Free Nightwalker by Allyson James Page A

the three-story, nearly square hotel back in 1920s. It jutted out from the rest of the hotel and had its own outside entrance as well as one from the lobby. Carlos, the bartender, in his white shirt and black pants, stared morosely at the saloon, hands on hips.
    My guests and hired help had gathered on the west side of the hotel. I scanned the knot of them, about twenty people in all, but I didn’t see Ansel.
    I did hear the magic mirror screaming inside. The sound reverberated through every mirror in the hotel, winding up to a shattering frequency. I could hear it even in the mirror on my motorcycle around the back.
    I couldn’t do anything for it. It might be terrified, but an ordinary fire wouldn’t destroy the mirror. It would have to tough it out for now.
    If this was an ordinary fire.
    The firemen were unrolling hoses and getting on with their business. “What happened?” I yelled at Carlos.
    He only spread his hands. “ No se. Everything was fine, and all the sudden, the roof exploded into flames. I ran like hell.”
    “You all right?”
    Carlos nodded, swallowing. “Yeah, I’m okay. We got everyone out.”
    “Ansel?”
    He shot me a startled look. “I don’t know.”
    I left him, sprinting around to the back of the building. Acrid smoke poured into the night, stinging my throat. I saw another clump of people gathered on top of the empty railroad bed, and I ran for that.
    Mick broke away from the group and met me at the bottom of the bank. Before I could demand he tell me what had happened, he cupped my face in my hands, his eyes filled all the way across with black. “You all right?” His voice was savage.
    “Fine. What—?”
    My word choked off as Mick yanked me into his arms and held me in a breath-stealing embrace, his lips finding mine in a savage kiss.
    He released me and rearranged his look of raw worry to a grim one of anger. “Ansel’s still inside,” he said. “He refused to come out.”
    “Is he crazy? If that fire reaches him, he’s dead.”
    “He said he might be dead if he stays inside, but he will be dead if he comes out. I didn’t argue with him.”
    “What the hell does that mean?”
    Mick took my hand and helped me scramble up the six-foot, soft-sided bank of the raised railroad bed. On the top, where ties and rails used to be, was a flat stretch about four feet wide that ran for miles, used now as a hiking trail.
    On the summit stood Elena my cook, and a tall, black-haired man, stark naked, with the tattooed ends of dragon wings rising from around his shoulders up his neck.
    “Drake!” I snarled, starting for him. “You flamed my hotel? Please, let me kill you.”
    Mick seized me from behind and lifted me off my feet. Drake looked me over with quiet dark eyes. His long black hair was loose in the moonlight, he obviously having recently shifted from being a dragon.
    “I need the Nightwalker,” he said to me in his cool voice.
    “Too bad. What did you have to do with abducting Laura DiAngelo? Where is she? Is she dead?”
    “I did not abduct her, she is not dead, and I insist you bring me the Nightwalker. Surrender him to me, and I’ll stop the fire.”
    His answer told me he knew all about Laura and much more about what was going on than I did. “Ansel’s my friend,” I said. “And if Laura is alive, it means he didn’t kill her.” That fact both relieved and confused me, though relief was buried way down on my list of emotions at the moment.
    “Even if Ansel did not kill this woman, he’s murdered in the past,” Drake said. “He’s drained humans of blood and left crushed bodies in his wake. He must make restitution. Give him to me.”
    “Since when are dragons interested in standing up for humankind? What do you really want, Drake?”
    “I want the Nightwalker,” Drake said in a hard voice.
    Elena stepped up to Drake. At first glance, Elena Williams, an Apache from Whiteriver, looked like a harmless middle-aged woman, plump in body, a habitual frown on