Kindling The Darkness

As he arrived at the front of the lot, a little zing of dismayingly pleasant recognition went through him at the sight of Lucy Smok conversing with one of the other firefighters. When she turned her head as if feeling his gaze on her, he smiled. And then felt like an idiot. What the hell was he smiling about? They weren’t friends. He tried to look nonchalant and let the smile fade naturally. Lucy’s expression made it pretty clear that he’d only succeeding in pulling off “idiot.”

She took in his uniform as he came closer and managed a perfect Spock eyebrow lift. “So now you’re a firefighter, too?” The words sounded like an accusation, like she thought he was messing with her.

“It’s a volunteer fire department, and I’m a volunteer. So, yeah, I guess. I mean, yeah.” Jesus. Why was he on the defensive all of a sudden? Something weird had happened last night. With that one little look from her as he’d kept her from falling, he’d lost his own mental footing with her.

The eyebrow was still halfway up. “Okay.” She seemed to be waiting for him to say something else.

Oliver cleared his throat. “What brings you here?” Jesus.

“The fire. I got a tip that someone had seen a wild dog out here right after the fire broke out. I thought I’d check and see if our...” She paused and glanced at the crew packing up around them. “If there was any connection to the case. Did you see it?”

Oliver had been watching her lips move, the dark lipstick she favored mesmerizing, and he’d forgotten to listen to the words she was saying. “Sorry, see what?”

Lucy gave him that inscrutable look once more. “The wild dog.”

He shook his head, and even as he said no, a certainty struck him in the gut. Of course he had. Colt.

“Well, it sounds like it wasn’t big enough to have been...the animal in the other reports, but your chief says this fire looks suspicious. Definitely arson, but I’m getting another vibe. Like the origins don’t make sense. No incendiary devices, no clear starting point, just combustion out of nowhere. Which is right up my alley. With Smok Consulting, I mean.”

“Smoke.” He was just blurting out dumb-ass shit now. So they sounded the same. Smoke/Smok. This wasn’t news.

Lucy squinted at him. “Right.”

“Well, I’ve gotta run. I’ll see if I can get any more details about the cause.” Halfway to the truck, he paused and glanced back. “How are those stitches? You look rested.”

“I... It’s fine. Yeah, I did. Get some rest.” Now Lucy was stumbling over her words, too.

He tried not to smile. “Okay, I’ll check in with you later?”

She nodded, and Oliver climbed onto the truck, avoiding looking at her as they pulled out of the lot, because looking at her made him feel warm. God, he was completely regressing to an adolescent state.

He shook himself mentally, remembering that Colt was waiting for him.

* * *

He gave it an hour before heading back in his regular clothes, a few boxes and a small rolled-up carpet loaded into the back of his pickup. The storage facility attendant didn’t bat an eye. They hadn’t had any direct interaction when he was here in uniform, so Oliver hadn’t expected him to, but he still felt guilty, like he was doing something illicit. Which, of course, he was. But not because of the fire. At least, he hoped it wasn’t because of the fire.

He asked for a unit in back, saying he didn’t want his stuff to smell like smoke, and the attendant accommodated him without question. The unit was just two down from the trash bins where he hoped Colt was still waiting.

After unrolling the carpet on the floor of the unit and moving his boxes into it, Oliver unpacked the inflatable mattress and pump and set it up before heading to the trash bins. At first glance, he thought Colt had taken off, but the boy scrambled out from between the bins and the wall after evidently seeing that it was Oliver. It had probably taken Colt a moment to recognize him out of uniform.

“Hey, Colt. So I brought you some stuff, and I’ve put it in that storage unit over there, see?” He walked back to the opening between the rows and pointed, waiting until Colt moved forward cautiously to see where he was pointing. Oliver held out the key. “You can use it if you want. It’s not meant for living in, but you can stay here overnight if you promise to stay out of sight if anyone comes around. Can you do that?”

Colt stared at the key and eyed the open door again warily.

“Come on. I’ll show you what I brought.” Oliver walked back to the unit, and in a moment, Colt followed, skittish and scuttling, moving in short bursts. He had definitely learned to stay out of sight in however long he’d been on his own.

Inside the unit, Colt gaped at the bed and blankets, but was even more impressed by the cooler of food and cold water Oliver directed his attention to.

“There’s more water in here.” Oliver showed him the box. “And some hand wipes. And there’s a lantern that works on batteries. There’s also some stuff to read if you want it. I don’t know if you read.”

Colt was already busy tearing into the sandwiches and fruit in the cooler. In a few minutes, he’d settled on the little bed, eating his lunch and looking with curious interest at one of the comic books Oliver had taken out of the box. It looked like the makeshift hideout was a hit. Now he just had to figure out a longer-term plan. And determine exactly what Colt was—and whether, as Oliver suspected, he was the cause of the morning’s fire.

Chapter 6

Oliver Connery was up to something. If that was even his name. He’d had a guilty look on his face the entire time Lucy had been talking to him. And what better cover would some kind of paranormal arsonist have than being a volunteer fireman?

She loosened the top two buttons on her shirt as she sat in her car outside the Civic Center building after picking up the list of eyewitnesses Nora had finally compiled. For November—or was it December now? That might explain all the irritating lights and decorations she kept seeing around Jerome—it was awfully warm. Except it wasn’t the weather. It was her damn wyvern thermostat.

Lucy swore softly. “A fireman? He’s a goddamn fireman. Firefighter. Whatever.” But “man” was the part her stupid hormones were focusing on, for sure. He’d been suited up in a heavy bunker jacket and loaded down with gear. It wasn’t like he’d been shirtless and posing for a “Hot Firemen of Jerome VFD” calendar, for God’s sake. But she’d already seen him shirtless. “Dammit.” She didn’t need this. She should just stop by Polly’s Grotto in Sedona tonight, pick up some dumb, harmless satyr with an overactive libido and get her itch scratched.

Except that itch increasingly wanted to be scratched by Oliver Connery. Who was probably a fire-starting were-beast.

She’d phrased it that way in her head to remind herself of the dangerous territory she was heading into and shut off her train of thought, but her libido immediately responded with another spike of temperature. You know you want a fire-starting were-beast.

“I do not want a fire-starting were-beast!” Saying it aloud didn’t help. She was never going to be able to concentrate on these eyewitness interviews if she didn’t do something about this nonsense. It was only three o’clock—a little early for drinking, but Polly’s had the distinction of being a sort of free-floating alternate dimension. There were always a few patrons inside from other time zones. Lucy could take care of business and be back in Jerome by full dark to hunt.

She stopped by the villa to change into something that would be easy to get out of and back into—a knee-length shift in black stretch velvet—and took her hair out of the braid before heading to the Grotto. Any hope of slipping in under Polly’s radar was dashed almost as soon as Lucy arrived.

“That time of the month, is it, darling?”

Lucy gritted her teeth as she turned from the bar where she was waiting for her drink. Polly was sporting lavender locks this evening—and a silk sheath dress in the same color that was so transparent it ought to have been illegal.

“I’d say the same to you, except I’m pretty damn sure you’re on the prowl all the time.”

Polly blinked matching lavender eyes, an amused smile tugging at her lips. “So you’re admitting you’re on the prowl, then. That’s refreshing. Until your accidental transformation when Lucien ascended—or rather descended to the throne, to be precise—I had the impression you were a bit of a cold fish.”

Lucy snorted. “I thought you were the one who was a fish.”

Polly looked offended. “I am not a fish. Sirens are not fish.”

Lucy’s drink had arrived. She put her money on the bar and picked up the highball. “Honestly, Polly, I don’t care if you have a mermaid’s tail and scales or slippery shark bits. I didn’t come here to socialize with you. I’m on a job tonight, and I have about thirty minutes to—” She felt her skin flush as she realized what she’d been about to say.

Polly laughed. “I have just the boy for you. It is boys you like?” She grabbed Lucy’s hand before Lucy could move it out of reach and dragged her through the misty club to a set of booths in a dark corner.

“Finn, meet Lucy.”

From one of the shadowy booths, a figure peered out—and instantly seemed to create his own bioluminescence. Lucy swallowed. Finn was about as far from human as a creature could get while still maintaining a human appearance—but what an appearance. The glow seemed to be coming from inside his pale green skin. He looked like a ghostly Channing Tatum.

Finn rose and smiled. “Pleased to meet you, Lucy. Won’t you sit down?”

Lucy turned toward Polly and murmured, “What am I dealing with here?”

“Finn is a kind of deep-sea undine,” Polly said without attempting to be discreet. “An electric mer-eel, if you will. He has a unique talent.” She pushed Lucy into the booth. “Why don’t you two kids get to know each other?”

Lucy glared at Polly’s back as the siren turned and flitted away, trying to retain her dignity as she sipped her drink. “Sorry. I don’t know what Polly was thinking—” Lucy’s words cut off on a gasp as Finn took her hand while he slid back into the booth. His touch was like a light surge of current that traveled up her arm and over her skin in a tingly ripple. It was as if he’d instantly licked her all over then traced it with a violet wand.

“Is that all right?” Finn’s voice was sensual and soothing. “You’re unusually receptive. I normally have to ask first before a pulse is received.”

“A...pulse?”

“My energy seeks to fulfill desire. Every time I breathe, it sends out a pulse.”

Another one went through her. “Oh, shit.” Lucy set her drink roughly on the table, sloshing gin and tonic over the rim. “Oh. Wow.”

“And the pulse is translated by the receiver into whatever he or she is in need of.”

He smiled and exhaled, and Lucy nearly had an orgasm.

But Finn’s smile faltered. “Ah, I’m sorry.” He looked a little sad as he let go of her hand. “Your need is more specific.”

“What...my...specific?” She tried to regain her composure and resist the urge to snatch for his hand like a kid in a candy store grabbing for a sweet.

“Your desire is for an individual.” Finn sat back. “If you want my advice, I wouldn’t seek to fulfill it elsewhere, and I wouldn’t try to resist it. It’s not good for your health—physical or emotional—to bottle that up. If he reciprocates that desire, there’s no time like the present.” He smiled, and the smile seemed to set Finn’s skin glowing in a slightly warmer hue.

Lucy downed her drink and cleared her throat. “And if he doesn’t reciprocate it?”

Finn’s gaze flitted over her with a little shake of his head. “I’d find that hard to believe.”

After thanking Finn, Lucy made her escape. Polly winked at her from the bar as Lucy slipped out the door.

She collapsed into the seat of her car once she’d reached it. What if he doesn’t reciprocate it? What the hell was she thinking? She was not going to throw herself at Oliver Connery just because her wyvern hormones had fixated on him. They weren’t the boss of her. And they’d subside on their own in a few days if she could just keep her shit together.

Her phone, which she’d tucked into the waistband of her underwear, buzzed, and Lucy nearly jumped out of her skin. Jesus. Who needed a...whatever Finn was...when you had a vibrating phone? On second thought, Finn had been decidedly more satisfying. Just not...satisfying enough.

It buzzed again, and Lucy hitched up her skirt and yanked out the phone and answered. “Lucy Smok.”

“Are...you okay?”

Oliver’s deep voice rumbling against her ear made her wet. “Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

“You just sound a little funny. Sorry. I wanted to let you know that we’ve had another sighting.”

Lucy sat up straight. “During daylight?”

“Sort of. It was in one of the mine shafts.”

“Did it attack?”

“No, some tourists caught sight of it and got the hell out of there. They’re here at my shop now. Do you want to come interview them?”

“I’m in Sedona, but I can be there in forty-five minutes.”

It would take too much time to head back to the villa for a change of clothing, but she kept a “go bag” under the seat, a habit from her days of globe-trotting for Smok Consulting.

Lucy stripped off the dress where she sat, ignoring the looks from a couple who’d pulled into the space next to her, and wriggled into the garments she’d pulled from the bag: a pair of soft faded jeans and a comfortable shirt from her alma matter that she liked to travel in. After trading her heels for a pair of white slip-on sneakers, she was on her way. Dusk was just settling over Mingus Mountain as she made her way up.

* * *

Oliver did a double take when he came to unlock the door. This was a decidedly different look for Lucy. In a pair of well-worn jeans and a gray rugby shirt that said University of Oxford, she was wrapping her loose hair into a makeshift knot at the nape of her neck as she stepped inside. Her beet-stain lipstick was even more striking with the casual clothing.

“They’re in back, having some hot chocolate.” Oliver nodded toward the Hendersons sitting on the couch by the counter. “They were pretty spooked, but they’ve calmed down some.”

Despite her uncharacteristic attire, Lucy introduced herself to the couple with her usual cool professionalism. “I’m Lucy Smok. Can you folks tell me what you saw?”

Mrs. Henderson held her mug between her hands as she looked up. “We found one of those old mine shaft openings out near the park. You’re not supposed to go inside, but we just wanted to take a quick look around, and I think we...woke...whatever it was.”

Her husband continued. “I thought it was a dog, but it was huge, like a wolfhound. Shaggy.”

“And it smelled terrible,” Mrs. Henderson put in.

“I figured it must be a stray, and I took a step toward it...and its eyes shot open.” Mr. Henderson shuddered. “They weren’t...right. We hightailed it out of there, and thank God it didn’t follow.”

“Tell them what you heard,” Oliver prompted.

Mr. Henderson hesitated. “It’s going to sound ridiculous.”

“It spoke,” said his wife.

Lucy had been looking slightly bored and annoyed at the pedestrian encounter, but she perked up at that. “It spoke?”

“It’s crazy, I know. But I swear—”

“What did it say?”

Mr. Henderson studied Lucy with surprise. “What did it say?”

“You said it spoke. I assume you mean words. What did it say?”

“Sorry. I just didn’t expect you to believe us. I mean, Mr. Connery was very understanding, and—”

“What did it say?”

He swallowed. “It said, ‘Give my regards to the...the Queen of the Damned.’”

“It had to have been someone in a costume,” Mrs. Henderson cut in. “I mean, it was very convincing, horrifyingly realistic, but of course it must have been a person.”

Lucy was quiet, obviously thinking intently.

Oliver pushed himself away from the chair back he’d been leaning against. “We really appreciate you letting us know about this, no matter how odd it may seem. Ms. Smok is absolutely the best person to figure this out.”

Lucy gave him an odd look.

The couple rose, recognizing that their exit was being announced, and Mr. Henderson shook Oliver’s hand. “Thank you, Mr. Connery. Ms. Smok. I’m not sure how much we helped.”

“You’ve been a great help,” Oliver insisted as he walked them out. He turned around after locking up and shuttering the door to see Lucy sitting on the couch, staring at her hands poised on her thighs. “Did that mean something to you?”

Lucy’s head shot up. “What the hell could it possibly mean to me?”

Oliver tucked his hands into his pockets as he neared the couch. “You just looked pretty startled.”

“I was shocked that it would speak to a victim.”

“But maybe they weren’t intended to be victims. Maybe it was sending us a message.”

“Or me, you mean. You think I understood the message.”

“Do you?”

Lucy’s eyes narrowed. “It means I need to get out there and find this damn thing.” She rose decisively. “It’s getting dark. I’m going to go check out this mine shaft. Where is it?”

“That thing tore your shoulder open last night. You need to let it heal.”

“I told you, I’m fine. I’m a fast healer.” She tried to walk past him, but he sidestepped in front of her.

“Let me take a look at it. You should have gone to a hospital today instead of rushing off to wherever hunting things.”

“As a matter of fact, I saw my doctor. She took a look and said it was fine. She approved of your stitching skills.”

“Is that so? Then you won’t mind if I verify that you’re healing.”

If Lucy’s eyes could start a fire, he was sure they would be doing it now. “Are you serious?”

“Very.”

Lucy glared at him for a moment. “I’m trained in Systema. Russian martial arts.”

“I’m familiar with it. I’m pretty sure I can take you.”

“Take me?” Lucy’s stance seemed to turn instantly rock hard and immovable, a promised threat emanating from her, though she hadn’t moved. “I seem to recall you ending up on the ground under me the last time you tried.” After a split second’s pause, her skin grew flushed. With anger, presumably. But he was getting a weird vibe.

“I wasn’t actually challenging you to a fight.”

“You just said you could take me.”

“You brought up your Systema skills. Which seems pretty strange, because all I suggested was that you let me look at the stitches and see how you’re healing. Is there some reason those are fighting words to you?”

Lucy let out a slow, deliberate breath, as if trying to breathe out her own anger—a gesture he was familiar with. “No, I suppose not.” They stared each other down for another few seconds before Lucy unexpectedly crossed her arms in front of her waist, grabbed the hem of her shirt and whipped it up and over her head. She turned her bandaged shoulder toward him. “Well? Take a look. I haven’t got all day.”

Oliver stepped closer and peeled back the edge of the bandage. The skin was healthy looking. No redness or swelling. Little bruising. And soft. Really soft.

He drew back his hand with a jolt as though he’d touched a hot stove. “You’re right. It looks good. Glad to see it.”

She turned to face him, the T-shirt still balled in her fist. “Now let’s see yours.”

“Mine?” Oliver had to check himself from reflexively covering his crotch.

“You have some interesting scars. They looked fresh.”

“Scars?” Oliver tried to keep his voice even, his expression believably puzzled.

“On your chest. From bullet wounds.”

“Bullet wounds?” If he pulled this off, he deserved an Oscar. “I think your sleep deprivation may have gotten the better of you last night. It’s understandable if you were a little confused.”

“Was I?” Lucy’s fists went to her hips. “Then take your shirt off and let’s see.”

“This is silly.”

“It’s a little weird that you won’t just do it if I’m being silly.”

Oliver blinked at her. “Maybe you should just put yours back on.”

Lucy swore and yanked the shirt over her head, shoving her arms into the sleeves with two sharp jerks. “Quit stalling and take your shirt off, Oliver. Or I’m going to assume my suspicions are correct.”

“And what suspicions would those be?”

“That you’re something I should be hunting.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” His temper threatened to spike. He hadn’t meditated yet today. Oliver pulled off his T-shirt and held his arms out at his sides. “Satisfied? No bullet wounds.” He tried to keep his breathing steady as she stepped toward him, her nose scrunching with disbelief.

Lucy’s fingers settled lightly on the pale thin line beneath his bottom right rib, and Oliver drew in his breath sharply. “What is this?”

“A scar from an accident I had a while back. If you think that’s from a bullet wound, you need your eyes examined.”

She glanced back up at his chest. She hadn’t moved her hand except to relax it against his side. “I was sure I saw them.” Lucy shook her head. “Maybe it really was sleep deprivation.” She raised her eyes and met his gaze, her thumb stroking absently along the scar.

Oliver looked down at her hand. “What are you doing?” He’d meant for it to sound slightly accusatory, disapproving, a little annoyed. It came out sounding rough and low and hopeful.

“I don’t know.”

Her thumb was still tracing the scar, and he grabbed her hand. “Well, stop.” He moved her hand away from him, which seemed to take a monumental effort. But he hadn’t let go of it. It was like her skin was a magnet.

“I don’t like you.” Lucy’s voice was equally throaty. “You’re pompous and...” She seemed to be grasping for adjectives. “Full of yourself.”

“Those are the same thing.”

“See?”

She’d surprised a smile out of him. “I don’t like you, either.” His delivery was utterly unconvincing.

“Then let go of my hand.”

He was barely holding it. “You let go.” She didn’t.

Whatever was happening here was a bad idea. His rational mind knew it. He didn’t do romantic involvement. Or sexual. He should have meditated this morning. He should let go of her hand and put his shirt back on.

He put his other hand on her waist. No. No, that is the opposite of letting go. Definitely do not kiss h—

Oliver swore silently at himself as their lips came together.

Chapter 7

Lucy switched off her brain and let the hormones take over. Oliver was swearing softly against her lips, and she didn’t think he was aware of it. It was sexy as hell. As if by silent, mutual agreement, their clasped hands released at the same moment—two seconds too late—and Oliver cupped her face in his hands and deepened the kiss as Lucy put her hands on his chest and stroked the hard terrain, moaning appreciatively.

When her hands moved down over his abs and traced the V of his obliques, Oliver let go of her mouth and cradled the backs of her thighs to lift her off the floor so that she had to wrap her legs around him, hooked behind his ass, and walked her swiftly backward to drop her into a plush, roomy armchair next to a pile of books.

Lucy unbuttoned his jeans while Oliver lifted her shirt from the back. He tugged it over her head as she finished unbuttoning him, and she let go for a second so he could draw the shirt away. His erection pushed against the briefs exposed at his fly, and Lucy tugged down the shorts and freed him while he unhooked her bra.

Oliver groaned as she encircled his cock in her hand, warm and hard like an eminently satisfying stick shift, and stroked upward, letting the bra strap slip off her other arm before trading hands to remove the other and toss the bra aside. She brought her right hand beneath the left. He was easily a two-fister. He swore a little again as he unfastened her jeans and tugged them down. Lucy lifted her butt to let him take them off, kicking off her sneakers, and wrapped her legs beneath his ass once more, using them to jerk him toward her.