Chapter 3.

 

Wearing new clothes, in a new home, in a new state, with a new name, Dakota only had one question.

Now what?

Her mysterious conspirators did everything they promised. They flew her to New York City. Gave her a used but serviceable Toyota and a suitcase full of clothes. Provided a dossier with her new name (“Annie Crane”) and career (“ghost writer”). And handed her the keys to a small house just down the road from this nest of Dragons.

A plain little ranch with peeling paint and a twenty-year-old carpet, the house screamed ‘affordable’. A struggling author might very well find herself forced to live here, hours north of ‘the City’. What amazed Dakota was her patron’s attention to detail. The place came complete with notes taped to the fridge, reminding her of ‘publishing’ duties. A half-finished romance novel waited on the computer. Anyone spying on her would find no flaws in her cover story.

Which might be a good thing – but it was also creepy, proof that her partners had done this before. This wasn’t play. It was a covert operation, no different than infiltrating a terrorist cell. If her associates were right, the creatures she spied on wouldn’t hesitate to kill her.

Her rock, the refuge that kept her sane, was anger. Every time cowardice urged her to flee back west, she thought of Cally. How they’d found her in an alley, dumped like trash. The months she’d grieved, thinking her little sister died a junkie. Above all, she brooded about her own guilt. The thousand-and-one times she found herself staring blankly into space, wondering if she could have saved her sister by just doing…something. Anything.

None of which was true. Cally’s death wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t an accident, either. It was cold-blooded murder.

No risk was too great to dare if it meant bringing her killer to justice.

‘Her killer.’ Why call him that, when she knew his name now.

Owen Jackson.

That was the last gift from her sponsors. A folder with photos of a brown-haired man, surrounded by doting supermodels. Owen Jackson. Multi-millionaire. Infamous playboy.

Murderer.

The lead cylinder in her pocket thrummed as she meditated on his picture. That had spooked Dakota the first time it happened, but it no longer bothered her. In fact, it was almost comforting. The cylinder seemed to agree with her, like a silent girlfriend who nodded at every nasty thing you said about your ex. Someone who understood her and how much it meant to finally have a villain to blame for her pain.

That cylinder was the friend she didn’t have.

And still the question remained, what now?

From her living room, she could see the Stiles’ farm, the site where these Dragons lurked. With binoculars, she could make out the license plates of the handful of cars parked by its porch. People darted about; something was up. It certainly looked suspicious to her.

Yet there were details that didn’t fit. A pair of baby prams. A small boy who played by himself on the lawn or tagged after an older teenager as he did his chores. A grey-haired couple who sat on a porch swing, sipping lemonade.

Were these Dragons? Did monsters have families and children?

The Stiles’ farm didn’t look like a secret war facility. It looked like, well, a farm.

Yeah, and this place looks like a poor writer’s house. But it’s not. Remember that. Looks can be deceiving.

Down at the farm, one of the sedans pulled onto the road. Dakota couldn’t see the driver clearly. Quickly, she jotted the time down in a little notebook. Noted which car it was, added that there was only one person in it and…

…Gaped when the car slowed in front of her house. The left blinker flashed as it waited for a truck to pass.

One of those creatures was coming here?

Her thoughts scattered like a flock of frightened pigeons. The Dragons knew! Her cover was blown! They’d kill her!

A second vehicle followed the sedan, a beat up old Chevy truck. Should she run? Beverly, the nearest town, was eight miles away. Could she make it that far through the woods?

Too late. Tires crunched on the gravel of her driveway. Dakota only had time to shove the notebook into a desk drawer before a man step out of the car.

Red hair blazed, stronger than the weak spring sun. Emerald eyes glittered in his strong-boned, handsome face. Thick eyebrows shaded them and gave him a somber, brooding air. His suit – black jacket over white shirt – fit snug against his muscular form.

That was a Dragon. Dakota knew it, without a doubt. It wasn’t his burning hair or serpent-green eyes that gave him away. No, it was his confidence, his pride. The aristocratic lines of his cheeks, his sharp chin. He scanned her yard coolly, with the imperious gaze of a man who commanded obedience. Finding no threats, he strode to her door with the sleek, elegant grace of a lion.

A predator. When this man Shifted, no cheerful little bunny would appear.

Some part of her mind chittered at her to run, to flee out the back door. Yet she watched him, as helpless as a bird entranced by a snake. He was gorgeous, possessing a primal, lethal, masculine power that took her breath away. No wonder Cally had fallen for one of his kind.

Hell, she was half falling herself!

Three knocks startled her out of those thoughts. Dakota scurried to the door and opened it a crack, leaving the security chain locked.

As if that would stop a Dragon…

“Yes? Can I help you?”

“Ms. Crane?”

For one terrible moment, she didn’t recognize her fake name. “Um, yes! Yes, that’s me.”

“Hi. I’m Michael Farrell. I’d like to talk to you if I could.”

At least that was an easy request to refuse! “I’m sorry, but I’m not interested in whatever it is you’re selling.”

“Selling? What…no! I’m not selling anything. I live down the road.”

“At the farm?” Dammit, now the Chevy had arrived too.

“Yes.”

“You don’t look like a farmer. Sorry.”

He put his hand out as she started to close the door. The door hit it… and stopped dead. Like running into a brick wall. Dakota leaned against it and it didn’t budge.

“I’m a friend of the Stiles family. Look, I just…”

A blonde woman popped out of the truck, balancing a foil-covered pan. Wearing clean jeans, riding boots, and a flannel shirt, she did look like a local. And when she turned a cheery smile on Dakota, she felt her fears melt.

What a sweet, kind face she had! Surely, she couldn’t be a monster?

“Hannah!” the man yelped. “What are you doing here?”

“Trying to prevent you from scaring our new neighbor to death.”

“Why would I scare her?” Sincere indignation lit his face.

“Well, I’d be nervous if a strange man showed up on my doorstep. How does she know you’re not a serial killer?”

As the man sputtered, she held the pan out to Dakota. The scent of ginger and cloves wafted up from it. “Hi! I’m Hannah Lorde. That’s my parents’ farm down there. We wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood. Hope you like gingerbread.”

How could she turn down that without giving herself away? Heart pounding, Dakota slipped the door chain free. “I’m Annie. It’s, um, nice to meet you. Please, come in.”

“Thanks. Oh, and Mr. Mysterious is Michael Farrell.”

“He did introduce himself,” she said.

“Though, apparently, I forgot to include the critically important detail, ‘not a serial killer’,” Michael added with a grin. “For which I apologize.”

Lord, he was handsome! Dakota found herself smiling back despite her worries. It was so tempting to forget why she was here. To let herself be seduced by his charm and smoldering hot body.

That, however, would get her killed. “Thank you. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll put the gingerbread in the kitchen.” A short delay that would give her a second to collect her thoughts.

In reality, it gave her much more than that. As the kitchen door closed behind her, Dakota’s sharp ears caught a faint murmur of voices.

“Hannah, what on earth were you thinking? This woman could be dangerous!”

Did they mean her? With a start, Dakota realized that yes, she actually was kind of dangerous. She was a spy, after all.

“Or she could be my new neighbor.” Not a hint of worry clouded the woman’s voice. “And if she was dangerous, my husband would be here, wouldn’t he?”

That didn’t make any sense to Dakota. She bumped a couple plates together loudly, so they’d think she was busy putting her gift away.

Michael said something too low for her to catch then Hannah’s blithe laugh rang out. “Yes, I do trust you guys to protect me! You haven’t let me down yet.”

Protection…from her? She’d never hurt anybody in her life. To have someone fear her, think her a threat…

Good. Let them fear. These villains killed your sister.

Cold and grim, that thought startled her. If felt odd. Alien, as if someone else’s thoughts had been beamed into her head. Cold flared at her hip. When she slipped her hand into her pocket, the lead cylinder burned icy against her fingers. Maybe she really was going mad. A thought that filled her with resignation, not fear.

Madness was better than guilt and endless worries about how she’d let her sister down.

Dakota sighed and composed her features. As she walked back to the living room, however, one detail stuck in her mind.

‘Your’ sister, the voice said. Not ‘my’ sister…

 

Michael and Hannah stayed for an hour and by the time she closed the door behind them, Dakota’s head was spinning.

Hannah was a farm girl. No doubt about that. No one could fake her limitless tales about riding, milking the cows, and that one malevolent rooster that terrified her when she was eight. She’d married a rich NYC banker, however. Someone she met online, of all places!

Michael…oh, Michael was a different story. He introduced himself as Mr. Lorde’s bodyguard and apologized for the interrogation. Security could never let their guard down, he told her, his green eyes mesmerizing.

Unlike Hannah, he didn’t offer any stories about himself. When he spoke, it was to ask her questions. What books had she published? Why had she moved to a small town like Beverly? Questions designed to probe her cover story.

Dakota thought she passed his test, though it would take a while to get used to being called ‘Annie’.

He shook her hand as he left. “Again, I’m sorry for the scare. My manners are atrocious.”

Actually, they were lovely. As lovely as the rich, deep timber of his voice and the way he held her hand a second ‘too’ long.

“It’s fine. I’m just not used to small-town friendliness yet.”

“If you need any help, don’t hesitate to come down to the farm,” Hannah urged. “My parents and I will be gone for a bit. We’re…visiting family. But several of my husband’s associates will be here and they’d be glad to lend a hand.”

“Thank you.”

“That is a sincere offer, by the way.” Butterflies winged their way through her stomach at his smile.

“Okay, then. I’ll remember!”

As their cars pulled out of the drive, Dakota shut the door. All the tension, the fear she’d covered up, came flooding back and she shivered.

They were nice. Both of them. And their story made sense – unlike her tale of murderous Dragons.

But I saw that woman Shift into a Hare. I know these things exist.

Could Evil be so kind, though? Surely Darth Vader never brought anyone gingerbread…

Remember your sister. Remember what they did to her.

‘Your’ sister again. Not ‘my’.

Sick and uneasy, Dakota slunk back to her bedroom to cry.