Darkfire Kiss by Deborah Cooke Page B

defended a human, saved her from certain death, and there was a certain part of him that demanded such triumph be celebrated.
    In a very physical way. He surveyed the street, and his pulse increased with the certainty that she was close.
    The front yard of each town house was neatly fenced off and landscaped with formal austerity. The town houses all faced a small green space on the circle in their midst. The green space’s landscaping was in the same flavor as that of the houses. Rafferty saw that there were laneways at intervals, going between the houses to an alley behind. That must be where residents parked their cars.
    It was quiet, strangely still, and the windows facing the street were mostly dark. The snow fell in fat lazy flakes, spinning out of the sky as if time stood still. It was peaceful, even as the pending eclipse nudged at the edge of his awareness.
    The streetlights ensured that anyone who entered the crescent would be visible. Rafferty had no doubt that he was being watched from at least one house, and he fought the sense of walking into a trap.
    He strolled down the street, the snow stirring as he walked, his boots quiet on the pavement.
    Was she watching for him?
    From which house?
    Her scent provoked him, leading him on and promising more than he thought she would deliver. It tantalized him and made his blood pump with unruly desire. Rafferty couldn’t do anything other than follow that trail to her. He thought of sirens, singing their alluring songs and enchanting sailors to shatter their ships on hidden rocks.
    Rafferty recalled her fine bones, the exotic tilt of her eyes, the intelligence and certainty in her gaze. He thought of the way she’d lifted her chin in determination, the way she looked both delicate and world-weary. He thought of how slim she was, and yet she was tall. Statuesque even. Resilient, and feminine. He recalled how she walked, how the hem of her skirt swayed with the grace of every step, and knew he was not nearly as indifferent to her physical charms as would have been ideal.
    He needed to destroy her camera. That was all. He needed nothing else from her, and he would not linger.
    Nevertheless, his blood was pounding and his heart was pumping. Desire surged through his veins. He told himself it was the natural reaction to having fought in dragon form, and that the pending eclipse only strengthened that reaction.
    It sounded perfectly rational, but Rafferty knew something had changed.
    He knew this woman had a mysterious and potent effect upon him.
    A dangerous influence.
    Rafferty wanted to explore it, consequences be damned.
    That alone should have warned him.
     
     
    The woman’s perfume led Rafferty to a town house just to the right of the middle, a unit indistinguishable from its fellows. The windows were dark, but he knew she was home. He sensed her presence. Rafferty strode up the walkway and noted the number, in case he ever had to return.
    Eighteen.
    The door was glossy black, a stone urn to the left holding a holly bush carefully trimmed into a perfect globe. The red berries shone in the light from the streetlights, glistening as if they were artificial.
    But the plant was real. He appreciated its authenticity in this street of illusion and touched the berries with a fingertip.
    There was a brass knocker on the door. Rafferty hesitated for a moment, confirming that he was correct about her presence. It was an hour when humans normally slept. He glanced back at the silent street, inhaled, then knocked with conviction.
    To her credit, she didn’t play games. She opened the door immediately, her expression wary and her lips tight. He liked that she was direct.
    She was still wearing her coat, although she’d removed the scarf and gloves and unfastened the front buttons. “What do you want?”
    “The camera.”
    She almost smiled. “Forget it,” she said flatly, and made to close the door. Rafferty wedged his boot into the gap and saw the slight flare of her