The Witch Thief (Harlequin Nocturne) (20 page)

He patted her hand this time. His palms were rough and dry. “He won’t feel a thing.” He pulled a card from his pocket and dropped it on her lap. “When the flask is full, contact me here, and we’ll set up a meeting.”

She closed her hand over the card and nodded. She didn’t look up as he scurried away. She didn’t look up when couples and families started filling the bar for brunch, which the hotel apparently served there instead of at the regular restaurant. She was too lost in her thoughts, too wrapped up in deciding what she was going to do. A flask of Joarr’s blood for the chalice. It didn’t seem like too heavy a price.

Fafnir was right; forandre healed quickly. How long would it take Joarr’s body to re-create a pint of lost blood? Minutes?

To gain the chalice and to get away from Joarr, which after her fire-breathing episode had become important. Witches didn’t breathe fire, dragons did. She had to believe the child she carried was involved. If it happened again, if Joarr saw it, how long would it take him to guess the truth?

So an exchange of a pint or less of Joarr’s blood for the chalice had to be a good deal. Certainly it was for her. If she produced the chalice, Joarr would have to fulfill his end of the bargain, too. She would have sole claim to their son and she could leave before her condition became obvious.

Her son. He was all she wanted… Her mind drifted to waking up in Joarr’s arms, warm and safe. She hugged her body, tried to refocus on her baby and to forget his father.

She picked up Fafnir’s card and stared at it…black letters on a white card. The words blurred. She brushed the back of her hand over her eyes and wiped away the moisture that had gathered there.

Sole claim to their son. Being honest with herself she knew it wasn’t all she wanted, but it was the most she could hope to have.

Chapter 20

J
oarr returned to the hotel, annoyed. He’d expected a trap, been prepared for it and looked forward to it.

And he’d got nothing. The bar he’d gone to was filled with dwarves and other beings of the nine worlds—cage fights between dwarves and trolls, dark elves and giants. The crowd had been huge and fired up, but no one had approached Joarr, at least not with an offer to sell him the chalice. Two promoters had recognized him as a dragon and tried to convince him to enter the ring; he’d tossed both aside. One, the last one, he’d had to freeze in place and with more than words.

They had, though, finally got the message and left him alone.

And for the rest of the day and evening he’d stayed that way. He’d sat through twelve hours of matches, drinking warm ale until the thought of it made him nauseous. He stunk of smoke and sweat. And he was fairly certain more than one type of body fluid had been sprayed on him by more than one pugilist.

At dawn, he’d faced the fact that he’d been stood up.

Tired and eager to see Amma, he pounded the elevator button and waited.

A couple with a child walked up behind him.

“He was a little person, honey. There’s nothing strange about it. All people are made differently.” The woman looked at Joarr, her lips curving into a smile that said, “Kids.”

“Why was he dressed funny?” the boy asked.

She placed a hand on the child’s head and pulled him against her. “He wasn’t.” Her cheeks flushed.

Joarr stared at the boy, realization and horror hitting him like a double hit to the gut. “A dwarf? A dwarf was here in the hotel?”

“Sir, really, that isn’t—” The woman stuttered.

His day clicked into place. Hours waiting with no contact.

He hadn’t been stood up. He had been diverted. Led astray so Amma would be left alone and unprotected.

Joarr didn’t wait to hear what else the woman had to say. He was already heading for the stairs.

Amma.

In his mind he was yelling her name. If he’d been in dragon form, she might have heard him, but in this body she couldn’t. He jerked open the stairwell door and took the steps three at a time.

* * *

The door to the room flew open and smashed against the wall. Amma jumped; a ball of power sizzled in her cupped hand.

Joarr stood in the doorway, his hair and eyes wild. When he saw her, he strode forward and jerked her against him.

She closed her eyes and leaned there. Her nose pressed against his chest, she inhaled his scent and felt the hard thump of his heart against her cheek. She trembled.

His fingers dug into her hair; he tilted her face up. “A dwarf. Was one here?”

She hesitated. She hadn’t expected him to guess that, hadn’t prepared herself with an answer. The vial Fafnir had given her was in her pocket. She hadn’t decided yet what to do, hadn’t decided if she trusted that the liquid wouldn’t hurt the dragon. Joarr himself had said dragons couldn’t be poisoned. Then again, dragons weren’t supposed to die except at the hands of a hero, but the body she and Joarr had discovered had been all too real.

She blew out a breath; it smelled of smoke. She clamped her lips closed and turned out of Joarr’s embrace.

“If there was, I didn’t see him.” She looked up, put concern into her eyes. “Why do you ask? And where have you been? Your note… It was vague. I was worried.”

He thrust his fingers through his hair. “I was tricked. Someone left a note at the front desk—again claiming to have the chalice.”

Her fingers in her pocket touching the vial, Amma froze.

“But I waited for hours and no one approached me—at least not about the chalice.”

“Oh.” She rounded her lips to blow out a breath, but stopped herself. She pulled her lips into her mouth instead. “At least you weren’t attacked again. Were you?” Her thumb, which had been circling the metal lid of the vial, paused.

Joarr shook his head. “And you weren’t, either.”

Amma couldn’t tell for sure whether it was a question or a statement. Joarr was watching her now, analyzing her reaction.

She laughed. “No, nothing more exciting than a car chase and a few explosions here.” She waved her hand toward the TV. She had flipped the device on a few minutes earlier.

She turned her back on the TV and walked to a tray she’d ordered from room service hours earlier. “Are you hungry? I ordered this then realized I wasn’t.”

Joarr glanced at the tray, but shook his head. “No.”

“A drink maybe?” She held up a highball glass and a bottle of whiskey. “I’ll join you.”

He moved closer. “How could I resist?” He reached for her, but she pushed him away.

If she acted angry, got angry, it would be easier to carry out her plan. “We should talk. I thought we were working together. Then you disappear. And I had no idea where.”

She filled two glasses with whiskey. Then carried them to where the ice bucket sat on the other side of the TV. With her back to Joarr, she plunked ice into hers and emptied the vial into his.

When she turned back, he was stretched out on the bed, a frown on his face. “If the note wasn’t a trap—for either of us—and wasn’t a real offer to deal, why was it left?”

She sat beside him and slipped the drink into his hand.

“Maybe something went wrong. Maybe whoever left the note meant to meet you and couldn’t. Maybe they’ll contact you again. Who knows, this time tomorrow this could all be over.”

He held the glass to his lips and stared at her over the rim of his glass. “Yes, over. The chalice back with the dragons, me back with the dragons and you… Where will you be, Amma?”

She forced herself to smile. “With the treasure you’ve promised me, of course. Where else?”

“Ah, yes, the treasure,” he said and took a sip. “I’d forgotten.”

Amma watched as the liquid moved from the glass past his lips, as his throat moved and finally as he pulled the glass away from his mouth.

“What are you going to choose, Amma? Have you decided? Was there something you had in mind?”

She pretended to take a drink from her glass, held it up a second longer than normal. When she lowered it, she held his gaze. “Nothing you will miss, nothing you even know you have.”

He shook his head. “I’ve told you. I know every bit of my treasure, no matter its human worth. Why can’t you believe that?” He ran his fingers up the back of her neck and into her hair. “I value everything, and no matter what you choose, I will miss it desperately.” Then he kissed her.

She could taste the whiskey she had only pretended to drink on his lips—could taste the liquid she’d poured into his glass, too. Or perhaps that was just in her mind, her guilt sullying the smoky flavor of the whiskey. Just like what she’d done sullied any relationship she and the dragon might have had.

* * *

Amma stirred her putrid pink drink, being careful not to spill any onto her skin or clothing. She had left Joarr at the hotel, passed out. He’d been breathing and his color had been good. There had been no signs that the liquid Fafnir had given her had done him any harm.

He had looked one-hundred-percent healthy, except for the tiny gash she’d made in his arm.

She closed her eyes and jabbed at an ice cube. It shot out of her glass and skittered across the floor. The bartender glanced in her direction, but quickly turned away.

She was sitting on the couch behind one of the back bars—where Fafnir had taken the human couple a few nights before. When she’d arrived at the door tonight, a dwarf she’d never met had been working. He’d immediately shut everything down and escorted her here—gone, she assumed, to get Fafnir.

She hadn’t seen the blood-drinking dwarf yet, and she was getting impatient. She wanted to get the chalice, take it back to Joarr and get away. She reached for the flask, which hung from a ribbon around her neck. It was warm against her skin. She had hung it there immediately after filling it.

It caused a lump in her blouse, but she didn’t care. She wouldn’t risk placing it anywhere else. When Joarr woke up, he would know she had tricked him. Her only hope was to be there with the chalice. If she had that, it wouldn’t matter how she had got it, the dragon would have to honor his deal.

She laid her hand on her stomach. Everything now depended on Fafnir accepting her trade.

* * *

Joarr rolled over onto his stomach; his arm reached out for Amma as he did and hit cold, empty sheets. He blinked, his mind slowly waking, and he groped around again. Still nothing. He was alone in the bed.

He rolled onto his back and moved to sit up. Halfway, on his elbow, he stopped and grabbed his head. A pain throbbed inside his skull, like an army of dwarves had taken up their axes and were mining for minerals there. He groaned and glanced to the side.

His empty whiskey glass sat on the bedside table. He squinted at it, trying to remember. How many had he drunk? Only one that he remembered. Amma had brought it to him, been sitting beside him sipping from her own glass… He glanced around again, saw a second glass still completely full sitting on the dresser.

He cursed and immediately regretted it—the outburst sent the dwarves and their axes back into play.

He threw his arm over his face, blocking all light, and tried to concentrate. Amma had been here. They’d had a drink—he all of his, she apparently only a sip. He’d kissed her and she’d pulled away, urged him to drink more.

Which now of course told him what had happened—what he didn’t want to believe had happened.

He forced himself to sit up. He was still fully clothed. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand. He staggered a bit before grabbing hold of a chair and willing the world to stop twirling. His pants were wrinkled, as was his shirt. He paused, his gaze locking on a dot of dark red on the inside sleeve. He unbuttoned his cuff and shoved the sleeve up over his elbow. A wound, almost healed, but not quite, leaped out at him.

Blood. The witch had stolen his blood.