go find Bronte.”
He climbed the stairs toward the third-floor living quarters, apartment doors to right and left, four on this hall alone. Going by instinct, he chose the door to the far right and stepped into a red, white, and black apartment, mostly white, lights on, like reality inside a dream.
A boy’s bedroom, he found. A woman’s. Both empty, but he followed his instincts up a round staircase to a library, wonderful and ancient with knowledge, went straight to the door at the far end, and opened it. A closet. Empty.
Darkwyn stepped inside, the bare lightbulb in its socket doing no good. He needed it to shed light on his quest. He made sure it was screwed in properly. As he turned it, the back of the closet slid upward.
There Bronte sat on the floor; Zachary huddled against her.
She pointed a gun his way. “Do you know Sanguedolce?” she asked without recognition and without removing her finger from the trigger.
“I do not, but if you hum the tune, I might be able to follow.”
Zachary sneered. “Sanguedolce is a name, dork. Italian. Deadly.” The boy stood and attempted to pry the gun from Bronte’s hand. “Geez, let go already. Vivica researched and bonded this guy, for Drak’s sake. He’s innocent, true of heart, and healthy. What more do you want?”
Bronte came out of her freeze and released the gun to the boy. It went off and Darkwyn felt the blow to his heart.
He jumped from his bed, Bronte’s scream lost to the dream, and turned on his light. He was still at Works Like Magick, as he should be.
Dream be damned. That had been reality inside a nightmare.
All too real.
He touched his cheek, and his fingers came away covered in blood.
Bronte!
TEN
The dream had been a call for help.
But who wanted him to go to the Phoenix? Killian or Bronte?
A knock at Darkwyn’s door startled him. He slipped into his jeans to open it. “Vivica.”
“You shouted Bronte’s name. I heard you clear at the end of the hall. What happened to your face?”
He covered his cheek with the palm of his hand to heal it while she watched. A moment later, the wound had disappeared.
“I won’t kid you,” Vivica said. “Every time I see you or your brothers heal using magick, it freaks me out. Was it the bird?”
Puck squawked. “Contempt: The feeling of a prudent ‘bird’ for an enemy too formidable to be safely opposed. Simply put: ‘Bite Me.’ ”
Darkwyn ignored Puck. “Did I wake you?”
“It’s three AM. What do you think?”
“I think . . . I have to go. Bronte needs me.”
“But you’re not ready.”
“I am. I can speak human, read, write, do math, and find my way back to the Phoenix. Was it ever a church?”
“Before a fire in the nineteenth century, yes. But let me clarify something, you can speak English ,” she said, “not human, and I don’t think you know your way out of this building.”
“I do. I have a Google map.” He produced it and waved it in front of her.
Vivica took it from his hand, examined it, and nodded her acknowledgment. “You did ace computer science, but do you know biology, sociology, psychology?”
“I learned about vampires and tonight I tried to learn about Salem, but I dreamed a bit of scary reality. I have looked up the history of the Phoenix. It was rebuilt—now I understand why—by thirty-year-old Zachary Tucker more than a hundred years ago. That would make Bronte’s young Zachary a hundred and thirty years old? Is that suspicious, or what?”
“Not in my line of work. You, yourself, a former Roman warrior, are older than dirt. Besides, humans tend to name their children after parents and grandparents. Zachary is Bronte’s nephew; they inherited the building from another Zachary Tucker, likely a son or grandson of the man who rebuilt the place. You’re too suspicious.”
Of a cat , he thought. “I’ve been locked in the body of a dragon for centuries, looked after by a white witch, stalked by an evil witch. Suspicious?
He climbed the stairs toward the third-floor living quarters, apartment doors to right and left, four on this hall alone. Going by instinct, he chose the door to the far right and stepped into a red, white, and black apartment, mostly white, lights on, like reality inside a dream.
A boy’s bedroom, he found. A woman’s. Both empty, but he followed his instincts up a round staircase to a library, wonderful and ancient with knowledge, went straight to the door at the far end, and opened it. A closet. Empty.
Darkwyn stepped inside, the bare lightbulb in its socket doing no good. He needed it to shed light on his quest. He made sure it was screwed in properly. As he turned it, the back of the closet slid upward.
There Bronte sat on the floor; Zachary huddled against her.
She pointed a gun his way. “Do you know Sanguedolce?” she asked without recognition and without removing her finger from the trigger.
“I do not, but if you hum the tune, I might be able to follow.”
Zachary sneered. “Sanguedolce is a name, dork. Italian. Deadly.” The boy stood and attempted to pry the gun from Bronte’s hand. “Geez, let go already. Vivica researched and bonded this guy, for Drak’s sake. He’s innocent, true of heart, and healthy. What more do you want?”
Bronte came out of her freeze and released the gun to the boy. It went off and Darkwyn felt the blow to his heart.
He jumped from his bed, Bronte’s scream lost to the dream, and turned on his light. He was still at Works Like Magick, as he should be.
Dream be damned. That had been reality inside a nightmare.
All too real.
He touched his cheek, and his fingers came away covered in blood.
Bronte!
TEN
The dream had been a call for help.
But who wanted him to go to the Phoenix? Killian or Bronte?
A knock at Darkwyn’s door startled him. He slipped into his jeans to open it. “Vivica.”
“You shouted Bronte’s name. I heard you clear at the end of the hall. What happened to your face?”
He covered his cheek with the palm of his hand to heal it while she watched. A moment later, the wound had disappeared.
“I won’t kid you,” Vivica said. “Every time I see you or your brothers heal using magick, it freaks me out. Was it the bird?”
Puck squawked. “Contempt: The feeling of a prudent ‘bird’ for an enemy too formidable to be safely opposed. Simply put: ‘Bite Me.’ ”
Darkwyn ignored Puck. “Did I wake you?”
“It’s three AM. What do you think?”
“I think . . . I have to go. Bronte needs me.”
“But you’re not ready.”
“I am. I can speak human, read, write, do math, and find my way back to the Phoenix. Was it ever a church?”
“Before a fire in the nineteenth century, yes. But let me clarify something, you can speak English ,” she said, “not human, and I don’t think you know your way out of this building.”
“I do. I have a Google map.” He produced it and waved it in front of her.
Vivica took it from his hand, examined it, and nodded her acknowledgment. “You did ace computer science, but do you know biology, sociology, psychology?”
“I learned about vampires and tonight I tried to learn about Salem, but I dreamed a bit of scary reality. I have looked up the history of the Phoenix. It was rebuilt—now I understand why—by thirty-year-old Zachary Tucker more than a hundred years ago. That would make Bronte’s young Zachary a hundred and thirty years old? Is that suspicious, or what?”
“Not in my line of work. You, yourself, a former Roman warrior, are older than dirt. Besides, humans tend to name their children after parents and grandparents. Zachary is Bronte’s nephew; they inherited the building from another Zachary Tucker, likely a son or grandson of the man who rebuilt the place. You’re too suspicious.”
Of a cat , he thought. “I’ve been locked in the body of a dragon for centuries, looked after by a white witch, stalked by an evil witch. Suspicious?
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