Fury of Desire (17 page)

Hellfire and brimstone. What in God’s name were the pair doing? Well, besides ducking his calls and avoiding his presence. No matter how many messages he left, nothing came back. It was frustrating. Annoying. Beyond disrespectful. Something he never tolerated from anyone. His pride—and position as a member of the Archguard—disliked disdain. From anyone. But true to form, the Nightfury warriors didn’t give a damn about him.

Or what he planned.

Now he had less than diddly-squat. Nothing but all’s quiet on the eastern front. A never-ending string of stalling on Gage and Haider’s part. Nian gritted his teeth and, grasping the handrail, ascended another flight of stairs. What the devil was Haider’s game? The warrior seemed sincere enough, promising him a face-to-face with Bastian. But despite everything, it hadn’t happened. At least, not yet. Which was why he always put together a contingency plan, one for every occasion. He’d done the same for the Nightfury situation over a month ago… long before he approached Bastian’s warriors.

A brilliant strategy, but for one thing.

The male in charge of plan B wasn’t returning his calls either.

Two weeks had passed and… nothing. Not a peep from the warrior he’d freed from indentured servitude for the sole purpose of infiltrating the Seattle scene. He needed viable intel to tempt Bastian into an alliance with him. A two-pronged attack. Step one involved him. As a member of the high council and Archguard elite—head of one of the dynastic families that ruled Dragonkind—he sat at the
very top of Dragonkind hierarchy, able to collect insider information Bastian wouldn’t be privy to on his own. Details of which he would share with the Nightfury commander to win his trust.

And step two? Plant a spy inside the Nightfury camp.

A risky proposition? No question. But success required calculated risk, and Nian needed an edge. One that would allow him to keep an eye on Bastian and the Razorback situation. The best way to accomplish that was from inside the Nightfury pack. The plan held tremendous promise but wasn’t without problems. Bastian didn’t run an adoption agency. The male was too guarded to accept a new pack member without vetting him first. So the chance of planting an ally loyal to Nian next to the Nightfury commander was slim to none. But if his warrior proved useful to Bastian—figured out a way to exist on the fringes of his pack—it would be enough. Enough to feed him information. Enough to help him keep his thumb on the pulse of Bastian’s mood. Enough to give him the advantage while he furthered his own agenda in Europe.

But only if the bastard he’d sent to Seattle did his job.

Impatience beat on Nian as he reached the last landing. With a snarl, he upped his pace. His gaze on the Exit sign, he hammered the security bar. The door swung wide, flying back to slam into the building facade. The violent bang pinged off brick and mortar, raging across the cityscape to touch the heart of Old Town. Sidestepping, he avoided the backlash of reinforced steel and strode across the roof.

Five stories up. Not a lot of height to get airborne. Nian didn’t care. He needed to fly. To shift into dragon form, feel the rush of frigid air and experience Prague in the predawn hours.

Arms and legs pumping, Nian sprinted toward the edge. Street lights flashed in his periphery. His magic flared, swirling in the center of his palm, warming the air around him as he transformed and leapt skyward. The burnished gold of his interlocking dragon skin glimmered in the gloom. With a growl, he unfolded his wings and rotated into an ascending spiral. Pushed south by the north wind, frost rushed over him, stripping away the city filth. The tri-headed spikes running along his spine rattled, shivering down to touch the tip of his barbed tail. Baring his fangs, he hummed, reveling in winter’s sweet smells as urban lights fell away beneath him.

Oh, so good. Better than
good,
actually. Perfection. Bliss. Excellence wrapped up in open skies and the brutal stretch of taut muscle.

Fast flying took him out of the city, over thick forests and rocky terrain. Nian sighed. Almost there. Another few minutes, and he’d be where he yearned to be… home. Safe within the confines of his mountain lair. Away from the demands of his many businesses and all the Archguard tripe.

Fine golden mist rising from his nostrils, Nian shook his head. Something needed to change, and quickly. He couldn’t stand much more of Rodin’s foolishness. The leader of the Archguard was out of control: arrogant, overconfident, infected with idiotic notions driven by twisted ideology. So blind. So stubborn. So very foolish. The depravity—the female slave auctions… the fight clubs with ten-year-old boys playing gladiator—turned Nian’s stomach, driving him to the point of rage.

Not good. Or the least bit productive.

Showing his cards too soon wouldn’t get him what he wanted. Neither would anger or grief. Only deliberate
action and a clever plan would achieve his end. He wanted so much better for his race. But change would never occur with Rodin at the helm. Fact, not fiction. He’d watched and waited since ascending to his position, searching for a light at the end of the tunnel. It hadn’t come. Now—after three months of enduring the Archguard’s corruption—Nian knew it never would.

Disgust settled deep. Frustration followed, tightening his chest.

He banished both and, eyes on the treetops, dove toward the forest below. Seconds before he collided with the canopy, Nian dodged, slicing between two enormous tree trunks. Increasing his velocity, he swooped beneath the outstretched arms of ancient beeches, navigating tight turns in the towering Eastwood. Snowflakes drifted like glitter only to fall away as he rushed the cliff face. Rising like a pale wraith in the dark, the mountain wall rose, calling him home, calming his mind, helping him decide the way forward.

Time to face the facts. The entire Archguard must be executed. Right alongside Rodin.

Necessity and honor—the health of his race—dictated the path. He must do what needed to be done. No doubt. No room for hesitation. No leaving it to someone else either. Just sure knowledge coupled with the wherewithal to deal the final death blows. Nian shook his horned head. Christ. What a waste. All the violence. All the death. All the destruction to come. If only he could convince the Archguard to listen. If only the council would abandon the old ways and send Dragonkind down a new road… a safer one, a better one for future generations, one without the threat of war.

War. On a global scale.

Nian knew it was coming. He smelled it in the air. Felt it in the wind. Saw it in the tension and mistrust between Dragonkind packs the world over. All eyes turned to Seattle and the feud raging between Nightfury and Razorback. Members of his race were picking sides—supporting one pack over the other—and soon… very,
very
soon… each commander would decide. Make their allegiances known. Draw the battle lines. Allow the fighting to spread from its epicenter—Washington State—to other areas of the globe.

A state that would put all of Dragonkind in jeopardy.

Stretching his wings to capacity, Nian came up over the last rise. A quick flip. An elegant twist. A whisper of sound. Nothing more, and he hung, suspended in midair, his eyes fixed on the manor house nestled into the curve of the mountainside. Built by a duke centuries earlier, his home perched on a wide-faced ledge, its foothold on the rocky outcropping more certain than a mountain goat’s. Neither the mountain nor the howling winds challenged its dominion. The house simply belonged, growing out of jagged stone like a tree from the ground. And as Nian set down on the balcony overlooking the valley below, he blew out a long-drawn breath.

His razor-sharp claws clicked as his paws touched down on worn stone. Without thought, he shifted, moving from dragon to human form, and conjured his clothes. As the baggy workout pants and long-sleeved T settled against his skin, a shadow passed behind the bank of French doors along the far side of the balcony. His mouth curved. A dead-bolt clicked. The doorknob turned, and his trusted servant stepped out into the winter chill.

Dressed in his usual fair, tuxedo and tails, the Numbai bowed his head. “Welcome home, my lord.”

“Lapier.”

“What news?”

“None,” he said, moving toward the only male he considered family. The Numbai served him well, caring for him as he had every male of his line for generations. Thank God. Nian didn’t know what he would do without him. Friend. Confidant. Caretaker. Lapier did it all, more than his fair share most nights. “The council is blind to Rodin’s ways. They remain loyal to the bastard. I can find no crack to slip through.”

“Then it is as we feared.”

Worse, actually. But Nian refused to argue the point. “Any word from our other pursuits?”

“Not yet.”

“Christ.”

His hands curled into twin fists, Nian scowled at the awakening sky. It shouldn’t be this hard. He was trying to do the right thing, but as was her habit, fate intervened, turning her tiresome wheel. Getting in his way. Mucking up an excellent strategy. And as he raged at the setbacks, mind churning to see all the angles, to adjust and forge a new way forward, to somehow salvage—

“My lord.” Concern in his eyes, the framework of glass and stone archways rising behind him, Lapier paused, and Nian knew what he was thinking. The “look”—the one Lapier reserved for when he misbehaved—said it all. The Numbai didn’t agree with his plan… or the ambition that drove it. Nian sighed. Lapier clasped his hands together, making the rings he wore wink in the low light. “Perhaps, it’s for the best, Nian. A sign to leave well enough alone.”

The best?
Not a chance.

Leaving Rodin to his own devices wasn’t a good idea. The bastard corroded everything he touched. Not that Lapier gave a damn about the big picture. The Numbai’s duties extended to him… and him alone. He didn’t care about the greater health of Dragonkind, just that Nian lived to see a new night.

Biting down on a curse, he padded across the balcony on bare feet. “I’ll be in my study.”

“Would you like a bourbon?”

“Bring me the bottle.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

Nian huffed.
As you wish.
Right. As if.
If only
… what a load of BS. So only one thing left to do. Get roaring drunk. Find some oblivion and stay there for a while. At least, throughout the day. Maybe blunting his thoughts, forgetting his troubles, would help jump-start a new strategy. Frustration and fixation weren’t a good pair. Both made males act in unpredictable ways. Not something a warrior in his position could afford, so… why not? Hitting the bottle for a few hours was as good a plan as any.

Exhaling long and slow, Nian reached for his magic. The mental flick swung one of the double doors wide. Cold stone chilling the soles of his bare feet, he strode over the threshold and into the central corridor. Pale walls slid into Arab archways, then reached up to touch the fluted ceiling overhead. Lush with tradition, Turkish rugs streamed the length of the hallway to cover colorful mosaic floor tiles underfoot. Simple yet beautiful. He loved the house, appreciated its isolation, enjoyed the flawless symmetry along with the craftsmanship that spoke of another culture in another time.

Home sweet home. Warm. Inviting. Safe.

Crossing into his study, he gave the windows dominating one side of the room a quick once-over. Enchanted by a spell, the clear glass rippled, darkening by the second, protecting him from the awakening sun. His focus on the magical metamorphosis, Nian reached into the pocket of his pants. The lighter he carried slid into his palm.

Instant relaxation. Perfection in solace.

With a flick, he thumbed the gold top. The lighter snapped open. Nian stared at the wick a moment, then snapped the lid closed. The sharp sound echoed like a question. What should he do? Force the issue? Disappear for a few days and make a secret trip to Seattle to corner Bastian himself? Rolling his shoulders, Nian stared at the fresco on the domed ceiling. Wood nymphs in full frolic. He frowned at the half-naked females. No answers there. He flipped the lighter again. Click-click-snap. Click-click—

Ding-ding… ping.

Nian blinked. What the hell was that?

Frowning, he scanned his study. The noise came again. His attention snapped toward his desk. Ding-ding… ping. His gaze narrowed on the computer he’d set up a month ago. Not his favorite thing. Technology belonged to humans, not Dragonkind. But he couldn’t argue with progress. Or his inability to connect to his contact through mind-speak. The male was too far away for him to link in and use the cosmic connection his kind favored, which made the computer a necessary evil.

One he really needed to learn how to use.

Oriental rug soft beneath his feet, he rounded the corner of his desk and glanced at the monitor. Black from disuse, a small red icon blinked in the center of the screen.
Nian drew in a quick breath. Oh, thank Christ. A message. He had a—

Ding-ding… ping.

Focused on the icon, he tossed his lighter on his desk blotter and reached for the mouse. The second he touched it, the screen went active. A box with the words “video conference” flashed in the middle. Hope hit hard, banding around his chest, making his heart thump and throat go tight. He swallowed past the knot and, repositioning the cursor, clicked on the link. A circular whirligig spun center screen a moment, then…

Movement flashed as a male looked away from the book he held. Dark-blue eyes narrowed on him. “Where the hell have you been?”

The tone should’ve pissed him off. Nian’s lips curved, instead. He couldn’t help it. Was so glad to see the warrior, relief superseded the usual respect he demanded. “Around. It’s good to see you, Azrad.”

“Wish I could say the same.” Raptor flat, Azrad’s gaze ate across time and space, threatening to devour him. The metal-stud piercing in his eyebrow winked, drawing attention to the burgundy highlights in his hair. A rough look. All Goth, no sophistication in sight. Not that it mattered. Nian didn’t care how the warrior looked. Lethal with loads of cunning, the male wielded know-how like a razor-toothed club… without mercy or an ounce of hesitation. The perfect instrument in the game Nian played. “The Nightfuries are a pain in the ass. There’s some really strange shit going on over here.”