She’d studied since her failure, determined to make it right. Thanks to Melissa Smith’s television specials on the Pyr, it was easy to find out more about the dragon shifters. She’d learned that the firestorm was the mating sign of his kind, the Pyr, the mark of one dragon shifter finding the woman who could bear his son.
It was a romantic notion, which meant Rania didn’t believe in it one bit. It had to be a way to seduce women and create more dragon shifters. Maybe a kind of sex spell. She’d bet the firestorm sparked whenever one of them wanted it to.
She’d learned about beguiling, too, a kind of hypnosis practiced by the Pyr, and wondered if that was how Hadrian had made her pause before giving her lethal kiss. That delay might have been enough.
It wasn’t a mistake she’d make twice.
Her ring, though, was a riddle she couldn’t solve. It still shone with inner radiance, burning like a beacon, although she had no idea why. Had it changed forver? How? Why?
It was time to extinguish both lights forever and put an end to the distraction that was Hadrian MacEwan. The Fae spies had said he would return to his smithy in Northumberland this very day so Rania awaited him in his own lair.
Impatiently.
He would be with two other Pyr, the spies said. He’d left Manhattan with them: one who was injured from Maeve’s exploration of his mind and one who was a dragon healer. There was a fearlessness in the decision to leave the other Pyr that Rania tried to keep from admiring—there had to be safety in numbers, after all, and the dragon shifters were doomed—but she told herself to be realistic. It might not be bravery. It could be a refusal to acknowledge that the attack the previous Saturday was the first of a sequence of forays that would leave the world devoid of Others.
Hadrian might be stupid.
He might be cocky and over-confident.
He wasn’t necessarily courageous. Rania should give credit only when she knew it was due. She’d manifested inside his home, leaving the locks and any other protective mechanisms undisturbed. And then she waited.
It wasn’t easy. After all, a blacksmith’s studio was the last place Rania wanted to be, and even drawing close to one gave her the creeps. The only good thing about Hadrian’s home was that it was located in the country, where there were fewer prying eyes to notice any change of routine. He’d converted an old mill to both studio and home, and a river ran merrily alongside it. Rania could hear the birds and the wind, too. She found the location of his home soothing, but told herself to remain on guard. She’d never yet adjusted to the modern world but she’d have plenty of time to worry about that later.
She was so close to completing her obligation. Just one dragon shifter stood in her way. Rania could taste triumph.
And immortality. She’d have plenty of time to follow her dreams once she became Fae.
It didn’t take long to explore Hadrian’s place thoroughly. It was simply furnished and comfortable. She concluded that he had simple tastes and pleasures, as well as a respect for tradition and history. He was tidy. He lived alone. He read books and did horrible blacksmith things in the adjacent workshop, which she refused to even enter.
She shuddered at just the smell of iron and ash. That scent alone should make him easy to kill. In his human guise, he was a man, and that meant women were his victims. A man and a blacksmith. This should have been easy.
His occupation was why she’d chosen Hadrian of all the Pyr. There was another blacksmith in their kind, the one they called the Smith, but he had young sons. Rania was protective of children, given her own history.
No one needed to know that she had a soft spot.
She paced and wished he’d hurry. It was already past noon. She should have asked the Fae spies for more detail. She had her plan and her strategy: she just needed her prey.
When Rania heard an approaching vehicle, she froze, listening, so utterly still that no living creature would sense her presence. When the engine was turned off, she hid, retreating to Hadrian’s bedroom, and remained silent. Doors opened and closed; men spoke to each other.
Her heart raced and she tried to summon her usual mood of icy precision. She felt emotional and fluttery, uncertain, which wasn’t a welcome change at all. She fingered the ring hung on a chain around her neck, soothed by its smooth surface.
It would all be over soon, she reminded herself. Maeve would cross out the name of another dragon shifter from her list and Rania, along with her brothers, would be free.
Hadrian was relieved to be home. Two firestorms in rapid succession had worn him out, never mind being trapped in Fae. He wanted to sleep in his own bed, return to the rhythm of his life and do some solid work that would make a difference in this battle against Maeve and her minions. Even if Lila’s fears about the new mark on his cheek were valid, he’d accomplish something before he died: he’d see his fellow Pyr outfitted with new weapons.
Before leaving Kristofer’s farm, he’d had a long consultation with Quinn, the Smith of the Pyr and his mentor, and they’d made a plan to produce all the steel-taloned gloves needed. No one among the dragon shifters believed Maeve had forgotten that the Pyr were on her list, too.
The Pyr had divided into groups to ensure their own defense and that of their mates and children: there was one group in Chicago with Erik, one group on Bardsey Island with Donovan and Marco, one group at Kristofer’s farm in Vermont, a big group in Manhattan with Drake and Rhys, while Alasdair and Balthasar had come with Hadrian to England. Alasdair wanted to come home, too, and Balthasar had joined them to continue to monitor Alasdair’s recovery.
The three Pyr had flown to London, then taken a regional jet to Newcastle. Hadrian’s green Land Rover had been parked at the airport, while Alasdair’s blue one was still at Hadrian’s lair. Alasdair had driven down from Scotland and they’d traveled to America together over a month before. Their trucks could have been twins, both older and well-loved but completely reliable. Hadrian liked to joke that just like the two of them, Alasdair’s Land Rover showed its mileage more.
It was after lunch by the time they approached the closest town to Hadrian’s lair. They stopped for groceries and at the post office.
To Hadrian’s satisfaction, the parcel had already arrived from Donovan. Over the years, he’d heard so much about Donovan’s gloves. Though he’d seen them in action once or twice, Quinn’s detailed description had made him want to examine them more closely.
He returned to the truck as Balthasar was loading groceries into the back and tossed the box with the gloves to Alasdair, regretting that he had to drive. Alasdair was checking messages on his phone, but he caught the box. Hadrian started the engine again as Balthasar got into the back then leaned forward between the seats.
“Is that them? Can I see them?” he asked. Alasdair passed him the box and finished up with his phone.
“Messages from Erik,” he said with a shake of his head.
“News?” Hadrian asked.
“Advice,” Alasdair said and they groaned in unison. It was a bit of a standing joke that the leader of the Pyr did tend to make a lot of suggestions—never mind commands. “Just be glad he’s in Chicago and we’re not.”
“I wish I wasn’t driving,” Hadrian complained, his impatience so obvious that the other two Pyr chuckled. “I want to see those gloves.”