Jaime Rush: Dragon Awakened

“Yes.”

Purcell reached into his mind, just a little. Not enough for the man to notice. He seemed to be telling the truth. He was also angry over losing his Vega. The Guard tapped Crescent orphanages for their most promising Wards, mentoring them and luring them into service. Perhaps this man was the Vega’s mentor. “What was his name? I want to talk to him.”

“We never give out the names of our employees.” The captain’s mouth tightened with a hint of smugness. “I’m sure you understand, Mr. Smith .”

Purcell reached again, probing for the name now. Sin. Similar to the name he’d overheard in the conversation between Brom and Moncrief. He knew of a Cyntag, an old Dragon with a fearsome reputation who had served in the Guard many years ago. “Is his name Cyntag?”

People usually gave away their answer when you took them by surprise. The captain shuttered his expression but not fast enough. “As I said—”

Purcell raised his hand. “I understand. I had reason to suspect that perhaps he hadn’t done his job. But you assure me he did, so I shall consider the matter closed.”

His hand was on the doorknob when the captain’s voice stopped him. “Why was it necessary to kill a girl?”

“If we were trying to make it look like an accident, she would have been a witness to the fact that it wasn’t.”

The captain gave a quick nod of understanding. “But why would it matter now? If she was alive, what could she do?”

“Loose ends, that’s all.”

What could she do, a girl who had no powers? She could ruin everything, according to Brom’s vision. Brom had referred to a granddaughter named Ruby who was destined to save thousands of Crescents. Purcell would not wait another eleven years to accomplish his goal.

His phone rang when he stepped out to the parking lot. His son, who was monitoring the scry orb he’d planted at Moncrief’s property. “Yes?”

“The girl who showed up at Moncrief’s returned, and you won’t believe this—she is a Crescent. A Dragon. So she’s probably Justin’s daughter after all. I suspect Moncrief used a masking spell, which is why we couldn’t tell yesterday.”

Purcell stroked his trimmed beard. “You are, as always, late with your revelations. I’m sure she’s Ruby. You are continuing to monitor the scry orb?”

Darren’s silence spoke the anger that the boy didn’t have the guts to express. Finally he said, “Of course. She’s driving to an area populated with Dragons. Wait. She’s pausing in front of a martial arts studio, staring at it like she wants to incinerate the place. The sign says Dragon Arts.”

“Keep watching.” Purcell disconnected, then made a call that garnered the name of the proprietor. No surprise that it was Cyntag Valeron.

Ruby sat in her truck across the street from Dragon Arts. She’d changed clothes and done a quick cleanup at home. Even taking that bit of time had stretched her tight. She’d wanted to drive right over and tear out Cyntag’s throat.

Those kind of thoughts usually disturbed her, hinting at a primitive violence that reared its head when someone wronged or threatened her. It throbbed inside her, curling her fingers into fists.

Get it under control. This is one bad dude. All I’m doing right now is finding out how bad.

The logical part of her brain added, A bad dude who possibly has control of bizarre and deadly weapons while you have a gun. Hullo?

But what else can I do, let him just get away with killing Mon and never know why? No way in hell.

Without that envelope, she had nothing but Cyntag’s name and the schizophrenic thoughts bouncing around in her head.

According to their website, he was teaching a class starting in—she glanced at the clock—one minute. While he was otherwise occupied, she’d snoop and be long gone before his class was over. She had no idea how much Cyntag knew about her. Because she usually wore her hair in a braid, she left it loose and frizzy. Not a big disguise but, at a glance, different enough. She had no intention of him seeing her, but best to be prepared. Which included her gun, the metal cool against the small of her back. She’d found it useful when she started going off-site to look at people’s stuff. In a city like Miami, no way was she walking into someone’s garage alone and unarmed.

Warm air washed over her neck, and in the corner of her eye, something shimmered next to her. She jerked to the side but saw nothing. All her hairs sprung to attention. It had felt like a breath.

Her mystery rash, which only broke out on the right side of her stomach, burned something fierce. Doctors couldn’t figure it out, and she’d tried every kind of medication to no avail. Stress always triggered it.

She stepped into the mid-September heat and humidity. The buildings in this area were old but in good repair. She spotted a Spanish/Portuguese restaurant across the way, and most of the signage was in Spanish with English subtitles. She generally felt like a foreigner in Miami, often one of the few Anglo people at any given location.

She caught sight of her reflection as she approached the glass door: cargo pants, black T sporting the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ asterisk logo, and black work boots that protected her feet if something heavy fell on them. The bandage on her forehead, that had to go.

Dragon Arts was first class, with a comfortable waiting area, natural wood floors, and halogen lights in frosted glass cones. A woman about her age, framed by a tattered pirate’s flag on the wall behind her, sharpened pencils at a tall reception desk.

Her dark pink lipstick and short, white hair popped against her raven skin. “May I help you, sugar?” The small gold plaque on the desk identified her as Glesenda.

“I wanted to check the place out, see what classes you offered.”

She handed Ruby a slick brochure, studying her eyes. “And not listed are…” She did a double take, her eyebrows furrowing. “Well, you can see the listing for yourself.”

Well, okay then. Ruby devoured the flier, looking for one thing: a picture of the owner. No deal, same as their website. An Internet search gleaned several articles mentioning Cyntag’s name in conjunction with either his studio or some competition a student had participated in, but nothing on Twitter, Facebook, or any other social networks.

Ruby caught Glesenda’s eye. “I understand Cyntag Valeron teaches Cane Fighting Level One?” Whatever that was.

Glesenda nodded toward one of the large glass windows. “He’s teaching in the Sapphire Room right now.”

Ruby wanted to run over and finally put a face to her uncle’s murderer. Her breath left her with every step toward the window. A class of ten men of various ages stood in formation as they watched two men spar at the far side of the room. One sported a shaved head, was in his fifties, and weighed about two-fifty. The other—holy Jesus in Heaven. She sucked in air and tried to pull herself together. He was whip-muscular, wearing loose white pants with a tight black sash at his waist, his ripped torso slick with sweat. Gorgeous, dangerous-looking…and the spit-and-polish image of the Dragon Prince. Even down to his dark hair and the exotic slant to his eyes.

He had a tattoo far more fantastic than any she had seen, a dragon crawling up his back. Black and blue wings spanned his shoulders, the tail sliding down his spine to disappear beneath the waistband of his pants. When he shifted, she saw that the dragon’s head peered over his shoulder. It looked three-dimensional.

“Yeah, he has that effect on most women.” Glesenda wore an amused expression.

Not quite this effect, Ruby bet. Her chest was so tight she had to push out the words. “That’s Cyntag, the one with the dragon tat?”