Unless Paris bashed his face in first.
He might not have been a violent man, more comfortable with a paintbrush than a set of boxing gloves, but they had messed with his family, and no one was allowed to do that. Even in his dragon shape, he could feel his stomach churning at the fear that Corinne was feeling.
I’m coming for you, love. I’ve got you. I’ve got us.
Paris followed as the SUV turned off of the highway and pulled onto a long, winding country road that bordered the Seine. A few more turns and the car was pulling onto a narrow, but impressive, laneway that led to an old estate house. They were in the county of Franche-Comté.
That meant that Paris had been right.
Gustave Comtois was actually Gustave Franche-Comté and definitely a mouflon shifter. Paris was definitely going to eat himself some mutton when he got his hands on the beast.
He would have liked to warn Agent Porath, but there was no time. Especially not when he saw Johanna and Armstrong racing down the laneway behind the SUV where Corinne was.
The captors knew for sure they were being followed then.
Paris eased down and hovered over the car as a whole slew of shifters were bursting from the front door of the mansion. There were mountain lions and mouflons. How the two different types of shifters were working together, Paris didn’t care. But there were easily thirty shifters running toward the car. Paris went to work, using his long tail and wings to send some of the beasts back. He added the talons of his hands to the mix, slashing through fur and hair. There was no way he was letting any more unknown shifters get into contact with his mate.
Across the way, Johanna leaped out of the car. “You take your hands off my daughter-in-law and grandbabies, you bitch.” As she roared the words out of her elegant mouth, her features began to shift.
It only took a moment, but soon, gone was the elegantly aging model and fashion queen. Johanna Warwick was a formidable dragon, her scales a deep shade of purple that was quite rare. Her scales were bright and shiny in the light of the sun, nearly blinding. Her long tail swept out and pushed aside the fake nurse. The woman fell back with a groan, and quickly, she too had shifted into her animal. A mere little mountain lion was no match for a protective and seriously pissed off grandmother.
Johanna stalked toward the furry beast with flames spewing out of her mouth.
Paris knew that Johanna had that handled. Further up, Armstrong had shifted as well, and he was battling a whole herd of mouflons. They were using his large, scaly body as a practice battering ram, running into him like demented, brainless drones. It was a ploy. As soon as they were distracted, horns down and charging, Armstrong blew out a fire breath and singed the creatures. The pained bleats and screams were horrible as was the smell of burning hair and cooking sheep.
Paris spat out the body of a mouflon, making sure to land the carcass on a mountain lion who was trying to launch itself at him. The animal fell, pinned down by the bleeding corpse.
But Paris wouldn’t be deterred by the attack. He wanted to spot Gustave. He didn’t know if the man would choose to join the fray, or if he would stay in his huge home, letting his cronies do all of the work for him.
Distracted, Paris missed the attack.
Two mountain lions coordinated an offense, and he was soon bitten by one while the other slashed at his haunches. The pain was sharp, and he roared out a terrible sound. With one of his wings, he shrugged off the animal that was still latched onto him. The other, he pelted with a spray of dragon fire.
It was then when he saw him.
His eyes were fixed on Gustave Comtois. The large man was watching the scene unfold from the front steps of his mansion with an impressive gun in his hands. The barrel of the weapon was first pointed at Johanna, then at Armstrong, and then toward Paris.
It would do Comtois no good.
He was caught.
It didn’t matter that he had a whole army of shifters to defend him. Gustave had messed with the wrong family.
Not to mention that Interpol, led by Agent Amy Porath, was on its way. The armed humans would be suitable backup, not that Paris thought that there would be much left of the Comtois operation by the time the agents arrived.
There was an injured man, kneeling by Comtois, his hands behind his back, his head bloodied. Paris knew the man, but there wasn’t any time to think about him, and the how and why he was in Comtois’ custody.
There was only one thing that mattered: getting Corinne freed.
Johanna was flying through the air with a few mouflons and a mountain lion in her jaws and claws. Paris knew his mother was a great warrior, but it was something else to see it. Down below, Armstrong was guarding the car. Paris instinctively knew that Corinne was in there. The dragon was viciously swiping at whatever creature tried to get an inch closer to the car.
Paris was proud of his people.
Corinne hadn’t had a real family since her parents had been taken from her by Gustave. Now, here she was, being protected and rescued by her new family.
Take that, you mother fucker, Paris thought as he flew down. He landed in front of Comtois, just as the dozens of Interpol cars, ambulances, and fire trucks drove up the lane. They drove onto the grass, leaving deep ruts in the landscaping. There were three dragons, and a whole mess of armed humans now, ready to take him down. Gustave made to go into the house, but Paris wouldn’t let the man run.
He shifted back into his human shape and ran after Gustave. Even with his human legs, Paris was much faster than the lumpy, older man. He struck out at his legs with one of his own, and Comtois stumbled, falling to the ground. The gun went sliding on the smooth surface of the marble flooring in the entryway. Paris grabbed one of Comtois’ feet and dragged him, kicking and screaming, back outside. Paris dragged him down the two steps and onto the gravel. All the while, Gustave was shouting profanities at him.
Paris ignored him, until he grabbed a pair of handcuffs an Interpol agent handed him. Comtois was surrounded by four agents, each pointing some serious firepower his way. Comtois kept on shouting as Paris fixed the cold metal clamps around his wrists.
“You won’t get away with this,” he said, his face red to the point of being almost purple.
“With what?” Paris asked. “Call off your men. You’re caught. You’ve lost.”
Comtois shook his head, spitting at a naked Paris. He stepped out of the trajectory.
“Call. Off. Your. Men,” Paris repeated.
Before Comtois could spit again, Paris punched him. The sound of a crunching bone echoed, and Gustave cried out like a wounded sheep.
“Stop!” he screamed. “It’s done,” he added.
It took a solid five minutes for the rest of his cronies to give up. There were bloodied naked men and women, shifters employed by Gustave, being arrested by startled and confused Interpol agents. It would have been comical, if it wasn’t completely terrifying.
Paris would have liked to wail on Comtois a bit more, but the man wasn’t going anywhere. Not now.
Paris ran toward the car, where Armstrong was shifting back into his human shape. Paris ignored the man, knowing he would thank him later, and he opened the door. Corinne threw herself at him with her hands bound in front of her.
“Paris!”
“Corinne, love. I’m here.” He ran his hands down her body, and he snapped the zip-ties. “Are you hurt?”
“I puked on them,” she answered. “And I puked all over the car. They were real mad.”