Dragonfury 01 - Fury of Fire

smelled as it always did…like chemical soup and bad aftershave. The obnoxious mix clung, coating the back of Myst’s throat. She swallowed the toxic taste, wishing she was anywhere but here—back in a place where everything looked normal, but nothing was the same.
    Bruised on the inside, she wanted to curl up for a while. Find a quiet place and, well…cry some more. But pride wouldn’t let her, refusing to allow her out of the pity park. A shame, really. She could’ve used a break from the I’m-pissed-at-Bastian merry-go-round she was riding.
    God, she was sick of it. Tired of herself and him…of everything and everyone.
    Even the potted palms in the lobby annoyed her. She glared at the collection as she passed. And if looks could kill? The stupid trees would be dead as doornails…horticultural examiner’s inquest pending.
    Throwing the palms one last scowl, she skirted the backlit direction sign and crossed the lobby. Her nursing shoes squeaked on the polished floors, sounding louder than usual, raising her pulse, making her sweat.
    “Relax.” Wiping her damp palms on her scrubs, she glanced around, trying to look calm. “Act normal. Just another day at the office.”
    Uh-huh. Right. Like every day started with a surprise pregnancy and a quest to steal medical records. The entire thing was Bastian’s fault. “The big jerk.”
    I love you, Myst.
    His words floated through her mind and, against her will, she recalled the timbre of his voice, the look on his face…the pain in his eyes. Goddamn it.
    “Focus,” she hissed at herself, getting rough with her bag as she adjusted the strap on her shoulder. “Stop thinking about him.”
    The woman sitting at the U-shaped information desk threw her a strange look.
    Skirting the receptionist’s command post, Myst shrugged by way of explanation and said, “Man trouble.”
    Snapping her gum, the woman nodded. “I hear ya, honey. No good sons of guns most of the time.”
    The Texas drawl made Myst smile and, strangely enough, settled her down. No sense being nervous. She’d made up her mind. Blatant law-breaking aside, she needed Caroline’s medical file, and the best place to get it was the fourth floor…where the doctors held court in corner offices.
    Her plan? Find an empty one with a computer.
    Fifteen minutes tops—a let-your-fingers-do-the-walking kind of deal, followed by a quick print job and…voilá. Instant information.
    Mangling the fringe on her bag, she wound the small strip of leather around her finger and scanned the main corridor. She didn’t want to run into anyone she knew. Considering the mobile nature of her job, the chances were slim, but nurses worked shifts, rotating around the clock. A change in schedule might put her face-to-face with one of her colleagues.
    And wouldn’t that be fun?
    At best, those she worked with on a regular basis would know she was MIA. At worst? The police were looking for her, asking other nurses about her habits, digging into her life to solve the mystery of Caroline’s death and Gregor’s disappearance.
    Either way, she was screwed.
    The sound of laughter came from behind her, echoing off the foyer’s high ceiling. She glanced over her shoulder and—
    Perfect.
    A gaggle of nurses, lunch bags in hand, walked out of the sunshine and into the building. As they passed, Myst slid in behind them unnoticed, an individual among a group. The best kind of camouflage.
    Listening to them chatter, she soaked in the normal rhythm of their day. Less than a week ago, this had been her life. Now, it felt empty, rounded out by a hollowness she couldn’t define. Strange how a person could change so much in such a short amount of time, but reality didn’t pull any punches. Which left one option, didn’t it? Move forward. Put one foot in front of the other and get on with her life. The question now? Did she walk toward Bastian or away from him?
    Shaking her head, Myst pushed the decision away. Baby…no baby…she couldn’t deal with the mess right now. Not when she felt so raw inside that it hurt to breathe.
    The group stopped in front of a bank of elevators. Myst broke away from the group, headed around the corner, and found the stairwell. As she climbed the steps she forced herself to focus: picturing the fourth floor, imagining the offices, which ones had receptionists she’d worked with, which ones didn’t.
    The fourth-floor wall sign came before she was ready. Standing on the landing, Myst rolled her