Fury of Desire (10 page)

The thing crash-landed, scattering timber like toothpicks.

With a muttered curse, Ivar leapt over the railing and off the balcony. The chill of midnight rushed over him. Cold wind blasted his cheeks, blowing his hair back as he dropped three stories. He landed hard, knees rebounding toward his chest. Both hammered his breastbone, pushing the air from his lungs. Ivar ignored the burn and, not wasting a second, hauled ass across the backyard.

Frozen blades of grass crunching beneath his boots, he sprinted between two graders. Avoiding the sharp edges of twisted metal, he kept his gaze glued on Hamersveld. Chest heaving, shark-gray scales clicked with each movement. Laying in a tangled heap—wings bent at odd angles, horned head half buried beneath a mound of topsoil, huge talons twitching—blood seeped from a myriad of shallow cuts crisscrossing his torso. Not an issue under normal circumstances. Dragonkind healed quickly, the magic in their DNA closing wounds so fast they usually took care of themselves within hours. The problem here? It had been twenty-four hours since their showdown with the Nightfury pack and…

Jesus. The situation was anything but
normal.

What was his first clue? Hamersveld’s tattoo. Running along both sides of his jagged sawtooth spine, the tribal ink was glowing. Not its usual dark blue either… but bright frickin’ red.

The sight made Ivar’s stomach turn.

He approached anyway, keeping his pace slow and even, not wanting to startle the male. A downed dragon was a dangerous one. But one in pain? Even more so, and… yeah. No question. Hamersveld was in terrible pain. With the strange glow, he looked like he was on fire, flame eating him from the inside out. Something that wasn’t normal for a water dragon. Well, at least as far as Ivar knew. He and the warrior might have teamed up, but that didn’t mean he understood the propensities of a rare breed like Hamersveld.

The tattoo pulsed, beating in the frosty swirl, taking on a life of its own.

Ivar kept his feet moving, slipping between a couple of upended oil tanks. Keeping his tone soft, he murmured, “Hamersveld.”

“Ivar?”
he rasped through mind-speak, Norwegian accent thicker than usual. The low, pain-filled growl streamed through Ivar’s head. A second later, the warrior groaned and cracked one eyelid open. A black iris rimmed by light blue landed on him. Shimmering in the gloom, Hamersveld’s gaze joined the light show along his back and shoulder, piercing the darkness. Ivar bit down on another curse. Holy God, the male was in rough shape, so weak he couldn’t lift his head.
“Need help.”

“I’m here.” He laid a hand on the male’s scaled shoulder. Keeping his touch light, he examined a deep gash running along the side of the male’s neck. “What the hell happened?”

“Fen… injured. Nightfury assholes.” He coughed, then groaned through clenched fangs. “Sorry… had to leave fight. Needed to… feed him.”

Not following, Ivar frowned. “Who? Fen?”

Hamersveld nodded. A spasm rolled through him, making tense muscles quiver along his flank. Worry glimmered in the warrior’s gaze, and Ivar struggled to understand. Fen was a wren, a unique subset of Dragonkind. Light, fast, and vicious in a fight, the miniature dragons had been hunted to near extinction. Considered a sport, tracking and killing wrens had been big business. The practice had been outlawed by the Archguard over a century ago—and with so few wrens remaining, most of his kind couldn’t be bothered to hunt them anymore.

Humans, after all, made better prey.

“Where is the wren now?” Ivar asked.

“Safe… inside.”

Safe inside?
What the fuck did that mean? Ivar didn’t know. Didn’t have time to find out either. Not with Hamersveld looking like a frickin’ train wreck. Later—when the warrior was healed and on his feet again—would be soon enough to solve the mystery.

The male’s head lulled in the dirt.

“What do you need?” Ivar jostled him a little, uncertain of the best tack to take. As a water dragon, Hamersveld had different needs than he did. “How can I help?”

“A female… must feed to keep Fen nourished. Need saltwater too.”

“Will a salt bath work?”

“Perfect.”

“I’ve got both inside the lair… all high-energy females. So shift,
zi kamir,
” he said, using Dragonese, calling him “my brother” to engender trust and get Hamersveld moving. “Let’s get you on your feet and into the lair.”

With supreme effort, Hamersveld planted his webbed paw on the ground and pressed up. Muscles rippled. Shark-gray scales undulated beneath the faint glow of street lights. With a magical zap, he transformed, moving from dragon to human form. Blond hair matted with blood, he reached for Ivar. He didn’t hesitate, and slipping his arm around the male, hauled him off his knees to his feet. Hamersveld cursed as his bare feet touched down. Ivar offered no apology. He gritted his teeth around an f-bomb instead. Jesus, the SOB was heavy. Almost seven feet tall, the male’s bulk rivaled a WWE wrestler’s.

Great to have as backup during battle. Terrible to support while navigating the war zone that now constituted his backyard.

Half dragging, half carrying Hamersveld, he manhandled him toward the entrance of 28 Walton Street. Halfway across the yard, sensation prickled up Ivar’s spine. He clenched his teeth, recognizing the tingle for what it was… or should he say who?

With a sigh, Ivar tightened his hold on the warrior in his arms and opened the connection.
“What is it, Denzeil?”

“Got some info.”

“About Tania Solares?”
Ivar stumbled sideways. Hamersveld grunted. Ivar tightened his hold and lifted the male over the uneven patch of ground.

“Not exactly, but—”

“Then I don’t want to hear it.”

“I’m tracking her cell phone. A text message just came in and—”

“Jesus Christ. What did I just say? I don’t give a rat’s ass, D,”
he said, tone pissy, his gaze fixed on the fire station’s back door.
“Just deal with it. I’ve got my fucking hands full.”

“Ten-four, boss. I’ll send a fighting unit to investigate.”

“Do that,”
he muttered, slamming the door closed on D’s connection.

He didn’t have time to screw around. Not now that he had Hamersveld right where he wanted the male. Gratitude, after all, was a powerful weapon. He planned to leverage the shit out of it. Crank it so hard, he earned the warrior’s trust. If he did it right, loyalty and commitment to the Razorbacks would follow, and he’d get what he needed: a powerful sea dragon in his corner. All he required to turn the tables on Bastian and move forward with his plans.

The holy shit factor dialed to fuck you, Wick staggered across the Gridiron toward the back exit. Humans squawked, giving him a wide berth and incredulous looks. He didn’t blame them. In control, he scared the hell out of most people. His size. The way he looked. The load of lethal he carried around like a bad attitude. All served to make others wary, and that was under optimal circumstances.

But right now… while on overload from the feeding and out of control?

Jesus, he was the Dragonkind equivalent of a wrecking ball, swinging on a thin cable of sanity, muscle and joints coming unhinged, coordination nonexistent as he plotted a trajectory toward the other side of the bar.

Wick wanted it to be different. Wished like hell female energy didn’t send him into a tailspin—every… single… frickin’… time. But hoping for something didn’t garner results. And wishing never made things so. A shame, really. He could’ve used a little hope right now. Especially since his vision was messed up, blinking off and on like a schizophrenic lightbulb.

Shit, he was in trouble.

He knew the door was over there… somewhere. A blurry collection comprised of posts and lintels, but—

Nausea churned, throwing stomach acid up his throat.

His brain went sideways, spinning into a death skid inside his skull. He lost his balance and stumbled, veering into oncoming traffic. The group of females squealed. Wobbling on three-inch heels, the trio hopped out of his way, threw him dirty looks, struggling to steady the drinks in their hands. Liquid sloshed over the rims of glass tumblers. The horrific stench of alcohol hit him like a body shot. Wick gagged and…

Fucking hell.

He needed out. Right now. Out of the heat of the club. Away from the stench. Into the alley and boatloads of fresh air. Otherwise, he’d end up flat on the floor, lying in pub scum while a bunch of humans turned him into a zoo exhibit.

Gritting his teeth, Wick forced one foot in front of the other. His shitkickers thudded against the hard floor. His heart kept time, determined to drill a hole in the center of his chest. The energy he’d swallowed didn’t help, humming in his veins, attacking his body until he felt like a spaghetti noodle instead of sinew and bone. The psychedelic laser show upped the ante, eating through the darkness. Pulse-pulse-flash. Pulse-pulse-flash. Colorful bursts of light set the pattern, making his head ache and his body hurt.

Another few feet. Just a couple more strides and he’d be free. Out the Gridiron’s back door.

A big hand landed on his shoulder.

Wick’s stomach heaved. Swallowing the burn, he twisted, fighting the lockdown.

“Easy.”
Deep, rooted in magic, the voice slithered through his mind, cutting beneath the rage of hard-core bass.
“It’s just me.”

Reeling inside his own head, Wick blinked. Boston accent. Kick-ass presence. A familiar hand fisted in his leather jacket. Relief streamed through him. Gratefulness came next, so much of it that Wick greeted his buddy with the usual.
“Fuck off, Mac.”

“You know you love me, right?”
Still gripping his jacket, Mac held him steady, keeping him on his feet.
“Need some fresh air?”

“Yeah.”

“I got your six. Let’s go.”
Mac pointed toward the Exit sign. Hanging above the door, the thing looked like salvation. Everything he needed wrapped up in a welcoming red glow. “
It’s that way.”

Wick swallowed a harsh comeback, ’cause… yeah. The response on the tip of his tongue—the one that went something like, “No shit, Sherlock”—didn’t seem wise. If he lipped off, Mac might eighty-six his ass. Which, under the circumstances, constituted a bad plan. Especially given the fact Mac was straight-up awesome, helping him stay on his feet, manhandling him toward the exit, keeping his yap shut.

Thankfulness times a thousand slid through Wick.

His throat went tight. Thank God for family. His brothers-in-arms might not understand him—might even raze him from time to time—but they cared about him. Were 100 percent solid when it counted.

“Mac…”

“Hold on, man. Keep it together until we get outside. You can puke out there.”

As if on cue, bile sloshed up the back of his throat. Wick forced it back down. Mac gave him a healthy shove, propelling him through the door and into the cramped foyer. Deep in shadow, the stairwell ascended on his right, heading toward the roof. The round handrail followed the rise, keeping time with each tread. Sweat dripped into Wick’s eyes. He wiped it away, and dragging his gaze from the stairs, focused on the exit door. Blood-red paint blisters bubbled on its surface, disrupting the smooth contours.

Five feet away. Now three. Almost there. Just a few more seconds and…

Shitkickers doing double time, Wick stumbled sideways. Mac’s grip on his jacket tightened. As his buddy hauled him upright, he hammered the steel bar locking the door in place with his knee. The portal swung wide and hit the brick wall behind it. The slam-bang echoed, cracking the quiet, rising to meet the night chill. Wick followed suit, bolting into the alleyway.

Cold air blasted him in the face.

His lungs screamed, demanding more oxygen.

He went palms to knees and, doubled over, answered the call. He inhaled hard, sounding like an asthmatic, wheeze after wheeze clawing his chest. A frosty swirl blew into the alleyway, lifting the hem of his jacket. Wick ignored the bluster, dismissing what made most fire dragons shiver in distaste. Contrary to his lava-loving nature, winter didn’t bother him. Not surprising considering his upbringing. Raised in devastation, denial and deprivation had been the norm, not the exception, for him.

Excellent training for a warrior. Disastrous emotional whiplash for an ordinary male.

Forcing his lungs to expand, Wick pushed away from his knees. As he stood upright, his muscles cramped, twisting him into knots. With a silent curse, he stomped his feet, then flexed his hands, working blood back into his extremities. Sensation flooded him, rushing back in, making his fingertips tingle, forcing a full-body shiver.

Fighting the deep freeze, he took another deep breath and tipped his head back. Thick clouds obliterated the sky, smothering the stars, playing keep-away with the moon while the first round of snowflakes swirled.

Lovely. Not a distraction in sight.

Just the mind fuck of weakness without possibility of relief. Party central with the added bonus of embarrassment.

Wick glanced sideways at Mac. Standing behind him, the male stood at the ready, willing to step in and prevent him from face-planting. Again. Jesus, what a mess. Humiliation rose, clinging like a bitch in heat, and Wick wanted to disappear. Fight or flight, an instinctual response to a bad situation. As he fought another tremor, getting good and ghost sounded like a plan, but for one problem.