Tyrez stretched in the sun and yawned. “So, my little friend,” he drawled the word little, “do you have anything useful to report?”
Jacques’s body went as stiff as what semi-permanently resided between his thighs. “I have nothing. Not that I haven’t tried. I have been so busy looking for your theoretical Warlock that I have not been able to attend to my usual schedule of appointments,” he protested.
Tyrez’s turquoise gaze narrowed. “I’m sure the absence will make their hearts—and a few other things—yearn for you. And my Warlock is far from theoretical. He is entirely too real. And, apparently, an Archmage.”
His furred brows rose. “An Archmage? Are you sure?”
“He calls himself one.”
“Not a guarantee he is the real thing,” Jacques pointed out.
“The power he wields supports it.”
The Satyr’s bushy brows drew down again. “Well, he’s vanished into the woodwork. I haven’t found a single trace of him. Is it possible you have frightened him away for good?”
Tyrez sat up so smoothly that Jacques backstepped, hands partly raised, before adding in a conciliatory tone, “I was hoping the Dire you rescued might tell you something useful.”
“She was the one who confirmed that he is an Archmage,” Tyrez stated. “But she has yet to provide anything else.”
“Can’t you get her to talk? Surely she’s seen things—”
“I will let you know if she tells me anything that will assist you,” Tyrez growled. “Meanwhile, if you can’t follow the Archmage, follow the Dires. Someone is sure to have noticed the Dire packs vanishing from their home realm. With that many on the move, someone will talk.”
Jacques’s long ears flattened, and he frowned at the Dragon. “That will take more money,mon amie. The only Dires willing to part with that information will be loners. They do not talk for cheap. And they tend to resent outsiders sniffing around.”
The power of Tyrez’s stare caused the Satyr to retreat another step. “I have faith you can handle it.” In truth, he did. Jacques was adept at handling sticky situations.
The Satyr twisted his long fingers together. “I am of no use to you dead.”
Tyrez relented. The Satyr wasn’t wrong about the Dires. His information network was vast, but not many were willing to deal directly with Dires. They were a vicious bunch, and fiercely loyal to their packs. Even the rumor of a breach in that faith was enough to get someone killed.
Which was likely why Jacques hadn’t already gone this route. “If you set up a meeting, I can provide back up. Just keep me in the loop.”
Jacques’s stiffness relaxed just a fraction. He had been genuinely worried, then. He nodded once.
Before he said anything more, a shadow passed over them. The Satyr flinched. “Sacré bleu.”
Tyrez glanced up, his mouth dropping open as the huge fiery red form dove to the ground near them, landing with an unDragonlike thump.
Shards. As eyes spat scarlet fire at them, Tyrez noted, “We might want to continue this conversation another time.”
Sparkle vanished in a poof of her usual debris, and Jacques was already backing rapidly away. This was one female he wasn’t willing—or able—to court. “Yes. Yes, that would be a good idea. I have an appointment I am rather desperate to keep. I will be in touch.”
Tyrez snorted at the reference—Satyrs were well known for their lechery, but what was less known was that it was a driving need, not just a desire. But he forgot about Jacques as Aranta shimmied her way to human and advanced on him.
Naked.
She could have clothed herself in scales. But even as Tyrez hurried to do so, she jiggled her luscious assets over to him and stood with hands on well-curved hips.
Her scent hit him like a battering ram. Only a couple of days off peak cycle, it surged through him and left everything hard as rock and aching. No scales, no matter how large or artfully arranged, could hide his reaction. Logical thought fled in an instant, and Tyrez lurched to his feet on a pulse of pure dismay.
Dismay? Since when did a Dragona on cycle make him want to run rather than—
Her gaze raked over him, and there was no mistaking the satisfaction as they noted his physical reaction to her presence. But then she skewered him with her glowing eyes. “Why,” she hissed through teeth that still sported points, “is there a female Dire in your quarters?”
Tyrez towered over her, but he wasn’t in control of this situation. Not at all. There was nothing more terrifying than a Dragona on a rampage.
Nothing.
