's leg, which he'd been jiggling nervously. Instantly calm, Chris covered his hand and squeezed. Tony looked at him with love shining in his gaze.

"July is green like your eyes," Chris blurted.

Tony laughed, more than love warming his beautiful irises. "Why don't we go home," he suggested, "and think about July together?

# # #

EMMA Holly is the award winning,
USA Today
bestselling author of more than thirty romantic books, featuring vampires, demons, faeries and just plain extraordinary ordinary folks. She loves the hot stuff, both to read and to write!

If you'd like to discover what else she's written, please visit her website at
http://www.emmaholly.com
.

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The Last Dragon

THE great bronze dragon circled the red desert, leathery wings spread to block the stars. Her name was T'Fain, and her sinuous, whipping tail was longer than her body--though that was long enough. Twenty grown men could stand on her dorsal ridge, assuming they had the stones. Black spines as sharp as razors thrust from her supple back, each worth more than a king's ransom to poachers. No armor known could withstand the piercing power of these spikes. When crushed to powder for a tincture, they counteracted illness and poisons. The dragon's tail was another marvel. If severed, it--and all her limbs--would regenerate.

Then there was the fiery breath
draconem magister
could produce. If used in conjunction with certain spells, water could not quench these flames, only magic of equal strength. What they touched would burn up in instants or smolder on for days--a gruesome passing, by all reports. Though dragons didn't possess the level of sentience of man or fae, their minds were wonders too, capable of executing complex strategies without oversight. Understandably, the beasts had played a role in all the realm of Faerie's important wars.

What few understood was that
draconem's
greatest value lay in its loyalty. The phrase "faithful as a dragon" was not empty. Where dragons loved, they loved with all their hearts. They would not betray their masters or let them come to harm. Many dragon keepers claimed to love their beasts better than their wives.

Despite being a woman, this was a sentiment Queen Joscela understood perfectly.

At a signal from its trainer, the dragon she watched tonight dropped silently to the arid plain. The fact that T'Fain was the last of her kind lent her grace poignancy. Puffs of dry dust burst up--first from the deadly back claws and then the front. The huge scaled body dwarfed the man who'd called her, but the fae was in no danger. The beast hunkered before him as obediently as a dog, glowing ruby eyes fixed lovingly on the being who'd imprinted her as a hatchling. She lowered her scaly head to bring her gaze level with the man's.

The dragon could not anticipate the sacrifice that would be asked of her.

The dragon master was aware. As a member of the secretive Dragon Guild, his family's bloodline was as pure--if not as royal--as Joscela's. At the moment, his face was masklike, his movements stiff and self-conscious. Dressed in fireproof leather from hood to breastplate to hip-high boots, he stretched a gloved hand to rub the dragon between her eyes. T'Fain let out a
chirr
of pleasure, wisps of steam trailing from her nostrils. The trainer stepped back, his attention shifting toward the king to whom his family owed allegiance.

King Manfred was the fae of the hour--of the century, to hear him. Hundreds stood behind him in quiet ranks, soldiers for the most part. As if these troops weren't enough for his dignity, a traveling throne splendidly supported his royal butt. Elevated on a platform set on the sand, the seat glistered with electrum and precious jewels. For five decades, ever since this last dragon had been hatched, Manfred had badgered the High Fae Council over how he thought the precious resource should be employed. Finally he'd won his way. As regally as if
he'd
trained the dragon, Manfred nodded toward his sworn man.

Queen Joscela watched all this from above, from the deck of her floating ship. Magic and not hot air buoyed the vehicle's black and tan striped balloon. Keeping her company at the rail were her personal guards, her hand servants, and her most trusted advisers. Though this was an important night, no wine casks had been opened. She most definitely hadn't triumphed in the long debate with the High Council. This, however, didn't mean she was willing to miss the show.

Those royals who felt a similar reluctance bobbed in the airspace above the plain, each elaborate vessel declaring the uniqueness of its sponsor. Here was a ship that resembled a daffodil, there one entirely formed of gears. All were lit by torches or faerie lights, but not all were festive. Some of Joscela's peers had sided with Manfred and some with her. She consoled herself that few would actually delight in the pompous bastard's ascendency.