Chapter One
Chloe Whitney stuck a pencil through her orange, spiked hair, opened her old-fashioned, spiral notepad, and tried to maneuver her way through the crowd. It wasn’t every night a murder victim turned up lying on one of the streets of a very exclusive Dallas neighborhood. She’d been on her way to meet a co-reporter for coffee nearby when she heard the call on her police scanner. With luck, she could nab the story and get it to the newspaper before the rest of the media got there.
“No cell video,” one of the police officers said in a tone that brooked no dissension. Some of the well-heeled neighbors reluctantly closed theirs. Chloe almost grinned. Maybe it wasn’t so bad that high tech stuff tended not to work around her. No one objected to someone actually writing notes on paper.
However, her view was blocked by a tall, broad-shouldered man. A very broad-shouldered man, she thought appreciatively, impeccably dressed in a suit and tie that could have landed him on the cover of Esquire. His hair, nearly blue-black under the streetlamp, curled slightly on those very nice, immaculately clad shoulders. Her eyes traveled down to his narrow waist and—she’d bet—some nice buns and muscular thighs.
As though he sensed her, the man turned around to gaze down at her. Chloe caught her breath. The guy belonged on the cover of a romance novel, not Esquire. Seriously. She ought to know—she spent enough time reading romances, hoping one day to actually write one. This guy’s cheekbones were incredible, his nose aquiline, mouth full and sensual, but it was his eyes that held her mesmerized. Black as the depths of a dark lake on a winter night, they were trained on her, penetrating as though he could read the recesses of her mind. Dimly she was aware of that sexy mouth moving, forming words.
“This is quite a nasty sight. I dare say, you will be horrified if you go closer.”
Chloe stood, enthralled at the clipped accent. He was English? She loved British romances the best! He was definitely the best piece of eye-candy she’d seen on any book cover.
“Miss?” A slight look of annoyance crossed his face as he held up a badge that gave his name as Gavin Myles, Scotland Yard. “The local police need to secure the area. You really must leave.”
The badge snapped her out of her reverie. Scotland Yard? Geez, he could play the next James Bond! “I’m a reporter,” she said and held up her notepad and her own ID. “Chloe Whitney. The media has a right to—”
“I assure you, you do not want to see this corpse, Miss Whitney.”
“Oh, please. I’ve seen blood before. Reporters cover accidents too, you know.” She tried to move around him, but he stepped in front of her.
“Not like this one.”
“How bad can it be?” For the first time, she noticed that most of the neighbors turned away, speaking in hushed tones rather than the loud, raucous melee that usually accompanied gawkers. Even the police officers looked subdued .
“Okay. So the guy was shot? Stabbed? Both? I’ve seen—”
“Neither.”
Chloe stared at him. “Neither?”
“Neither,” he said again. “He was mauled and burned.”
“Mauled? By dogs?” This was hardly the part of the city where mongrel dogs roamed nor were the super-rich inclined to breed pit-bulls.
“Not dogs. Something much bigger.”
Chloe frowned. “We don’t exactly have grizzlies roaming around Dallas…” She stopped, feeling slightly dizzy. Tiny lights began to sparkle in front of her. She shook her head to clear it. She hadn’t had an episode of déjà vu in years. She remembered there had been media reports of dragon sightings a few weeks ago, but she’d been visiting her mother at a wilderness commune in California that was a Mecca for former hippies—of which her mother was one—and Chloe had missed the whole thing.
“Inspector Myles,” one of the police said as he approached them. “We’d like your opinion on something.”
He flashed her a warning look before he turned away, but Chloe didn’t heed it. Some reporter she’d be if she didn’t get the story. Even now, TV and cable trucks were headed this way.
She brushed past an officer who was making notes and then jolted to a standstill.
Part of what lay on the street had been incinerated, although there were no scorch marks on the pavement. An arm was missing and the head was nearly severed, attached only by a strip of skin. The body was shredded so badly the clothing and intestines were a spongy pulp soaking in what seemed to be gallons of blood.
Whatever had done this wasn’t human. Chloe swallowed hard to keep the bile from rising and inched closer. It was then that she saw the gold ring with a large ruby attached to the remaining hand. She knew that ring. It belonged to Jake Baxter, the guy she had been on her way to meet.
A freight train roared through her ears as the world tilted. She felt strong arms grasp her as bands of grey and black whirled round and round, enveloping her in darkness.
* * * *
Gavin swooped Chloe up in his arms before she hit the pavement. He’d warned her, but would she mind him? Clearly not. Women in this century—or even the last one—did not appreciate the protection a man could give. They even seemed to spurn offers of gallantry, preferring to open their own doors and pay their own way on dates. Not that he dated. Even with synthetic blood available these days, the pulsing of rich, warm human blood in those lovely female throats was still a big temptation—especially in the throes of passion—though it had been fifteen hundred years since he had been turned into a vampire.
Gavin looked down at the woman he was carrying up the driveway to the expensive mansion of the reclusive John Smith who, at the moment, was also his employer. She really was a petite thing—scarce more than one-and-a-half meters, he’d wager—and felt as light as a sack of feathers. However, no sack of feathers had gently-swelling curves in all the right places. He wondered if the girl was impoverished, since her denim jeans were faded and torn in places and the khaki camouflage jacket she wore looked like it belonged on a man. Or it could be the height of fashion these days. It was hard to know. He winced a little at the wild, orange hair. How could a hairdresser have done such a disastrous job? Maybe the poor lady really could not afford to have it put right.
She looked like a child, peacefully asleep right now. Thick lashes lay against delicate cheekbones and her delectably full lips were parted slightly, her breathing even. Gavin stared at the pulsating arteries in her throat and felt his groin tighten and his fangs begin to elongate.
Quickly he snapped them in place. He had no time for lust and this was no place to show his true identity. He glanced back at the police officers and the ambulance and then to the girl. Should he mesmerize her into forgetting what she had seen? But she would have to be conscious for that and gazing into her huge, aquamarine eyes earlier had been nearly as intoxicating for him as bloodlust—he hadn’t reacted that way to a woman since Queen Gwenhwyfar. But then, she’d had that effect on more than one of Arthur’s knights. He gave himself a shake as he approached the mansion. Reliving those days always meant trouble.
Maybe he could reach a bit into Miss Whitney’s mind to assure she slept. Rest was what she needed right now. He had no more than rung the bell, when Benton, Smith’s butler, opened the door. His eyes widened only slightly before his stoic British training came into play. “Right this way, sir,” he said and led the way to a small salon off the main hall. “I will inform Mr. Smith that you have returned.”
If the situation hadn’t been so dire, Gavin would have smiled. A human lay shredded and half-charred on the street and lights from a dozen squad cars were flashing bright reds and blues through the foyer windows. Hordes of uniforms milled about, not to mention the arrival of the media. The highly excitable and eccentric Smith was probably having a case of the vapors somewhere in the back of his house. And Benton was going to announce Gavin as though this were a morning social call. Not that Gavin did mornings, if he could help it. Even with the new meds, his eyes were super-sensitive to light.
He had just laid Chloe on a sofa when Smith bustled in, his hands fluttering theatrically. “Oh, my!” He dabbed delicately at his forehead with a linen handkerchief. “Such excitement for our quiet neighborhood! Is it true that there is a—body—out there? On my street?” His eyes widened as he noticed Chloe. “And who is she?”
Gavin straightened. “A reporter who fainted at the sight of the corpse. I hope you do not mind I brought her to the house?”
“Of course not! But aren’t reporters used to accident scenes?”
“This was not an accident.” He gestured. “May we sit?”
“Certainly! My manners seem to be gone. It must be the excite—” He stopped in mid-sentence. “What do you mean, it was not an accident? I thought a late-night stroller had been struck by a car. This is a very safe neighborhood…” His voice trailed off and he looked at Gavin anxiously. “What happened?”
“What is left of a man out there was mauled by an extremely large animal with very sharp claws and…” Gavin hesitated, glancing down to make sure Miss Whitney still slept. “…part of the body was burned, but nothing else showed signs of fire.”
Mr. Smith paled. His mouth opened and closed several times with no sound. His hands wrung the linen square he was still holding. “There were some dragon sightings a few weeks ago before Sophie and Michael disappeared.” His voice was nearly inaudible. “Maybe it’s still here.”
Gavin moved to a chair nearer the desk where Mr. Smith had taken refuge. He’d been hired by Smith to find Lucas Ramsey, his former partner, and a woman named Sara Kincaid who’d disappeared several months ago while searching for an ancient Celtic spear that Smith wanted to add to his considerable collection. Since that time, Mr. Smith’s veterinarian, Sophie Cameron, and her friend, Michael McCain, had also disappeared looking for the sword that was part of the same group of artifacts, but Gavin had not been aware of any dragons roaming around. It had been fifteen hundred years—
“Tell me about them,” he said as casually as he could.
“Well,” Mr. Smith said, looking somewhat sheepish, “there were only two or three sightings. At first, the media blamed poor Sophie for staging some sort of hologram to raise money for her animal clinic, but the scorch marks on her lawn were real. Then the second time, the thing breathed fireballs at her neighbors. I can just imagine how everyone felt—”
“What did this dragon look like?” Gavin interrupted before Smith could go on. He’d already learned that the man loved to tell a good story, but this was not the time.
Mr. Smith blinked. “Dear Sophie said it was red with gold-tipped scales. Actually, it sounds quite pretty—”
Gavin quit listening. Pendragon? The protector of the ancient Briton Celts? He had thought Pendragon returned to Avalon when Arthur was taken there, but that had been such a confused time, with accusations flying all about. He wasn’t really sure of anything after that miserable battle of Camlann and then he’d been turned and hadn’t seen daylight in several centuries.
“Has the dragon been seen recently?” Gavin asked, interrupting again.
“I don’t think so. Once Sophie disappeared…” He stopped, thinking. “But then there were some other reports off the Florida Keys while Sophie and Michael were over there.”
“Of the dragon?”
“Of a white one, I think.”
The hair at Gavin’s nape prickled. The white dragon Sigurd had been the bane of Briton, brought by the Saxons. Sigurd was also Balor’s pet, which meant these disappearances had something to do with the evil Immortal who had once been a god. He glanced over to Chloe again. Thankfully, she still had not moved.
“Have you heard of a man named Adam Baylor?”
Mr. Smith nodded, seemingly not surprised at the change of subject. “Lucas told me he owned a brokerage firm in London, but secretly was laundering money to spread terrorism and support the drug trade. Both Lucas and Michael told me he wants the same artifacts that I’m searching for. Shameful that he would exploit such treasures for money to help criminals. I’ve hired detectives to look into his resources, but to no avail.”
“You will not find anything. Interpol and Scotland Yard have both investigated him. We know there are two sets of books, but the man is clever and has layers of protection surrounding him. Most of his minions do not even know for whom they work.” Gavin leaned forward. “But what is important is that he is seeking the Celtic relics mentioned in the manuscript.”
This time Mr. Smith did look surprised. “You know about the manuscript?”
“Lucas was the one who found it and we were partners.” Gavin wasn’t sure if Smith was aware of the real worth of the relics he was seeking. “I did not get a chance to read it though.”
‘Perfectly understandable since it was written in medieval Gaelic,” Mr. Smith said. “Luckily, Mr. Ramsey was fluent in the language.”
So was he. Both of them had been alive in the Middle Ages. “What clues did the manuscript provide?”
Mr. Smith sighed. “It’s rather complicated. Neither Mr. Ramsey nor Mr. McCain thought the manuscript to be actually medieval.” When Gavin raised his eyebrows in question, Mr. Smith hurried on. “Supposedly, the four relics—the spear, the sword, the platter, and the chalice—were part of the original treasure the Knights Templar dug up at Solomon’s Temple and took back to Europe. When that horrid King Philippe began prosecuting them in 1307, some Templars managed to escape to Scotland with the treasure.” Smith frowned as if trying to remember more.
Gavin strove to keep his face impassive. He remembered standing with Lucas, watching while Jacques de Molay, their Templar leader, burned at the stake. Balor’s work, turning both a pope and the French king into murderers. Later, Lucas had shifted to his wolf and destroyed two of Balor’s minions. “Go on,” Gavin said.
“The treasure was under the guardianship of the Sinclairs at Rosslyn until the Inquisition in 1590. According to Mr. Ramsey, it was then moved to Oak Island in Nova Scotia. Have you ever heard of the Money Pit there?” Mr. Smith asked, veering off the subject, “It’s quite interesting how many different levels there were underground and how the water keep filling—”
“Yes,” Gavin replied quickly. “There have been books written about it. What was Lucas’ theory?”
Smith looked disappointed at not being able to tell the story, but he went on. “After serious excavations began in the 1800’s, Lucas thought the treasure was probably removed again and brought to the States and split up.”
“That would make sense. What else?”
“Well, this is the intriguing part.” Mr. Smith’s voice dropped almost to a whisper. “Supposedly, an elite branch of the Templars, the Priory of Sion—just like in the DaVinci Code!—are still in existence today and wrote the manuscript in code to provide clues where to look!” He winked conspiratorially. “For those who have eyes to see.”
Gavin started. That phrase was Templar code, handed down to the Masons. Did Smith actually know the real relevance of the relics? That they held the power of the Celtic gods?
“Did the manuscript provide clues for all the relics?”
“No. Only the first one, the spear. But then, Michael McCain provided the second clue.”
The warlock. Lucas had asked Gavin to do research on him. Although they’d never met, he was an Immortal as well. “And how did that happen?”
Mr. Smith shrugged. “Michael was a friend of Sara’s. I was too upset over Sara’s disappearance to ask how he got it.”
“Do you have the third clue?”
“No. And I’m not sure I want it anymore,” Mr. Smith said. “Four people have disappeared. Who knows if they’ve been murdered? And if that horrible Adam Baylor is involved, it might be better just to leave things be.”
“That is the one thing we cannot do,” Gavin answered. “If any of those relics fall into his hands, he will have the power to annihilate every human being on Earth. Please do not think I am exaggerating either.”
“I don’t,” Chloe said from the sofa.
Only his many years as a warrior kept Gavin from jumping out of his skin. Slowly, he turned to find her sitting up on the couch. “How long have you been awake?”
She grinned at him, a dimple appearing in one cheek. “Long enough to know you’re hunting treasure that some international criminal wants as well. Geez! What a great story this will make!”
Gavin leveled a mesmerizing look at her, but for some reason it didn’t take. She continued to look animated. “There will be no story, Miss Whitney.”
She stared at him. “Like hell. That’s my friend lying out in the street. My reporter’s nose tells me it’s somehow tied in to this treasure thing.”
He stared back. Of course it was tied in, since Sigurd had no doubt been the attacker, but how in the world would she know that? He gave her a penetrating look, meant to erase what she had just heard, but she remained unfazed. How very strange.
Chloe stood up, raising her arms above her head to stretch, which also opened her fatigue jacket to show nicely rounded breasts jutting against her clingy tee-shirt. Did she have any idea of how enticing that was? She strode toward him now, her eyes never leaving his gaze. Another oddity. Most humans could not tolerate a vampire’s stare for more than a few seconds. She stopped just inches away from him, close enough that he could breathe in the scent of her spicy cologne.
“I’m on this. Don’t even think of trying to shake me.”
Gavin opened his mouth to respond and his enhanced senses gave him a whiff of her woman scent. His shaft engorged. Abruptly, he snapped his mouth closed before his fangs showed.
He had an inkling that he had just inherited one more problem.