Mercy Burns

I just had to uncover what sort of push that was.

There was no handle on this side, but that wasn’t much of a surprise. Dragons were notorious thieves, and more than capable of cracking most of the locks and security devices currently on the market. Thieving was in a dragon’s blood, and it was a skill learned—and honed—since birth. Hell, even draman could pick a lock faster than most humans could blink.

Not that my clique had actually taught us draman that trick, either, but some skills were easily picked up when they were being practiced all around you.

I peered into the small gap between the door and the frame. The metal bolt on the other side was at least an inch wide and who knew how thick.

“There’s a rather large dead bolt out there,” I said. “They’re making sure you don’t escape.”

“You’re in the same cell, remember.” He studied me for a moment, then added, “Why is that? What did you do?”

“Asked a few too many questions, I think.” I stepped back and studied the door as a whole. No hinges on this side. “What’s your excuse?”

“Much the same thing, really.”

I glanced at him. He looked healthier than he had five minutes ago, so obviously the warmth I’d lent him was chasing the coolness from his skin. But it wouldn’t last long—not if he remained in this darkness.

“What questions were you asking that you shouldn’t?”

“Lady, when you start answering my questions, I’ll start answering yours.”

“My name is Mercy Reynolds.” Then I hesitated, wondering how much I should tell him. But really, what was the point of hiding anything? It wasn’t like I actually knew anything vital. “And I was asking about two cleansed towns and missing draman.”

“So was I.”

“Then obviously someone doesn’t want those questions asked.” That was a point I was all too aware of already. I looked at the door and ignored the tendrils of pain and anger that rose with the thought. “What’s the melting point of steel?”

“I have no idea.”

I found myself grinning. “So Mr. Death doesn’t know everything?”

“It’s Damon—Damon Rey—not Death. And why would you want to know the melting point of steel? You think you can melt the door with your flames?”

His tone gently mocked and I met his gaze with a frown. “You think I can’t?”

“Dragon fire is fierce, granted, but it’s not concentrated enough to generate the sort of heat needed to melt that door. It’s flameproof, like the walls.”

Meaning he’d tried when he’d first arrived, obviously. “But I don’t want to melt the door. I just want to heat the bolt enough so that it’s pliable. Then we should be able to push it open.”

“It still needs a concentrated heat.”

That, I could do. Fire had been my only defense for a good part of my life, and I’d learned pretty quickly to make the most of it. Not even the dragons in my clique had my control—which didn’t mean I was right and this man was wrong.

“So you did try to flame the door when you were first thrown in here?”

“Once, and they’ve pretty much kept me drugged since then. By the time they woke me to question me, I was sunshine-starved and had flamed out.”

“So how long have you actually been in here?”

“What day is it?”

“Friday.”

“And the date?”

“April fourth.”

He swore softly under his breath. I raised my eyebrows. “Is that bad?”

His gaze came to mine again, dark eyes intense. Angry. And though that anger wasn’t aimed at me, it was a frightening thing to behold.

“It means that I’ve been here for thirteen days.”

Thirteen days? Without sunlight? Angus might not have been impressed, but I sure was. Most dragons could survive four or five days without sunlight, but to go thirteen—and still be lucid—took amazing strength.

“Are you going to be strong enough to handle those men if I can get us out of here?”

There was nothing pleasant or warm about his smile or the sudden glint in his cold, dark eyes. “You get us out of this room and I’ll make sure we get free.”

I believed him. It was impossible not to. Even so, I couldn’t help wondering if Mr. Death himself might be more of a problem once we’d gotten out of here than the men upstairs.

But what other option did I have? There was only one thing that was certain—I didn’t want to be here when that well-cultured man came back. One look at the mess Damon was in suggested their methods of getting information weren’t ones I’d enjoy.

As if there’d ever been any doubt of that.

So I said, “Can you sense anyone nearby?”

“You really are going to try to melt the bolt, aren’t you?”

Annoyance ran through me. “You got a better idea?”

“No. And if you can flame at night, why do you need me to sense the other dragons? Shouldn’t you be able to tell that yourself?”

“I should, but I can’t. Is there anyone near?”

He paused for a moment then shook his head. “They’re both upstairs.”

“Both? There should be three.” Unless Angus had already left. But why would he do that? Was he really just a messenger boy or was something else going on?

“There aren’t. Trust me.”

Not as far as I can throw you. I turned away and studied the bolt again. It looked really solid—and despite my earlier boast, I’d never tried to do anything like this before. Not with steel, anyway.

I raised a hand and lightly pressed one finger against the gap between the door and the frame. With the bolt directly opposite my finger, I reached down and called to the waiting fire. It came in an explosive burst of energy that had heat radiating from my skin and the air churning. I frowned and concentrated the flames, channeling and intensifying them, forcing them away from my skin and down into my hand, into that one finger. Heat shot out from my fingertip, the glow of it so intense I had to close my eyes lest the image burn itself into my retinas.

I could still feel the heat of it, though. Could still see the glow of it, even through closed eyelids.

“I’ve never seen anyone control their flames with such precision.”

Damon’s words were little more than a whisper past my left ear. He was standing so close that the heat of his body washed across my bare shoulders and arms. So close that the raw, masculine scent of him—a scent that was an odd combination of musk, controlled violence, sweat, and blood—filled every breath, until it felt like his very essence was invading mine.

But perhaps what was even scarier was the fact that there’d been absolutely no sound to indicate he’d moved.

True to his name, he was as silent as a ghost.

I briefly opened an eye to check how I was doing and saw that the bolt was beginning to glow. It was working. But sweat was trickling down my forehead and my arm was beginning to shake. Worse, the maelstrom inside was rapidly losing its intensity. Generally, a dragon could flame for as long as she or he was awake and aware, simply because we were fueled by the heat of the sun. But it was now night, and my flames were drawing their energy directly from my body—a body that had lost a lot of blood in the accident and was still very battered and bruised.

I opened my eyes. The tight beam of fire was definitely less intense than it had been, but the bolt was glowing brighter.

I just had to keep going for a little bit longer, and we might be able to get out of here.

I bit my lip and concentrated on the flame, forcing as much energy as I could into it. The tremor in my arm