Thea Harrison - Dragon Bound

“It’s a curse,” she agreed. Pulled by an invisible string, her gaze drifted back up to the overhead screen. She watched in equal parts fascination and horror.

“Quentin went somewhere about twenty minutes ago,” the half-breed troll told her. “Said he’d be right back.”

She nodded as the CNN reporter continued. “. . . Meanwhile public officials confirm that the origin of the event occurred some distance from Cuelebre Tower on Fifth Avenue, in a local park near Penn Station. Cuelebre Enterprises has released a press statement claiming responsibility for the unfortunate ‘research and development accident.’ We now go to Thistle Periwinkle, PR director for Cuelebre Enterprises and one of the more famous spokespersons from the Elder Races.” The scene cut to a small figure surrounded by reporters in front of Cuelebre Tower’s polished chrome and marble veneer.

The crowd at the bar broke into two-fingered whistles, scattered stamping and applause. “ WOOT! ” “Faerie Barbie—yes!” “My GIRL !”

The petite figure wore a pale pink business suit that accentuated an hourglass figure with a tiny waist. Standing close to five foot ten, Pia always felt like a galumphing horse when she saw the faerie on television. Cuelebre’s famous public mouthpiece wore her fluffy lavender hair in a chic flipped-up bob. She wrinkled her tilted nose with a sympathetic smile as a dozen microphones were thrust in her face.

“God, she’s hot.” Preston heaved a sigh. “What I wouldn’t give for a chance at that.”

Pia gave the huge craggy male a quick glance and scratched at the back of her head. The fact that the cutesy faerie was Cuelebre Enterprises’ PR spokesperson always seemed manipulative to her. Look at how nice and friendly and safe we are, oh my.

The faerie held up a delicate hand. As soon as the shouting quieted, she began to speak. “This will be just a brief statement today. We’ll follow up later with more details as we better understand the situation. Cuelebre Enterprises regrets any inconvenience this incident has caused the good people of New York and promises a prompt resolution to any and all property damage claims.” The faerie’s gamine smile died. She looked dead-on into the lens of the camera, her normally merry expression grim. “Rest assured that Cuelebre is using every resource available to conduct a full investigation. He gives you his personal guarantee that what caused today’s incident will be taken care of swiftly and decisively. There will never be another occurrence.”

So much for cutesy. The crowd of reporters around the faerie stilled. In the bar the constant burr of noise died. Even Rupert stopped serving drinks.

Someone nearby said, “Damn. Did that twee little chick just pull off scary?”

On the wide-screen the scene erupted into chaos again before it cut back to the main newsroom at CNN where the blonde reporter said in an urgent tone, “And there you have it, Cuelebre’s public statement, and didn’t it sound like a loaded one, folks.”

The news show went on to do a brief biographical sketch on Cuelebre. There wasn’t much documented about the reclusive multibillionaire. He was universally acknowledged as one of the oldest Powers in the Elder Races and recognized as the iron-fisted ruler of the New York Wyrkind demesne. He was also a major, if shadowy, power player in the Washington political scene.

Close photographs and film segments of him always blurred. The most detail cameras had been able to capture of him was from pictures taken at a distance. The network showed a couple of snapshots of a group of tough-looking, powerful males. In the midst of them towered a massive, dominant figure caught in aggressive midmotion, dark head turned away.

Cuelebre had never made a public acknowledgment of what he was, but news shows loved to speculate. They avoided claiming anything but made much of how his first name, Dragos, really meant “dragon” and Cuelebre was a mythological giant winged serpent.

Even the most marginalized half-breed that crept around the edges of the Elder Races’ politics and society knew what and who Cuelebre was. Every one of them would have felt in their bones the dragon’s roar that had shaken the city to its foundations.

Pia groped for Preston’s scotch. The troll handed the glass to her and she gulped at it. The liquid slid down her parched throat and exploded into a burning fireball in the pit of her stomach. She gasped and handed it back to him.

“I feel you,” said the troll. “They’ve been playing stuff like that all afternoon. Apparently the ‘incident’ ”—he made finger quotes in the air—“broke windows in buildings as far as a mile away and cracked one brownstone down the middle. I heard it myself, and I’m man enough to admit the sound made my stones shrink.”

Panic pulsed through her again. She dropped her hands below the bar to hide how they shook. She cleared her throat. “Yeah, I heard it too.”

“Whoever made him that mad?” Preston shook his head. “I can’t imagine, but it’s gonna make Judgment Day look like a picnic.”

A deep voice said by her ear, “You look like shit.”

Pia almost leaped out of her skin. Then she pressed the heel of her hands against her eyelids until she saw stars before turning to face Quentin.

“That’s my boss,” she said over her shoulder to Preston. “A compliment a minute.”

The troll snorted.

Quentin leaned against the wall by the swinging doors that led to the back. He regarded her with a frown. He was six feet two inches of lean tensile strength and spare graceful features, one of those scary-gorgeous guys that could make the cover of GQ if he had been a model. His dark blond hair, when loose, would fall past broad shoulders, but he normally kept it pulled back in a queue. The severe style emphasized the long bones of his face and piercing blue eyes.

Pia’s emotions took another wild swing. Her lips tightened and she looked down to tug at a backpack strap. “I need to talk to you,” she told him.

“Figured as much.” He straightened from the wall and turned to push open one swinging door.

Pia wiggled her fingers at Preston and walked to the back, Quentin behind her. The door swung into place, muting the bar noise.

She continued through the stockroom and stepped into his spacious office. She stopped in the middle of the room, dropped her backpack and just stood there, her tired mind a blank.

A beautifully proportioned hand came over her shoulder and hooked under her chin. She allowed him to turn her around, though she could only meet his intent gaze for a moment before her own drifted to an area somewhere over his right shoulder. Her chest hurt. She could feel his scrutiny travel down her body.

“I’m leaving town,” she told the area over his shoulder. Her voice sounded choked. “I came to say good-bye.”

Silence stretched and grew thin. Then Quentin put a hand on her forehead and wrapped the other around the back of her neck. Her gaze flew to him, and the concern she saw in his expression almost did her in. He said, “You have a headache.”

Golden warmth began to flow from his hands, infusing her head and spreading through her body, easing pain away. “Oh God, I had no idea you could do that,” she said with a sigh. “That feels so good.”

When her knees sagged, he pulled her into his arms and held her close. “I’m afraid I can’t do anything about the heartache.”

Pia’s mouth trembled. He must have read misery on her face like a road map. She rested her head on his shoulder. “Aren’t you supposed to yell at me for not giving you two weeks’ notice?”

“How about I don’t and we’ll just say I did.” He rubbed her back. “Deal?”