Page 1 of Fated by Fire (Dragonblood Dynasty #1)

Chapter 1

E lena

Rain pelts the windows of my loft like someone’s throwing gravel. The hiss of old pipes mixes with the needle scratch of a Miles Davis record drifting up from the vinyl shop downstairs.

I’m studiously ignoring the letter in front of me. It’s the landlord’s third eviction notice this month, the paper creased under a mug that reads “World’s Okayest Detective.” The irony tastes like my four-hour-old coffee.

God, Lennie. You’re really pushing the envelope this time.

I slump back in my chair, and the seat groans. I hate feeling this way. Like I’m facing being homeless. I wish this damn “adulting” crap would get easier already.

“I’ll get it right eventually, Mom. I promise,” I sigh. My mother’s Polaroid stares at me from the corkboard on the wall—me at eight, clutching her waist, her smile frayed at the edges. She’d been working late for weeks before she left for her night shift and never came home. The note she left me was taped to the fridge: “Be good. Mac and cheese in the freezer.”

Social services found me two days later, eating cold noodles with my fingers, Mom’s earphones clamped to my head, Christina Aguilera blaring. I still can’t listen to Beautiful without curling into a fetal position.

My laptop screen burns a hole in the dark room. My last shred of dignity is a rejection email for a skip-tracing gig that could have set me up with regular income for six months. They didn’t like my resume. Apparently, fingerprinting cheating spouses doesn’t count as “relevant experience.” But what was I supposed to do? Tell them that I found my last missing person after seeing them in a dream?

Yeah, that would go down well.

I let out a low groan that turns into a growl as I scroll through the Help Wanted ads. Even a waitressing job would help right now.

“Oh, come on, Universe! Throw me a bone, would ya?”

A ping cuts through the rain. I click open my email, not expecting much more than yet another newsletter urging me to pay a thousand bucks for a self-help course I don’t want. Because right now, I think I’m beyond any kind of help. Plus, I don’t have a thousand bucks.

Subject: Surveillance Assignment

I perk up immediately.

Hello! This looks promising.

The email is two lines:

Ms. Ross,

Require your special skills to investigate dealings at Craven Industries. Assignment to be ongoing with remuneration based on findings. Will a $20k deposit suffice?

My jaw drops open.

Twenty thousand dollars? I lean in closer to the screen, blinking a few times to make sure I’m not reading the number wrong.

$20k.

Twenty-freaking-thousand dollars!

Holy fucking shitballs!

I read the mail a few more times. Then I frown as I read the closing line, which is just a vague salutation with an initial.

B.

It’s the postscript that delivers a sucker punch, though:

P.S. Your mother knew the significance of this assignment.

Mom?

What the hell? What could she possibly have to do with this? My chest tightens. Twenty years since child services dragged me out of that apartment, and not a single lead—and now this.

When the Universe delivers, it does it in spades.

The sender’s address is encrypted, ending in @blackthornconsulting.com , but when I type it into my browser, the page 404s.

Dammit. I spend a few minutes Googling but come up empty. Doesn’t bother me, though. I didn’t become a private investigator for nothing.

The landlord picks that moment to thump the ceiling with his broom. “Rent’s due tomorrow, Ross!”

I flip him off, though he can’t see me. “All right, all right, I heard you the first time, dammit!”

Gee-zuz!

The door slams open, the figure framed in the door frame not bothering to announce herself. Why would she? Mara Jones has been my best friend since high school. She knows as much about my world as I do. Maybe more because there were a couple of tequila-fueled evenings that I don’t remember, but she does.

Now, she swaggers in with a grease-stained taco bag and enough energy to power downtown Seattle. Her t-shirt says “I’d Call the Cops, But You’re Cuter” above a cartoon UFO. She’s always wearing some kind of weird shit like that.

“Elena Ross! You reek of desperation,” she says, tossing me a carne asada taco. “Let me guess—landlord’s upgraded to death threats?”

“I don’t reek of any such thing.” I jerk my head at the screen where the email is still open. “And he can’t scare me. I just got a gig.”

“Yeah?” She slumps into the faded blue velvet sofa angled in the center of the living room. “Big enough for you to pay the rent on this palace?” She casts a look around my cluttered apartment.

“This palace… and an actual office,” I say, pushing a heap of papers across my battered desk to make room for my meal. I don’t care about getting oil on them. They’re just bills, anyhow.

“Sounds fancy. Who’s it for?”

“Can’t tell you. Client confidentiality.” I take a mouthful of grease and carbs.

“Fuck off. You tell me everything. And if you don’t say it now, you’ll tell me later when you hit a blank and need my help.”

I lift an eyebrow. “Go on. When has that ever happened?”

“Okay, never. But one day, that ‘intuition’ of yours might run dry. Spit it out.”

“Craven Industries,” I say around a mouthful of food. “Someone wants me to do a little digging.”

Mara freezes mid-bite. “The ‘we patent orphan tears’ company? The same Craven that somehow isn’t in prison for that dodgy deal in the Ukraine?”

“Client’s paying way over my rate.” I turn the laptop around to face her. Mara rises from her seat and heads over to the desk.

“Because it’s a trap. Last journalist who dug into them? Poof. Ghosted harder than my Tinderella dates.” She squints at the screen. “Also, ‘Blackthorn Consulting’? Sounds like a D-list supervillain LLC.”

“They mentioned Mom.” My voice cracks. Weak . I clear my throat.

“Fuck. Low blow.” Mara snorts, but her eyes soften. She knows I still call hospitals twice a year, asking if a Lila Ross with a crescent moon scar on her wrist ever turned up.

Filthy Secret About Mara: She called those hospitals first, pretending to be me after I got wasted on tequila last May. She’ll never admit it.

“So, how does your mom factor in?” She flicks a wave of neon blue hair out of her face.

“That’s what I’m gonna find out,” I tell her. “While I’m raking in their 20k deposit.”

“Twenty thousand dollars?” Her eyes are wide.

I give a nod. “Unless it’s a scam.”

Shit. What if it’s a scam?

“So, what’s the job?” Mara asks. “Corporate espionage? Some exec screwing around on his wife?”

I shrug, licking sauce off my fingers. “Dunno. I haven’t taken it yet.”

“But you’re going to?”

“If it’s the real deal, then yes, sure.” I pull Mom’s journal from the desk drawer, her initials etched in peeling gold foil. “It’s freaky, Mara. I haven’t had a clue about her since she disappeared, and then wham! A client pops up out of the woodwork with a huge job, and my mother’s connected?”

“Sounds hinky,” says Mara, watching as I flip the journal open. I’ve been through these pages thousands of times but never found anything that gives even the smallest hint. All I can get from it is a slight sense of being near her.

It’s all I have left.

A headache spikes behind my left eye. Static hums in my ears, like a radio tuned between stations.

Then—

I feel a tingle against my fingertips. I hear something, a sound that vibrates in my molars.

What the fuck?

I drop the journal.

“You okay?” Mara’s hand hovers near my shoulder. She knows I hate being touched.

“Fine. Low blood sugar.” I shove the journal away, but my fingers still tingle.

Mara takes a dramatic bite of her taco. “Okay, let’s say you take the job. How do you even get into Craven? Their security makes Area 51 look breezy.”

“Just gotta think laterally. Which is what I’m good at, dontcha know.” I tap my bottom lip for a moment as I think, then I pull up Craven’s careers page, scrolling through the listings. “Bingo. They’re hiring a junior archivist. Requires a ‘discreet, detail-oriented candidate.’”

“You? Discreet? The arsonist who set a CEO’s Porsche on fire?”

“That wasn’t arson . It was… aggressive negotiation.”

She rolls her eyes but nudges me out of the way and hunches over my laptop, fingers moving over the keys. “I’ll hack their HR portal. You need a fake identity. Let’s call you… Karen.”

“I’d rather die.”

“Melanie? Stephanie? Oh— Jessica. Classic, basic, don’t-draw-attention name.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m Jessica Mercer, NYU grad with a passion for “corporate transparency.” Mara splurges on a $7.99 resume template.

“That should do it,” she says, dusting her hands off. “I got you in at noon tomorrow. You might wanna ditch the flannel.” She casts a contemptuous look over my outfit.

I glance down at where I’ve tucked my favorite plaid shirt into the top of my torn jeans. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Are you really asking me that question?” She rolls her eyes. “Brush your hair, put on some heels, and leave the leather jacket at home. I don’t want to have to get you another interview slot.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.” I flash her a grin.

“Told you so.” She crumples her taco wrapper and tosses it into the wastepaper basket. “I gotta bolt. Time to upload my next TikTok slot.”

“Oh, right. Can’t be late for that. Someone might pick the wrong hiking trail and stumble into Bigfoot.”

“Happens more often than you’d think. Just because you’re not a believer doesn’t mean my followers aren’t.”

“Keep fighting the good fight, girlfriend.” I tap my forehead.

Mara leaves with a salute. “Don’t get dissected by evil billionaires, Jess .”

Alone, I stare at Mom’s Polaroid. The camera flash had blinded her that day, leaving a white halo around her face. Except now, looking closer—

Is she staring past the camera? Like she saw something coming.

I suppress a shudder and turn back to my screen. My fingers move as if they have a mind of their own. Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve typed out a response.

Assignment accepted. Provide info.

I attach my bank details and hit send.

Barely a minute later, my phone buzzes with a wire transfer notification: $20,000.00 – Blackthorn Consulting.

Fuck. That was fast.

It’s followed shortly by another ping from my email. I click open the message and run my eyes over the contents. No message this time. Just a string of attachments. I open the first one.

Let’s see what kind of mess I’ve gotten myself into this time.