Dragon Soul (Dragon Falls, #3)(6)
Rowan rolled his eyes and put his phone in his pocket before he was tempted to text back something rude. He noticed that Sophea and the old lady—who was going by some impossibly long name—were nearing the front of the customs line. It was just his luck that he had picked the slower line. At least the other two red dragon–demons were three people behind his target.
Ten minutes later, he was free of customs and hurrying through the crowds at the airport, his eyes scanning for the figures of the two women. They had a head start on him, but given how slowly the old lady was moving and the fact that they’d have to get their luggage, he had hope of catching up to them.
Rowan paused for a moment when faced with a sign pointing out the various transportation options. It wasn’t likely the elderly woman would take the train or bus into town. “Taxi,” he said, making a snap decision and praying that he was correct. He turned to the left and bolted for the section of the airport that served as a taxi stand.
Cries of people greeting arriving family members filled the air, along with the growl of traffic, the squeals of excited children, and voices babbling in at least a dozen different languages. The scent of diesel hit him as cars inched alongside the drop-off area. He jogged along the pavement, the rucksack slung across his back banging painfully against his kidneys, dodging people emerging from cars and taxis, avoiding mounds of suitcases and the chaotic streams flowing into and out of the airport in the usual manner of humanity until he found a line of taxis. Quickly he scanned the crowd, but didn’t see the bent old woman and Sophea. He stopped in frustration next to a stack of luggage almost as tall as he was, his hands on his hips as he panted, spinning first one way, then the next in a desperate attempt to spot his prey.
Dammit, Bee would have his guts for garters if he lost them. His backpack bumped into something, and he automatically mumbled an apology.
“Sorry, I don’t speak German… oh, hi again.”
He almost stumbled, so quickly did he turn around to see the woman who spoke. Hidden behind the mountain of luggage belonging to another traveler was Sophea, her charge at her side, sitting on the little camp stool.
“Fancy seeing you here,” Sophea said with a wide smile that reeked of innocence.
He narrowed his eyes, moving slightly to the side when a man who bore the livery of a chauffeur began to pull the bags next to him into a limousine, absently wondering what game Sophea was playing. Did she believe she could fool him into thinking she was not abducting the old woman? Perhaps she didn’t realize that he was on to her. If that was the case, then it would behoove him to feign ignorance. “Hello. Yes, it’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it? Are you staying in Munich?”
“Who’s that?” the old woman asked, peering around Sophea. “Who do you have there, gel?”
“I don’t have anyone, Mrs. P,” Sophea protested.
“Think I don’t recognize it when a man ogles his woman? Did I tell you I was a hoochie-coo dancer for a president?”
“Yes, you did tell me,” Sophea said, with an apologetic glance toward him. “But he’s not mine. He’s the man from the plane. He’s the one who stopped—oh, you slept through it. Never mind.”
Rowan moved a couple of feet to the left and made a little bow to them both, handing Sophea one of his business cards. “My name is Rowan.”
“I’m Sophea Long. This is Mrs. Papadopolous, although everyone calls her Mrs. P.” Sophea tucked his card away without looking at it.
The older woman looked oddly pleased. “Your man has manners,” she said with a little nod of approval. “The bow was well performed, not the silly parody you see these days. And most men don’t carry calling cards these days—very right and proper. And he’s nice looking. Long legs. Torso is a bit short, but he has a broad chest. Good lung capacity. He’ll give you strong children.”
To his amusement, Sophea’s cheeks turned a dusky pink as she babbled something about not even knowing the man, let alone planning on having children with him.
“Are you staying in Munich?” he asked, wondering how far Sophea would take her innocent act. Judging by the ease and familiarity with which the old woman spoke, he assumed that she was clueless as to who Sophea really was. The question was, did that make his job of stealing the ring she’d taken from the demon lord easier or more difficult?
“Just for the night,” Sophea answered, not meeting his gaze. She gestured toward the taxis. “A car is supposed to meet us, but I don’t see it.”
“The driver should have met you at baggage,” he pointed out. “Did you not see anyone with your name on a sign?”
“No.” She bit her lower lip and looked worried. He had to remind himself that it was all an act to make him think she wasn’t after the same thing he was. “I’m not sure if there’s someone we should call or if I should just get us a taxi.”
“What hotel are you staying at?”
She glanced at a small notecard. “The Hotel Ocelot. Wait, that can’t be right. Ocelot? Is that even a German word?”
“It is my favorite hotel in Munich,” Mrs. P said with a little curl of her lips. “I used to go there with one of my most inventive lovers. You’ve heard of strudel, yes? Well, he used to take a generous piece—”
“Yes, well, I think we can do without that image right now,” Sophea said hastily before flashing him an apologetic smile. “I’m sure Mr. Dakar has important places to go and people to see.”