Kiss of Fire (28 page)

She didn't care. He broke their kiss and nuzzled her ear, his kisses making a river of fire across her skin. Quinn's hand rose to cup Sara's breast and he slid his thumb across her nipple in a deliberate caress. Sara caught her breath and arched her back. Quinn lifted her fully against him with one hand cupped around her buttock, then bent to flick his tongue across her taut nipple.

Sara gasped and writhed against him. She wanted more of him. She wanted all of him. She wanted to taste the firestorm fully.

Now.

Quinn seemed to guess her thoughts. He swung her into his arms and headed for the bedroom with purpose. Rain slashed against the windows, leaving rivers of water running down the glass. Trees were thrashing in the wind, but Sara had eyes only for Quinn. He laid her across the mattress, then stretched out beside her.

Mischief gleamed in his eyes as his fingers slid into the slick heat between her thighs. He touched her with surety. Sara gasped and then she moaned. Quinn found precisely the right spot and toyed with it mercilessly. He held her fast against his side, his one arm wrapped beneath her and around her, as his other hand stoked her passion.

He teased her, his fingertips moving slowly and purposefully. He took her to the brink of release time and again, with relentless ease. Sara was gasping and twisting. She was consumed with desire. She was on fire.

And only Quinn could sate the flames. She whispered his name and pulled him over her. “Now.”

“You first,” he insisted.

“No. Together.”

“That's a myth, princess.”

She almost laughed at the wry humor in his tone, but he moved his thumb and shook her universe instead. “Quinn! I want you inside me.”

She didn't have to make the argument twice.

He loomed over her and she cried out with pleasure when he eased himself inside her. He paused when he was buried in her, but she kissed his shoulder to reassure him. “It feels perfect,” she managed to whisper.

And he agreed before he kissed her again.

Sara closed her eyes as he moved inside her, each caress stoking the firestorm to an inferno. There was only Quinn; Quinn and his pounding heart, his undeniable passion, his talent for awakening all that had been asleep within her.

It was more, far more, than enough.

Hours later, Quinn, with reluctance, left Sara sleeping. He got out of bed only because he was afraid he would awaken her.

Or that Erik would, whenever he arrived. He was anxious about the interview ahead, hoping it would give him another increment of truth.

Hoping he'd be able to tell the difference between truth and guile.

Sara's hair was strewn across the pillows, a glorious golden shimmer in the darkness. It had dried and looked like honey in sunshine. Her lips were parted, her lashes splayed across her cheeks. He could hear the faint whisper of her breath despite the steady drum of rain on the window.

What was the perfume she wore? Or was it the scent of her soap? Either way, it was the perfect scent for her, touched with vanilla, both sexy and sweet. Quinn knew that just the faintest waft of it would drive him wild for the rest of his life. He wondered then whether mortals had their own power to beguile. Certainly, Sara Keegan had wound her way into his heart and soul, making it impossible for Quinn to imagine being without her.

They'd made love three times and he was ready for more.

He had a feeling that he was never going to get enough of her.

Surprisingly, that didn't bother Quinn, even though he'd spent the vast majority of his life ensuring that he had no reliance on anyone.

Maybe Sara would be the exception to his own rule. He wanted to make love to her in the grassy fields at his home, in the forest, in his own bed, on the thick rug on the floor of his cabin. He wanted to hear her make that little gasp of pleasure when the sun was shining, when spring rain fell around them, when the snow swirled out of the sky and the fire on the hearth crackled.

The fury of the thunderstorm had moved east and rain fell steadily, beating a rhythm against the roof. He opened the window slightly and a cool breeze smelling of plants and soil and flowers, wafted into the room. It reminded him of his cabin and acreage. He was less comfortable in cities and towns than in the country and he yearned to show Sara what he had built.

The street looked slick and black, and the shadows seemed particularly dark with the power still out. Quinn inhaled deeply, missing his land.

He couldn't think about the future, not yet. He was still tingling with the aftermath of the firestorm and he wanted to savor it. Sara stirred in her sleep as he stood at the window and rolled to her back, sighing contentment.

A smile played over her lips and Quinn wondered whether it came from memory or from her dreams. He tugged the sheet over her legs so the draft wouldn't chill her. He wanted fiercely to be the one responsible for making her smile.

Forever.

Quinn could have watched her sleep all night long. The gentle rise and fall of her breasts mesmerized him, as did the insistent beat of her heart, echoing in his ears. His own heart sped up slightly, matching its pace to hers, and it seemed to him that when they beat in unison, he felt a new power.

She nestled her cheek into the palm of one hand, looking small and vulnerable. Her other hand lay curled against the white sheets, looking as fragile as the rest of her.

But she was strong, stronger than she even guessed herself. If Sara was a princess, she was from a warrior clan.

Or maybe she was a mermaid, after all, an undine as slender as a reed and as forceful as the tides.

He smiled at the uncharacteristic whimsy of his thoughts and headed for the bathroom. He was restless, impatient, ready to do whatever was necessary to protect Sara.

The problem was that Quinn wasn't certain what that was.

Confident in the power of his own smoke—thrice breathed—he took a shower himself. There was a package of disposable razors in the medicine cabinet, so he helped himself to one and shaved. Quinn always took great pleasure in shaving: for some reason, having his jaw smooth made him more aware that he was human.

Not a beast.

Much less a monster.

He peered in the mirror, checking that he hadn't missed a spot, and what he saw shocked him completely.

There was a gray hair on his temple. It winked at him, one strand of silver that had never been there before. It was unmistakable. It hadn't been there that morning. He knew it. But it was there now, and it was attached.

It hurt when he pulled it out.

He was aging, and worse, he knew why. Quinn studied his reflection but there was no other sign of change. He cleaned out the sink, frowning at his own realization. It had happened already. So quickly. He had created an heir, after being only one night with Sara. Her body probably didn't even know as much as yet, but his did.

Quinn had often been accused of being purposeful and goal oriented, but on this night, he had a profound sense of having been cheated.

He wasn't ready to be without Sara Keegan.

He wasn't ready for his firestorm to be over.

And he wasn't ready to be alone again.

He wondered whether he ever would be.

Then he glared at the silver hair he had pulled out and flushed the traitor down the toilet.

It was gone.

Quinn wondered whether three more would grow in its place, just to make sure he got the message. He dressed with impatient haste, unable to quell his annoyance.

When Erik quietly announced his presence, Quinn's response was blunt and grim, even for old-speak.

Q
uinn opened the door but there was no one there. He moved to the top of the stairs that led to Sara's apartment and saw Erik standing on the path from the sidewalk.

“You'd better give me permission to cross your smoke before this woman calls the police,” Erik said in old-speak.

Quinn belatedly remembered that Sara had a tenant in the main part of the house. Even so, he wasn't ready to invite Erik into his temporary lair, not with Sara there. Her purse was on the floor where she had dropped it, and her keys were on the top.

He took her keys, locked the door behind himself, and descended the stairs instead. “Let's go for a walk,” he suggested tersely.

Erik gave him a wry smile. “Still don't trust me?”

“There's no reason for us to awaken Sara.”

Erik snorted in disbelief but Quinn didn't care. Erik's leather jacket was wet, but the rain had slowed to almost nothing. The clouds were moving quickly across the sky. Quinn didn't mind a few sprinkles on his shoulders.

“You have a question for me,” Erik prompted.

“I have many. Let's begin with the big one. Why were you in Béziers when my family died?”

“They didn't die, Quinn. They were killed. Don't imagine that it was anything other than murder.”

“Everyone is murdered in a way, if you want to think about it that way.”

“No. There's always a war that can be used in the service of the greater war. An artful member of our kind can always infiltrate human society, can always bend the target of an individual battle to his will.”

“You're joking.”

“I am not. The cohesive element of human history is that the humans who recorded it seldom knew what was truly at stake.”

Quinn was still skeptical. “The entire town was slaughtered so that my father could be killed?”

Erik pursed his lips. “Recognize that your father was the Smith of his time, although he had not had the years to perfect his skills as you have done. He was powerful and he was feared by
Slayer
s in his day. I doubt that many would have believed they could have eliminated him in a fair battle.”

“So they chose to fight unfairly.”

“It is the
Slayer
way.”

“But my mother?”

“She could have been carrying his seed.” Erik arched a brow. “And you can guess why your elder brothers were killed. You were all supposed to die, Quinn, but the Great Wyvern held
you
in the palm of her hand.”

“If only to drop me into the fire later.”

“Who can say what each of us must experience to become what we are destined to be? Your experience made you what you are: there is no denying that you are the most powerful Smith in all my lifetime.”

Quinn averted his gaze. He still needed to hear Erik's answer before he could pledge to serve with the
Pyr
.

The two walked in silence for a long time, up one sleepy street and down another. Quinn cast his thoughts back and heard the steady rhythm of Sara's sleeping, pinged his smoke and heard it ring true.

“I had a friend, a long time ago,” Erik finally said. “A friend who taught me a great deal. His name was Thierry de Béziers.”

“You said before that you knew my father.”

“But not that I loved him as dearly as a brother.”

“Why should I believe you?” Quinn asked.

“I will tell you.” Erik waited for a few moments before he said more and when he did speak, his words surprised Quinn. “There is an old conviction among our kind that love is a whimsy of mortals, that to love a woman is to lose something of what makes one
Pyr
. To link oneself to a mortal woman is to create a binding tie with one place and time, to rip asunder our connection to infinity. According to such thinking, women serve their purpose in bearing our young and have no merit beyond that. We may protect them and we may honor them by force of that debt, but it is inadvisable for us to surrender any of our affection to them. I have known many who have lived to that code.”

Quinn said nothing.

Erik pursed his lips and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “There is power in that choice and for a long time, I respected it as the truth.”

Quinn was intrigued by the implication. “But?”

“But your father argued otherwise. Your father bound himself to your mother, in every possible way, and did so against much protest from the others.”

“What do you mean?”

Erik held Quinn's gaze. “I mean that he loved her, and he was unafraid as to who knew as much.”

Quinn looked at the sidewalk, remembering. There certainly had been affection between his parents and he knew that his father must have been
Pyr
. He hadn't ever seen his father in dragon form, but he remembered the tricks his father would play with flames. It had been as if the fire listened to him, but as a child, Quinn had believed his father could do anything.

Erik continued his story. “Your father insisted that he gained more by his surrender to love than he lost.”

“Was he right?”

Erik looked Quinn in the eye. “He died young, too young, and it is hard for me to accept that he believed his choice to have been a worthy one at the end. He died because he had a weak spot.”

“Us?” Quinn guessed.

Erik shook his head and didn't answer the question. “You ask why I was there. I was there because I smelled the fire, though I was not close at hand. I did not arrive in time to make a difference to your father's fate.”

“He was dead.”

“Not quite. He could not speak aloud, he could not see me and if he had been mortal, the barrier between us would have been insurmountable. But he sensed my arrival and he recognized me with keener senses than sight.” Erik swallowed. “We had old-speak between us that one last time.”

Erik fell silent and Quinn glanced up at the other
Pyr
. He was surprised to see that Erik looked older and more drawn.

“Thierry had taught me so much,” he said, his words thick. “The debt between us was long and the bonds between us numerous, even though we had argued over his choice with regard to Margaux. I was honored to have old-speak between us that last time, to hear his rumble in my own thoughts. He was my mentor in many ways and it was not easy to see him in such pain.”

Quinn was remembering a thousand details. He remembered that there had always been a fire in the grate in his parents' home, despite the weather. He remembered sparks flying between his brothers' swords as they fought. He remembered stories that his father could always start a blaze, no matter how wet the wood or cold the hearth. He remembered his mother saying that his father “warmed her heart,” then smiling a mysterious little smile.

“Your father bade me find his other sons,” Erik said hoarsely. “We both knew that he had fallen in defense of Jean, for Jean's body was near him.”

“My brother.”

“Your father took a blow intended for Jean. He was wounded severely, but the
Slayer
let him live long enough to see his eldest son slaughtered before his eyes. Thierry had been teaching Jean his craft and was proud at what promise the boy showed.” Erik shook his head. “The only thing that saved him from madness at the end was the hope that one of you, one of the other four, had lived.”

Quinn knew that his brothers had not.

“I promised him that I would find all of his sons. I promised that I would raise them as my own, and I did not share my doubts that any of you had survived. Thierry had not seen the destruction of the town and I did not tell him how horrific it was. I could not bear the sight of it, myself. He would have been devastated to know that his friends and neighbors had suffered so much because he had been targeted.”

Yes. Quinn knew that was true.

Erik cleared his throat. “While Thierry's strength faded, I went into that town. I went through its every alley and passageway. I looked at every corpse. In dragon form, I could even examine the ones that were still smoking. It was not an easy task, but I did it for my friend.” Erik's voice tightened. “I did it because he asked it of me and it was the only thing left that I could do for him.”

“And?” Quinn prompted when the other
Pyr
fell silent.

Erik fired a hot glance his way. “I found three more of Thierry's sons.”

“Dead,” Quinn said quietly, no question in his tone.

“Dead,” Erik confirmed and Quinn hung his head. They walked in silence for a moment. “I could not find the fifth, the youngest. I could not find you, and that gave me hope. It gave me a mission and it gave me a deadline.”

“My mother was in the church when it burned. I heard her call to me.”

“I wondered what had happened to Margaux,” Erik said softly. “The church, well, it was the hardest place of all. I confess that I looked for young boys first and tried to ignore the rest. Bless the Great Wyvern that you did not heed her.”

Quinn sighed.

Erik nodded. “For a long time, I hoped that you and she were together somewhere, that you had managed to flee in her care.”

“No.” Quinn shook his head.

Erik swallowed. “It is a blessing that Thierry never knew that it was fire that destroyed her. He had two loves: the fire that defines us and the woman who gave meaning to his existence. It would have broken him to have known that truth.”

Quinn bit his tongue. A similar truth had nearly broken him. Was he tougher than his father? Or less compassionate? Or had his commitment to Elizabeth been less than the love his father had felt for his mother? Quinn didn't really want to know.

The other
Pyr
's grief was tangible. Erik shoved a hand through his hair and frowned. “I went back to him. It was the hardest thing I have ever done, but at least there was that chance that you and Margaux had escaped.”

“And he died?”

“And he died, clutching that last fragile hope, along with my promise to do my all to find you.” He knotted his hands together, searching for the words. “It rained that night, you know, great torrents of rain.”

“I'd forgotten.”

“Until this week, I had no idea how important that was.” Erik sighed, then looked at Quinn. “Tell me. Did you hide in the mill?”

Quinn was shocked. “Why do you ask?”

“Because there was a glimmer of a scent there, one that I tried to follow. It was so faint that it wasn't trustworthy, but it was the only one I found.”

Quinn nodded. “I was there.”

“And afterward?”

“After I saw the church burning and I saw you, I ran.”

“I wish I had seen you then.” Erik's voice was tinged with such regret that Quinn was tempted to believe him. “You were too young to have come into your inherited powers, so you left little hint of your passage. I was determined to find you by the time you reached puberty and came into your own.”

“You never did,” Quinn felt compelled to observe.

“No. I never did, but it wasn't for lack of trying.”

“What about Ambrose?”

“What about Ambrose?” Erik's gaze was steady.

Quinn frowned in his turn. “I guess he wasn't the friend I thought him to be.”

“Worse, Quinn. It is worse than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Who do you think was the
Slayer
who killed your father and your brothers?” Erik held Quinn's gaze, his own bright with conviction. “Who do you think was assigned the task of eliminating the Smith's line, and is still driven to finish his task?”

Quinn walked more quickly in his agitation. It would have been nice to deny Erik's claim, but it made too much sense, especially given recent events.

If that were true, then Sara would never be safe until Ambrose was dead. If that were true, he should be the one challenging Ambrose to a blood duel. But Quinn had been deceived once before and he had learned something from it.

Belief wasn't good enough. Persuasiveness wasn't good enough.

He needed proof.

“Why should I believe you?” he demanded of Erik.

“I have defended your mate and helped to save her.”

“You could be trying to win my confidence, like Ambrose did.”

Erik nodded agreement. “That's true.” He pulled his hand from the pocket of his jacket and something glinted gold on his palm. “I think you will recognize this.”

Quinn did. It was the Roman coin that his father had always rolled between his knuckles, making it disappear and reappear when the family sat by the fire in the evening. Quinn had been entranced by that coin as a child, though his father had never let him touch it.