Dragon Bound (Elder Races #01)

“Later. Check out the airport. Security footage shows someone that looks like it could have been her climbing out of a cab.”

 

 

Dragos hung up without saying good-bye. Tiago turned off the phone and tossed it into the passenger’s seat.

 

When Urien had assumed control of the Dark Fae government, Tricks had taken sanctuary with Dragos in 1809. While young, she had already reached her adult size. She was small and delicate, even for one of the Fae. She had a mere fraction of the strength the Wyrs had. She also had her uncle Urien, one of the nastiest and most Powerful men in the world, who had been determined to see her dead.

 

The Wyr sentinels had proceeded to teach her every dirty trick they could think of in order to help keep her alive, which was where she got her nickname. Nothing was off-limits, or so Tiago had heard. He had been busy elsewhere, helping to keep the peace in Missouri when the Osage signed the Treaty of Fort Clark and ceded their land to the U.S. government.

 

Everything added up. She had left the hotel with three males, and three males were dead. She had either been taken from the site of the attack, or she was on the run. Logic said she had gotten away and was on the run.

 

But if so, why hadn’t she called New York for backup? Tricks was family. Any of them would gladly have rushed to help her, but she still hadn’t tried to call anybody and she hadn’t replied to any of the phone messages left on her cell.

 

Tiago planned on asking her that very question when he caught up with her. She might be hell to track down, but he was old and steeped in Power, and most of his talents were concentrated on the hunt. There wasn’t anything on this Earth he couldn’t track once he put his mind to the task. He recovered lost scent trails, made intuitive leaps no one else would think of, and shit, more often than not, luck just fell his way. It might take him a while, but in the end he always brought down his prey.

 

His prey, in the end, appeared to be holed up in a motel room off the I-294 Tri-State Tollway.

 

He paused for a moment outside the door and listened. Tricks’s scent was all around on the surrounding sidewalk, but it was close to midnight and he didn’t want to knock on the wrong door by mistake.

 

He heard her inside. She was singing in a clear, sweet, pure voice. His eyebrows rose.

 

“ ‘Down in the valley, the valley so low, hang your head over, and hear the wind blow . . .’” The singing stopped. He heard her mumble, “Can’t remember what comes next, something, something . . .”

 

He grinned as he relaxed and leaned against the doorpost. If she was singing and talking to herself, she wasn’t dead in a ditch. It was all good.

 

She said, “Oh, that’s right . . . No, wait, that’s another song. Crap, I’m too drunk.”

 

That sounded like his cue. He knocked.

 

Silence. He imagined there was a startled quality to it.

 

He knocked again. “Tricks, it’s Tiago. Open up.”

 

She said with the slow incredulity of the inebriated, “Is that you, Dr. Death?”

 

“Come on, open the door.”

 

“No, thank you for stopping by. I’m okay. Everything’s okay. It’s all taken care of now. Just don’t watch any TV for a while, okay? You can go back to New York, or wherever it is you lair when you’re not killing things.”

 

He scowled. Dr. Death? No, thank you and don’t watch any TV? What the hell did she mean by that? He muttered, “I do not live in a lair.”

 

He settled his shoulder against the heavy metal door that was constructed to meet fire safety codes and to keep thieves out. After pushing with a steady increase of pressure, the lock and chain broke.

 

Cigarette smoke billowed as the door opened. He coughed, waved a hand in front of his face and stared at the scene inside.

 

The motel room was a pigsty. Shopping bags were piled on the bed nearest the door. Tricks lay on her back on the other bed, which was littered with photos, credit cards, and driver’s licenses. She was dressed in some kind of porno version of camouflage, in very short shorts and a tiny, stretchy T-shirt that left her narrow waist bare. Her head was hanging off the end of the bed. She held a bottle of vodka in one small hand. It was significantly low in liquid. She clutched a remote control in the other hand. A cigarette smoldered in a half-full ashtray and an open bag of Cheetos was on the floor.