Burning Up

smiled back. “Everything always revolves around school. Like I don’t live my own life, I just prepare for it. I wanted . . . something different. An adventure, I guess.”
    He could give her something different, he thought. He would even make sure she enjoyed it.
    The barred storefronts ceded ground to cobblestone streets and narrow houses with cramped garden plots. The scent of standing water and of lilies carried on the breeze. Not much farther now , he thought.
    “What about you?” she asked with friendly interest.
    He glanced down in surprise.
    “What brings you here?”
    His purpose was bitter as brine in his mouth, deep and cold as the sea.
    For Morgan was warden of the northern deeps, charged by a lost king to fight a losing battle.
    For a thousand years he had served the sea king’s son, battling demons in the deep, defending his desmesne from the sly encroachments of the sidhe . But his powers had proved useless against the depredations of humankind. For more than a century, the overflow from this city’s streets and canals had polluted the sound and the sea, turning the port into a shit house. Only now, when the humans had finally learned to curb their waste, could Morgan begin the slow process of repair. Recovery of the seabed would take centuries.
    He did not blame this girl—much—for what her kind had done. She was here and female and willing. Under the circumstances, he was prepared to overlook a great deal.
    “Business,” he said.
    Her deep brown eyes assessed him. “You don’t dress like a businessman.”
    He wore the black and silver of the finfolk, subtly altered so he could pass for a man of this place and time. “No?”
    “No.”
    He did not respond. The sky was thick with moisture, glowing with the lights of the city and the promise of dawn. The moon wore golden vapor like a veil.
    “You don’t want to talk about it,” she guessed.
    He smiled, showing the edge of his teeth. “You did not seek my company for my conversation.”
    She stopped on the sidewalk, her chin tilted at a challenging angle. Despite her earlier signals, he had been too blunt. Women, human women, required some preliminaries. Or perhaps her female pride was offended. “Really? What is it you think I want from you?”
    Her cheeks were flushed. Her scent filled his nostrils. Beneath the sharp notes of her annoyance, he could smell the sweetness of her body readying itself for his. His shaft went hard as stone.
    “My protection,” he offered.
    She nodded once, her eyes big and wary. “Yeah,” she admitted. “Okay.”
    He stepped closer, watching her face carefully. “And perhaps . . . an adventure?”
    He heard the betraying intake of her breath. Her small, round breasts rose. And suddenly he wanted this, wanted her , beyond habit or reason, instinct or expedience. The intensity of his lust surprised him.
    She was only human, after all.

KEEP READING FOR A PREVIEW OF
MELJEAN BROOK’S NEXT NOVEL
     
    THE IRON DUKE
     
    COMING OCTOBER 2010FROM BERKLEY SENSATION!
     
    B y the time Mina and Newberry reached the Isle of Dogs, the nip of the evening air had become a bite. Not a true island, the isle was surrounded on three sides by a bend in the river. On the London side, multiple trading companies had built up small docks—mostly abandoned. The southern and eastern sides held the Iron Duke’s docks, which serviced his company’s ships, and those who paid for the space. In nine years, he’d been paid enough to buy up the center of the isle and build his fortress.
    The high wrought-iron fence that surrounded his gardens had earned him the nickname The Iron Duke—the iron kept the rest of London out, and whatever riches he hid inside, in. The spikes at the top of the fence guaranteed that no one in the surrounding slums would scale it, and no one was invited in. At least, no one in Mina’s circle, or her mother’s.
    She was never certain if their circle was too high, or too low.
    Newberry stopped in front of the gate. When a face appeared at the small gatehouse window, he shouted, “Detective Inspector Wentworth, on Crown business! Open her up!”
    The gatekeeper appeared, a grizzled man with a long gray beard and the heavy step that marked a metal leg. A former pirate, Mina guessed. Though the Crown insisted that Trahaearn and his men had all been privateers, acting with the permission of the king, only a few children who didn’t know any better believed the story. The rest of them knew he’d been