She took in the house, her throat tightening and eyes stinging. She brushed away hot tears before they could slide down her cheeks.
“Be careful.”
She jerked around, thinking the firefighter had seen something.
He nodded to the floor. “You can’t tell what’s beneath the muck.”
“Oh. Yeah, thanks.” Stop acting all scared and freaked out.
She stepped into the den. First order of business, find that envelope amid unidentifiable mounds and lumps. One was probably what was left of his massive desk. She searched for anything resembling the bottom drawer. All that remained of his files was a wet mess of ash. Paper disintegrated as she pulled things out.
The fireman hovered without intruding. He was probably making sure she wasn’t digging up some incendiary device. How would a supersecret government thingamabob set a fire?
She turned to where the bookcase used to be and found burnt framed pictures of both her and the wife and daughter Mon lost years before she came into his life. Book spines, singed covers, ruined pages—she found nothing salvageable. Some of these books had been kept in a locked cabinet, but she’d glimpsed titles with words like ancient spells and alchemy.
Beneath a slab of wood, she felt a thick leather spine and pulled out a chunk of blackened book. The wood had protected it somewhat, though half the cover and an inch of the outer edge of pages had burned away. She brushed away soot from the tooled lettering.
The Book of the Hid…
The Hidden. She sank to her knees, pressed it to her chest, and whispered, “Thank you, God.” She flipped through the pages with trembling fingers, the charred edges crumbling at her touch. A cry escaped her throat. All of the sketches of dragons, Deuces, and angels…gone.
She grabbed another book from the muck that was in worse shape and opened it. The ink was still there. And another. Then she picked up The Hidden again. No more girl thrown into a dangerous world, no more Dragon Prince. She recalled her favorite picture of him as he danced with Garnet, spinning her round and round and into his dark spell. Black of hair and heart, he was darkly handsome, with chips of onyx for eyes and his mouth in a permanent snarl. It annoyed Mon that she’d been most fascinated by the villain.
To a girl who’d lost everything, a powerful prince who could whisk a girl out of danger seemed dashingly romantic. Then she’d grown up and discovered there were no princes out there, and men who snarled also bit.
Ruby placed the book in the garbage bag and gave up finding anything else. She headed to the unscathed separate garage and keyed in the code for the door. The front fender of Mon’s old Rolls-Royce sparkled as sunlight hit it. She found nothing more than a few tools and some spare parts she’d procured in case he ever needed them.
The car’s interior was as immaculate as its exterior. What she did find was his cell phone on the passenger floorboard. The main screen indicated a voice message. She scrolled down his sparse contacts list, finding one that made her heart jump: Cyntag Valeron. Yes, that could definitely be the name Mon had uttered. She went back to voice mail and called in, using the same code that opened the garage door to access his voice mail. Bingo.
Her heart seized as a velvety male voice said, “Cyntag, here. I see that you called but didn’t leave a message. Have you finally come to your senses, you old bastard? Or is the Dragon beginning to show? I warned that you were playing with fire—literally. Call me. Don’t make me track you down.”
Dragon? Was that some kind of code? She played it two more times but still couldn’t make sense of it. She searched through the call log. First he’d taken a call from Brom. A short while later, Mon had called her and then Cyntag. Cyntag had called back shortly before she’d arrived. He’d tracked Mon down, all right.
If she couldn’t go to the police, she had to take matters into her own hands. Someone had to pay for Mon’s murder. She couldn’t ask Brom, but she needed to find out who this Cyntag was.
She redialed the number. If he answered, she’d pretend to be someone investigating Mon’s death.
A woman with a sultry radio voice answered. “Dragon Arts. How may I help you?”
“Dragon Arts?” That word again.
“We’re a mixed martial arts studio, with classes in self-defense, cane, jujitsu, and tai chi. I can give you our website address if you want the whole skinny.”
“Sure.” The woman rattled it off; then Ruby asked, “Does a Cyntag Valeron work there?”
“You could say that, sugar. He owns the studio.”
Oh, great. He was probably in top shape and could whip someone’s butt without breaking a sweat. But he had access to more powerful weapons than that, like supernatural orbs.