Mercy Burns by Keri Arthur Page A

it’s my occupation.”
    O-kay
. I’d landed in a cell with a trained killer. Great. I shifted back on the seat a little, and the amusement in his eyes grew stronger.
    Several limp black strands of hair fell across his forehead. He brushed them away with strong hands that were as bruised and as beaten as the rest of him, then said, “How does a dragon not know what a muerte is?”
    I smiled, and saw something flicker in his eyes. Surprise, perhaps. It was a reaction as odd as the man himself. “I never said I was a dragon.”
    “You flame like a dragon.”
    “So I do.” I pushed up from the bench too fast and pain flared, providing yet another reminder that I hadn’t fully healed. I grimaced, grabbing at my side as I walked to the door. The stranger’s gaze followed me—a weighted heat that caressed my skin and sent a tremor running through me. I did my best to ignore it—and him—and bent to study the door.
    “It’s solid,” he said, the amusement that had been so evident in his eyes now reaching his voice.
    “It certainly looks that way.”
    But I’d learned long ago that everything—and everyone—had a weak point, no matter how minor. This door might look rock solid, but that didn’t meanit wouldn’t give way if it was given the right sort of push.
    I just had to uncover what sort of push that was.
    There was no handle on this side, but that wasn’t much of a surprise. Dragons were notorious thieves, and more than capable of cracking most of the locks and security devices currently on the market. Thieving was in a dragon’s blood, and it was a skill learned—and honed—since birth. Hell, even draman could pick a lock faster than most humans could blink.
    Not that my clique had actually taught us draman that trick, either, but some skills were easily picked up when they were being practiced all around you.
    I peered into the small gap between the door and the frame. The metal bolt on the other side was at least an inch wide and who knew how thick.
    “There’s a rather large dead bolt out there,” I said. “They’re making sure you don’t escape.”
    “You’re in the same cell, remember.” He studied me for a moment, then added, “Why is that? What did you do?”
    “Asked a few too many questions, I think.” I stepped back and studied the door as a whole. No hinges on this side. “What’s your excuse?”
    “Much the same thing, really.”
    I glanced at him. He looked healthier than he had five minutes ago, so obviously the warmth I’d lent him was chasing the coolness from his skin. But it wouldn’t last long—not if he remained in this darkness.
    “What questions were you asking that you shouldn’t?”
    “Lady, when you start answering my questions, I’ll start answering yours.”
    “My name is Mercy Reynolds.” Then I hesitated, wondering how much I should tell him. But really, what was the point of hiding anything? It wasn’t like I actually knew anything vital. “And I was asking about two cleansed towns and missing draman.”
    “So was I.”
    “Then obviously someone doesn’t want those questions asked.” That was a point I was
all
too aware of already. I looked at the door and ignored the tendrils of pain and anger that rose with the thought. “What’s the melting point of steel?”
    “I have no idea.”
    I found myself grinning. “So Mr. Death doesn’t know everything?”
    “It’s Damon—Damon Rey—not Death. And why would you want to know the melting point of steel? You think you can melt the door with your flames?”
    His tone gently mocked and I met his gaze with a frown. “You think I can’t?”
    “Dragon fire is fierce, granted, but it’s not concentrated enough to generate the sort of heat needed to melt
that
door. It’s flameproof, like the walls.”
    Meaning he’d tried when he’d first arrived, obviously. “But I don’t want to melt the door. I just want to heat the bolt enough so that it’s pliable. Then we should be able to push it