Dragon Awakened(8)

Without that envelope, she had nothing but Cyntag’s name and the schizophrenic thoughts bouncing around in her head.

According to their website, he was teaching a class starting in—she glanced at the clock—one minute. While he was otherwise occupied, she’d snoop and be long gone before his class was over. She had no idea how much Cyntag knew about her. Because she usually wore her hair in a braid, she left it loose and frizzy. Not a big disguise but, at a glance, different enough. She had no intention of him seeing her, but best to be prepared. Which included her gun, the metal cool against the small of her back. She’d found it useful when she started going off-site to look at people’s stuff. In a city like Miami, no way was she walking into someone’s garage alone and unarmed.

Warm air washed over her neck, and in the corner of her eye, something shimmered next to her. She jerked to the side but saw nothing. All her hairs sprung to attention. It had felt like a breath.

Her mystery rash, which only broke out on the right side of her stomach, burned something fierce. Doctors couldn’t figure it out, and she’d tried every kind of medication to no avail. Stress always triggered it.

She stepped into the mid-September heat and humidity. The buildings in this area were old but in good repair. She spotted a Spanish/Portuguese restaurant across the way, and most of the signage was in Spanish with English subtitles. She generally felt like a foreigner in Miami, often one of the few Anglo people at any given location.

She caught sight of her reflection as she approached the glass door: cargo pants, black T sporting the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ asterisk logo, and black work boots that protected her feet if something heavy fell on them. The bandage on her forehead, that had to go.

Dragon Arts was first class, with a comfortable waiting area, natural wood floors, and halogen lights in frosted glass cones. A woman about her age, framed by a tattered pirate’s flag on the wall behind her, sharpened pencils at a tall reception desk.

Her dark pink lipstick and short, white hair popped against her raven skin. “May I help you, sugar?” The small gold plaque on the desk identified her as Glesenda.

“I wanted to check the place out, see what classes you offered.”

She handed Ruby a slick brochure, studying her eyes. “And not listed are…” She did a double take, her eyebrows furrowing. “Well, you can see the listing for yourself.”

Well, okay then. Ruby devoured the flier, looking for one thing: a picture of the owner. No deal, same as their website. An Internet search gleaned several articles mentioning Cyntag’s name in conjunction with either his studio or some competition a student had participated in, but nothing on Twitter, Facebook, or any other social networks.

Ruby caught Glesenda’s eye. “I understand Cyntag Valeron teaches Cane Fighting Level One?” Whatever that was.

Glesenda nodded toward one of the large glass windows. “He’s teaching in the Sapphire Room right now.”

Ruby wanted to run over and finally put a face to her uncle’s murderer. Her breath left her with every step toward the window. A class of ten men of various ages stood in formation as they watched two men spar at the far side of the room. One sported a shaved head, was in his fifties, and weighed about two-fifty. The other—holy Jesus in Heaven. She sucked in air and tried to pull herself together. He was whip-muscular, wearing loose white pants with a tight black sash at his waist, his ripped torso slick with sweat. Gorgeous, dangerous-looking…and the spit-and-polish image of the Dragon Prince. Even down to his dark hair and the exotic slant to his eyes.

He had a tattoo far more fantastic than any she had seen, a dragon crawling up his back. Black and blue wings spanned his shoulders, the tail sliding down his spine to disappear beneath the waistband of his pants. When he shifted, she saw that the dragon’s head peered over his shoulder. It looked three-dimensional.

“Yeah, he has that effect on most women.” Glesenda wore an amused expression.

Not quite this effect, Ruby bet. Her chest was so tight she had to push out the words. “That’s Cyntag, the one with the dragon tat?”

“Sure is. Total hotness,” she said on a sigh.

Sure, if you were into men who sent murderous orbs. The hefty guy pretended to sneak up behind Cyntag, who twisted, hooked the other guy’s neck with the curved handle of the cane, and sent him flat on the mat in a flash. Unscathed, Hefty jumped to his feet and tried another attack, which was quickly thwarted with a pseudo-whack of the cane to his head. She watched, mesmerized by the stealthy grace of Cyntag’s movements, the way his muscles flexed, and how damned fast he was.