Read Online Vampire Dragon by Annette Blair - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Annette Blair
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sexual?”
“Almost. Stay a few more days, Darkwyn. Read a dictionary or ten. What’s the rush?”
“Bronte’s in danger.”
“From what? Her customers? Outside sources?”
“I wish I knew.”
“Know your friends and enemies. Did you open this DVD on vampires and witches?”
He packed that lesson as well.
“Witch,” Puck said. “An ugly and repulsive old woman, in a wicked league with the devil.”
Vivica gasped. “Shut it bird before I roast you on a spit, or worse, before I take your voice. I’m a witch. No devil.”
Puck fluffed his feathers. “Rewind. Witch: a beautiful and attractive young woman.”
Vivica nearly smiled as she opened Darkwyn’s door to leave. “Stay,” she begged one last time, but she did not expect him to listen, because, as she’d often said, he rarely did. “If you go,” she added. “ When you go, take your lessons and your cell phone, and call if you have questions.”
“Will do.”
“Please remain circumspect about your situation.” Slipping her business card into his T-shirt pocket, his mentor stood on her toes to kiss his cheek. “I’ll be here when you need me, because you will.”
His bedroom door closed as he opened the bird’s cage. “Puck, remind me to look up ‘circumspect.’ Now, I’ll hear the rules, please.”
“Don’t sit on your head.” Squawk . “Don’t poop on the girl.” Squawk. “Don’t kick the cat.”
ELEVEN
Bronte surged up and out of her nightmare with a scream trapped in her throat.
Her room, she saw, not the pitch-black inside of a closet.
Silence, she heard, not the approach of a killer.
Alone , she thought. No Darkwyn with a bullet in his chest.
She released her breath and fell against her pillows, hand to her thumping heart. “Blessed be.”
The Phoenix had looked different, like a church, Scorch the cat, at first evil, turned tame. A threat, but not to her. Yet.
Another phoenix rose up in her mind’s eye. Darkwyn. Nearby. His heart beating with worry beneath a tattoo that, to her, symbolized victory. If only . . .
Her tricky psychic gifts in play, Bronte rose to put on her mask and wrap, and she went to the balcony, her emotions at war.
Joy trumped anxiety, layering her fears in an odd sort of way, anticipation at the base of it all.
Opening her mind, she sensed Darkwyn’s yearning as she watched him hesitate when he saw her.
She stopped fighting fear to give him a sense of her positive reaction to seeing him. And how did she know he’d catch either nuance, unless he was as empathetic as her. Well, more empathetic, hopefully. He must be.
Darkwyn Dragonelli could make her open to him, a stranger who should frighten her, though he seemed more like a friend. Odd, his affect on her. Troubling.
Everything she’d experienced in life—including a mother who’d been battered before and after her birth—trained her to hide in every possible way, emotions included. The more mysterious she remained, she believed, the more power she wielded. Yet this invader coming her way turned determination to dust scattered like dry leaves in the autumn wind.
She should . . . see a psychiatrist first thing in the morning, which wouldn’t help her now.
Maybe a twenty-four-seven Internet shrink would do, but did she close the French doors and go find one? No.
She waited on her balcony for Darkwyn Dragonelli —tall drink of stud-sculpture, atypical Greek god, broad, straight-spined, regal bearing. Interested in helping her ; the paradox.
His effect: mouth-drying, knee-weakening, womb-pulsing, so stimulating, she must try not to pounce.
She should grab her stash of vibrators and lock herself in the bathroom, though she’d probably still emerge wanting him .
As he came closer, taking a breath became an act of will: inflate lungs, deflate. Heart, don’t stop pumping now.
Her flowing white wisp of a robe billowed around what must appear to be her nakedness in the chill predawn air, this pink baby doll nightie,
“Almost. Stay a few more days, Darkwyn. Read a dictionary or ten. What’s the rush?”
“Bronte’s in danger.”
“From what? Her customers? Outside sources?”
“I wish I knew.”
“Know your friends and enemies. Did you open this DVD on vampires and witches?”
He packed that lesson as well.
“Witch,” Puck said. “An ugly and repulsive old woman, in a wicked league with the devil.”
Vivica gasped. “Shut it bird before I roast you on a spit, or worse, before I take your voice. I’m a witch. No devil.”
Puck fluffed his feathers. “Rewind. Witch: a beautiful and attractive young woman.”
Vivica nearly smiled as she opened Darkwyn’s door to leave. “Stay,” she begged one last time, but she did not expect him to listen, because, as she’d often said, he rarely did. “If you go,” she added. “ When you go, take your lessons and your cell phone, and call if you have questions.”
“Will do.”
“Please remain circumspect about your situation.” Slipping her business card into his T-shirt pocket, his mentor stood on her toes to kiss his cheek. “I’ll be here when you need me, because you will.”
His bedroom door closed as he opened the bird’s cage. “Puck, remind me to look up ‘circumspect.’ Now, I’ll hear the rules, please.”
“Don’t sit on your head.” Squawk . “Don’t poop on the girl.” Squawk. “Don’t kick the cat.”
ELEVEN
Bronte surged up and out of her nightmare with a scream trapped in her throat.
Her room, she saw, not the pitch-black inside of a closet.
Silence, she heard, not the approach of a killer.
Alone , she thought. No Darkwyn with a bullet in his chest.
She released her breath and fell against her pillows, hand to her thumping heart. “Blessed be.”
The Phoenix had looked different, like a church, Scorch the cat, at first evil, turned tame. A threat, but not to her. Yet.
Another phoenix rose up in her mind’s eye. Darkwyn. Nearby. His heart beating with worry beneath a tattoo that, to her, symbolized victory. If only . . .
Her tricky psychic gifts in play, Bronte rose to put on her mask and wrap, and she went to the balcony, her emotions at war.
Joy trumped anxiety, layering her fears in an odd sort of way, anticipation at the base of it all.
Opening her mind, she sensed Darkwyn’s yearning as she watched him hesitate when he saw her.
She stopped fighting fear to give him a sense of her positive reaction to seeing him. And how did she know he’d catch either nuance, unless he was as empathetic as her. Well, more empathetic, hopefully. He must be.
Darkwyn Dragonelli could make her open to him, a stranger who should frighten her, though he seemed more like a friend. Odd, his affect on her. Troubling.
Everything she’d experienced in life—including a mother who’d been battered before and after her birth—trained her to hide in every possible way, emotions included. The more mysterious she remained, she believed, the more power she wielded. Yet this invader coming her way turned determination to dust scattered like dry leaves in the autumn wind.
She should . . . see a psychiatrist first thing in the morning, which wouldn’t help her now.
Maybe a twenty-four-seven Internet shrink would do, but did she close the French doors and go find one? No.
She waited on her balcony for Darkwyn Dragonelli —tall drink of stud-sculpture, atypical Greek god, broad, straight-spined, regal bearing. Interested in helping her ; the paradox.
His effect: mouth-drying, knee-weakening, womb-pulsing, so stimulating, she must try not to pounce.
She should grab her stash of vibrators and lock herself in the bathroom, though she’d probably still emerge wanting him .
As he came closer, taking a breath became an act of will: inflate lungs, deflate. Heart, don’t stop pumping now.
Her flowing white wisp of a robe billowed around what must appear to be her nakedness in the chill predawn air, this pink baby doll nightie,
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