Fury of Fire (16 page)

“Ivar?” The deep bass came from the other side of the door.

“In here.”

With a forceful shove, the door rocketed inward, banged against the wall and…stayed there, door handle buried in the Sheetrock. Ivar didn’t care about the damage to his wall. He was more interested in the male coming over the threshold. Amethyst eyes aglow, Forge dipped his head beneath the doorframe, then stopped short, standing just inside the room. The male always did that…came in, but never committed to sharing space with him.

The indecisiveness annoyed the hell out of Ivar. The distance was like a physical manifestation of Forge’s mental state—of his inability to commit to the Razorback cause.

Always direct and to the point, the male said, “What the fuck?”

“Got some news.” Holding the warrior’s gaze, he stood and moved around to the front of his desk. Expression appropriately grave, he sat on the edge and crossed his arms over his chest. “I wanted to tell you myself.”

Forge tipped his chin, telling him without words to let it fly.

So, Ivar did. Got down to the nitty-gritty and explained exactly what had gone down with his female. He left nothing out, neither scent nor sound; retelling the female’s brutal death with perfect recall. But more important than the how was the why. And as Ivar talked, he laid the blame on thick, putting Bastian in the hot seat.

“No.” Forge shook his head. Unsteady on his feet, he backpedaled and, as his shoulders hit the wall, fumbled for his cell phone. The one he’d bought to keep in touch with the female. “I just saw her…shared a meal with—”

“I am sorry,” he said, surprised that he meant it. The pain in Forge’s eyes was too real too deny. Jesus, the male had actually loved Caroline what’s-her-name. “But we’ll get your son back. Lothair and I have already started searching…we’ll hunt the Nightfuries down and find—”

Forge went off like a bomb, the agonizing roar unlike anything Ivar had ever heard. As the male went ballistic, magic surged and furniture flew, spinning around the office like a tornado had just touched down.

So much for Ivar’s matched-set office furniture. His desk was already in two pieces, and the chair? Nothing but kindling. Not that it mattered. Forge could tear the place apart for all he cared, because after months of work, Ivar had the male exactly where he wanted him.

Mad with grief, burning for revenge, Forge would do what he’d never been able to…track Bastian and make him suffer before he died.

Ivar smiled as he and Lothair took cover in the hallway.

Yippee-ki-yay. Let the games begin.

His radar up and running, Bastian walked into the Gridiron with Wick on his heels. Music thumped, the heavy metal vibe rolling up hard as he paused on the edge of the crowd and scanned the interior of the nightclub. Kitted out Goth style, everything was black and mirrored with stainless steel accents. Not that he cared. He hadn’t flown all the way downtown for a lesson in interior design.

The enemy was here. Or had been. He could smell them. Trace amounts of brimstone cut through the sharp scent of alcohol and…huh. Bastian took another whiff. The scent was upscale, posh with a capital P—a fancy oil some dragons liked to rub on their scales.

Bastian stifled a snort. Freaking pansies and their nasty spa treatments. Wicked vain, all of them.

Not that he was complaining. The scent trail made his job easier. Made tracking them a softball pitch in a hardball game. Every once in a while, though, Bastian wished the idiots would grow an imagination and try something new. The club scene was getting old. But predictable was just that…
predictable
. The Seattle strip was prime hunting ground. An environment fit for blending, for finding females with the best energy.

Which got his crank on.

He hated the downtown core and the cloying sweetness of the clubs. All the female perfume sloshing around in a vat of human sweat and stale alcohol. Not to mention the overcrowding. Man, that was the worst, even though no one ever came near him. People always tripped over themselves to get out of his way.

Tonight was no different.

After getting a load of him, the humans scattered left and right, opening a path wide enough to drive a Humvee though. Fine by him. Anyone touched him tonight and he’d go off like a fricking bomb.

He didn’t want to be here in the filth and squalor. In the bump and grind. See all the sex happening in dark corners. Or watch the humans pour poison down their throats and shoot toxic waste into their veins.

He wanted to be home. With his female.

Bastian growled, disgusted with himself. Myst’s pull on him was insanity squared. But the tug—the alluring need—made him imagine her beneath him. She’d be unbelievable, magic with all that soft skin sliding against his and…shit. He kept picturing them together: entwined, tangled up in silk sheets, her head on his shoulder while they loved and talked and—

He needed to get a grip. A big one before he completely lost control of the situation. And his fantasy.

Yeah, on paper that argument worked great. In the real world? Not so much. The power of his attraction to Myst was impossible to ignore. Its grip was too strong. So he was stuck…jammed between what was right and what he wanted.

Wasn’t that fun? Uh-huh, a whole barrel full of laughs.

And the entire reason he wasn’t at Black Diamond tonight.

He needed some space. She did, too. Rushing her wouldn’t do either of them any favors. Especially since he refused to let her go.

Not for the reasons he’d given her—although those were pretty compelling. No, it was much worse than Ivar and the Razorbacks’ threat. Bastian couldn’t return her to the human world because he literally
couldn’t
…like he had a physical impediment or something. A stop button that got smacked every time he thought about taking the easy way out.

Which meant one thing. He’d bonded with her. Taken to her so fiercely that his dragon side was digging in, building trenches to defend his territory.

Man. Was that even normal?

He didn’t know. The bonding had happened so fast. He’d met Myst what…a day ago? Yet he recognized that she belonged to him and, as much as he hated to admit it, Bastian knew he was hers, too.

And didn’t that suck.

What he had with Myst was destined to be short-term. He knew it. Biology confirmed it. She would never survive birthing his son. And getting her pregnant was inevitable. Even if he sent her home—hell, to the other side of the planet—he wouldn’t be able to stay away when the Meridian realigned. Not now that he’d tasted her. His biological imperative would drive him to find and claim her.

All Dragonkind males went a bit nuts when the energy field shifted and the Meridian surged. Bastian and his warriors were no different. Twice a year, at the fall and spring realignments, Daimler locked them in the vault one level below the lair’s underground facilities. It was twenty-four hours of ball-breaking, teeth-grinding hell. Not that any of them ever complained. It was better than the alternative—or had been until he’d made his decision to find a female and be the first to sire a child.

A great plan. Until he met Myst.

Now he was upside down and backwards…totally turned around about his decision and what it meant for his female.

His fist cranked in tight, Bastian rolled his shoulders as he made his way through the club, trying not to think about what the next three days would bring. But it was hard. The ache wouldn’t go away. As heaviness settled like a dump truck on his chest, Bastian forced himself to keep moving as he scanned the crowd, looking for Razorbacks. And a fight. He needed a muscle-stretching, claw-grinding, bloody brawl.

Bastian snarled, low and soft. Where were they? Hiding in dark corners? He sensed at least two, but couldn’t see them. Couldn’t pinpoint them within the thick heat and stench of the Gridiron. Hell, he hoped there were more than just two. A full squadron of enemy warriors was just what the doctor ordered tonight.

Climbing the stairs to the VIP section, he focused on the back hallway. Long and narrow, the corridor streamed past the bathrooms on its way to the emergency exit and the alley beyond.

Shitkickers rooted to the floor, Bastian stared at the reinforced steel door and sent out feelers in a surge of energy. Letting his magic roll served two purposes. One, it broadcasted his location, a kind of come-and-get-me beacon the enemy would hear and follow. And two? The magical ping would bounce off any Razorbacks in the area and send that information back to him. Within seconds, he would know their strengths and weaknesses. Probably their shoe sizes, too.

Ousting an entwined couple from a booth with a mental zap, Bastian slid into the seat. Rocking a fierce expression, Wick grabbed a chair and, flipping it backward, straddled the thing. Golden eyes roaming the dance floor, the male folded his arms on the chair back and settled in.

“They’re here,”
Wick said through mind-speak.

“I know.”
The ping came back, giving Bastian an impression. Two males. One young, the other much older. Good. Two inexperienced idiots wouldn’t be much of a challenge.

“Got two closing in fast.”

“What’s the word?”

“Watch the bigger one. He’s rocking Scald.”
Bastian’s lips curved up at the corners. Not bad. Scald was an interesting weapon. Natural napalm mixed with venom, the toxin slid underneath scales. The highly flammable stuff was deadly when mixed with fire. And what do you know?
“The second breathes fire.”

A hard gleam in his eyes, Wick nodded.

A waitress stopped in front of their table, wearing a tray and not much else. One hip cocked, she ran her gaze over Bastian. He endured her inspection, thinking she wasn’t nearly as pretty as Myst was.

Jesus. What was wrong with him?

No way should he be thinking of his female now. That kind of mental side trip screwed with a male’s focus and got him killed.

Registering his non-interest, the waitress glanced at Wick. She flinched and shuffled sideways, fear surging in her scent as her gaze ping-ponged back to Bastian. No surprise there. Wick might be a handsome male, but unless he applied himself, the females ran scared.

Holding her tray in front of her like a shield, she asked, “What can I get you?”

“Johnnie Walker, Blue. Neat.” He hitched his thumb in Wick’s direction. “A lager for my friend.”

Wick raised a brow, no doubt wondering what he was doing. Bastian ignored him. The enemy males were a few minutes off yet. He wanted to blend in, and two guys dressed in black leather sitting in the VIP section without a drink didn’t qualify as camouflage.

Reaching into this pocket, Bastian took out a wad of cash. He peeled off three Benjamins and set the bills on the tabletop. “Keep us good and poured. Got it?”

“I’m yours all night.”

Uh-huh. Bastian knew that before she said it. If he wanted to he could raise her skirt right here and do her on the tabletop. Funny, a day ago that might have amused him…interested him, even. Not now, though. There was only one female he wanted, and she was at home. Sitting in his kitchen eating waffles.

God, he was so screwed.

Hips swaying in her barely there skirt, the waitress returned from the bar and set their drinks down, Bastian’s in front of him, Wick’s on the edge of the table. Close enough for the male to reach, far enough away so the female stayed out of range. Not that Wick cared. The warrior never touched alcohol. It was against his principles or something.

A tingle swept the back of Bastian’s neck.
“Show time.”

Wick growled and, eyes on the swarm of human bodies, shifted in his seat for an easy exit.

The dancing throng parted like the Red Sea, opening a wide swath. Strobe lights flashed. Head and shoulders above the rest, the male came through the crowd. Locating them at the back of the club, the Razorback’s mouth curved. He stood unmoving for a moment, boots planted in the middle of the dance floor, a challenge shimmering in his gaze.

Bastian didn’t take the bait. He couldn’t start a fight inside the club. Sure, memories could be wiped, but humans were slippery creatures. One might escape his net…with a cell phone picture or two. Not something any of his kind wanted to see on CNN. Dragonkind needed to stay hidden, an unknown in the human world. Otherwise, the inferior race would weapon up, like it had in past centuries. And honestly? Government-sanctioned dragon slayers were just plain annoying.

When neither he nor Wick moved, the Razorback reached out and snagged a female. Using the blonde as a shield, the rogue pulled her in tight and, cupping the nape of her neck, touched his mouth to the side of her throat. Wick tensed, ready to let fly as the female buried her hands in the enemy’s hair, tipped her head back and gave up her energy.

Bastian grabbed Wick’s forearm to keep him seated. So the Razorback was feeding. Big deal. He wouldn’t drain the female…not here. The most he would get was a sip. One that wouldn’t help him in the end.

Downing the JW in one swallow, Bastian relished the burn and got to his feet. Only one male had entered the club. The other was still outside…waiting.

Which was excellent news. He hadn’t gone up against a male rocking Scald in a while. Oh, yeah. This was going to be all kinds of fun.

The Razorback backed away from the female as Bastian crossed the VIP section. His gaze riveted on the male, he kept his pace smooth and unhurried. No sense startling the jack-off. He didn’t want him to bolt.

Running and hiding was not on the menu. Not tonight. Screaming and begging, however? Yeah, that would do. At least, for starters. The dying would come later, but right now, he needed the pair to sing like a couple of songbirds.

With Ivar on a killing spree and the cops involved, he was after information. A whole lot of it. The kind only a Razorback could provide…like: where to find the sadistic SOB responsible for stirring Dragonkind’s pot with a shit stick. The result of all that churning? Over a century of war and a fractured community, one in which males picked sides and committed their sons to the cause…rogue or Nightfury.

The Archguard sat on the fence, not knowing which way to jump. The council’s lack of leadership put it on the brink of sanctioning the worst genocide the planet had ever known.

Forget the Holocaust. Forget the Congo and Darfur. Ivar’s agenda would wipe out all things human.

At least, that’s what Bastian suspected.

Was he 100 percent certain? No. All he had right now was a whole lot of nothing. A handful of suppositions coupled with a gut feeling that pointed to the undeniable possibility.

What he needed now was to prove it. A tall order? Maybe. But he knew Ivar. Had trained alongside him in the Transylvanian pack before the male had gone rogue. Ivar’s obsession with science made a crack addict’s habit look like a trip to Disneyland. And like a druggie, the twisted SOB got a contact high from the destructive forces science could wield.

Humankind was an incredibly frail species. Case in point? Cancer and HIV. Both diseases ravaged their race while nothing touched Dragonkind.

But no matter how many times he warned the Archguard, the lofty males sat on their duffs and did nothing. It was a wait-and-see strategy that would get them all killed. Dragonkind needed human females to survive. Without them, they would all die…in an agonizing manner that made the bubonic plague look merciful.

Ignorant fools, every one of them.

Reaching the stairs to the VIP lounge, Bastian slowed his roll. The closer he got, the more skittish the Razorback became, like he regretted signing up as the bait-and-switch guy. Well, too bad. The pinhead had started the game and Bastian wanted to play.

“I’m going out back.”
Wick veered left behind him, heading for the narrow hallway and the emergency exit beyond.

“Gonna take a look-see.”

“Keep me posted.”

Bastian watched the Razorback fade in behind the bar. Well, at least the little bugger was making it interesting.

Putting the bar between them was an obvious strategy. The freaking thing was huge…and annoying as hell. The biggest nightmare in a place that specialized in them, the structure formed a perfect circle beside the dance floor. Three deep, humans thronged the countertop on all sides. Clad in thin, transparent stone, the marble bar face was backlit…a glowing 360-degree free-for-all of bumping bodies wrapped in the thump-thump-thump of heavy-duty bass. And that wasn’t the only problem. High stools sat around its periphery, elevating those seated into visual interference.

The scene provided the perfect cover. If he didn’t move fast, the Razorback would be out the other emergency door before—

Too late. Pinhead was already running.

Unleashing his speed, Bastian gunned it for the front door.
“Watch out. The little shit bolted.”

“Your ETA?”

Bastian jumped over the black cord stretched across the club entrance. The bouncers cursed and females waiting in line shrieked as his feet connected with the sidewalk at the bottom of the stairs.
“Airborne in thirty seconds.”

“Perfect,”
Wick said and meant it, too.

Great. Just what he needed. Wick on the warpath, playing it solo.

Then again, he couldn’t blame him. He and Wick suffered from the same affliction: outnumbered-itis. The lethal male loved it when the odds leaned heavily in the Razorbacks’ favor. Or at least, he enjoyed the perception…and the enemy’s surprise when he upended their sorry asses.

The idiots. There was something wrong with their math. When would they learn that more bodies never equaled certain victory?

Pausing on the street corner, Bastian scanned Yesler Way, looking for some privacy and space. He needed to get airborne and being smack-dab in the middle of the Seattle club district was too public. Sure, he could go invisible, cloak himself to get the job done. But disappearing into thin air in front of a crowd wasn’t the best idea. All those humans owned handhelds: iPhones and Blackberries with video capabilities.

Not exactly the kind of impression he wanted to leave.

Taking a sharp left, he turned into the parking lot. Perfect. Privacy, space, and leverage all wrapped up in one.

Without slowing, Bastian hurdled a concrete barrier. Two strides later, he leapt onto the roof of a tricked-out SUV. Metal groaned, dimpling beneath his boots as he launched himself skyward. Shifting to dragon form at the top of his jump, his wings caught air and he climbed, surging above buildings and rooftops.

“Wick…on my way.”

“No hurry.”

Bastian snorted. Even out of breath, the male never said quit. At least now, though, Wick talked to him. The first couple of times out together, the warrior hadn’t said boo. Not even when he’d been in trouble, outnumbered four to one in a firefight.

Cloaked by magic, Bastian buzzed the Space Needle, flying fast toward the waterfront. The warehouse district and train yards were a favorite of Wick’s. Crazy as it seemed, the male loved to fight near heavy machinery. Hurling locomotives and front-end loaders at the enemy was fast becoming a hobby for him.

True to form, he found his warrior in aerial claw-to-claw combat over the PRS rail yard. And right below him? A dump truck. Shit, it was only a matter of time before the thing went flying.

The pair of Razorbacks attacked in tandem, keeping Wick’s hands full. Thank God. Dodging enemy claws was hard enough without getting nailed in the grill by a Freightliner.

Casting his invisibility cloak wide, he added his magic to Wick’s, ensuring they stayed hidden from view, and banked right. He needed an opening, a small window of opportunity to join the fight. If he engaged too soon, he’d hit Wick. If he went in too late? His warrior would end up injured. So he flew around the periphery and waited…and waited. And waited for Wick to let him in.

With a spectacular flip, Wick dodged claws and spiked tails. Avoiding the smaller dragon’s fangs, Wicks’ gold and black scales flashed as he delivered a bone-crunching uppercut. The bigger dragon reeled, head snapping to the side.

Finally. He had his window.

Engaging fast, Bastian sideswiped the bigger male. The razor-sharp blade of his tail bit deep, slicing through green scales. As blood welled on the enemy’s side, Pinhead bared his fangs. Fantastic. The Razorback was about to treat him to a bit of—

Pinhead exhaled on a hiss.

Scald shot between the fucker’s fangs. Bastian banked hard. A second before the napalm hit, he tucked his wings and rotated, spiraling into a supersonic spin. As the venomous stream rocketed beneath him, he got a whiff of it. Wicked cool. The stuff smelled nasty: like gasoline and dirty socks mixed with something sweet. Kind of like Buckley’s cough syrup. Which made sense: Scald could steal the company’s slogan, “It tastes awful. And it works.”

The dump truck went flying, giant tires spinning as it hurtled through the air. With a twist, Bastian took cover, diving toward the railway tracks. The red Razorback wasn’t as quick and—

Crunch!
Metal met scales, snapping bone with a sickening crack.

Jesus. The takedown was a thing of beauty. Wick’s aim was bang on, as usual. Though how he managed to get a hold of the Mack in the first place was a total mystery. One Bastian wanted to solve, but…

Now was not the time.

Wings extended, using a crane’s boom as cover, Bastian flipped, resetting his strike angle. He needed to take the green dragon alive. Answers…he wanted some before he killed the Razorback. And what do you know? Pinhead was on board with the plan. Struck stupid, he watched his comrade fall from the sky. As the red dragon hit the ground—a truck in place of his head—and ashed out, the remaining rogue roared.

More Scald hit the airwaves.

Bastian rocketed into a side flip. Pinhead had just made a dumb-ass mistake. Speed and agility equaled maneuverability…all huge advantages in an aerial dogfight. The Razorback had obviously missed the memo. Relying on Scald, the male hung in midair, a stationary target with a huge bull’s-eye on his chest.

Napalm streamed by, a mere inch from his wing tip. With an abrupt shift, Bastian cut his flight short and…

One potato. Two potato. Three potato, four…

He broadsided the rogue, hitting him like the freight train he knew Wick wanted to throw. The strike drove the male backward. As the Razorback’s head whiplashed, Bastian grabbed his wings just above the elbow joint. His talons sank deep, digging past scales to find flesh as he applied pressure. Pinhead squawked and twisted, flailing to break Bastian’s hold.

Too little, too late.

He bent the Razorback’s wings back. Bone snapped and the sound ricocheted, echoing off steel-clad warehouses, joining the male’s scream of agony. Enemy claws raked him, tearing at his shoulder and chest. Bastian tightened his grip and, without mercy, flew toward the ground. Pinhead’s spine collided with concrete with a gruesome crack. Jarred by the impact, a rusty pile of railway ties rattled and the Razorback gasped, blood bubbling up his throat to seep from the side of his mouth.

Applying pressure, he pushed the Razorback’s pain threshold. “Where is he?”

Wick touched down beside him. Golden eyes narrowed, the dump truck-wielding male sat like a cat, tail wrapped around his front paws, the tip twitching as he watched and listened.

Broken and bloodied, the green dragon wheezed, “L-lab. Always…the l-lab.”

“Doing what?”

“Don’t…” The Razorback coughed, fighting for each breath. “K-now. Don’t…go…in there. Bad s-shit.”

Wick bared his fangs.
“Proof positive.”

“Not enough for the Archguard,”
Bastian said in mind-speak, frustration seeping into his tone.
“They won’t take my word for it.”

“Imbeciles.”

B snarled in agreement. The Razorback moaned, the sound so awful Bastian took pity. Grabbing his horned head, he twisted, breaking his enemy’s neck in one clean snap. Limp in death, the rogue’s green scales ashed as he stepped off and…

Bastian’s eyes narrowed as a prickling rush rattled over his scales.

Wick’s head snapped toward a break between two warehouses. The alleyway between the two buildings was narrow, but wide enough to see the ocean beyond. “
B…
”

“I feel it.”

Sidestepping, he got low and, using the railway ties as cover, he let his magic roll. Something was out there. Something big. Something he couldn’t identify, but…

Fog rose off the surface of the water. Wisping out, the thick brume frothed, creeping over the breakwater along the shoreline. Ethereally beautiful, power hidden in its depths…magic as lethal as Rikar’s ice mist. The spikes running down the center of Bastian’s spine vibrated, rattling, warning him.

“Get airborne,”
Bastian said, a second before a fireball lit up the night sky.

Like a long-tailed comet, it streaked over the top of a warehouse and…Jesus. Fire-acid. The deadly combo ate through scales, burning dragons from the inside out.

“Go. Go. Go.”

Unfurling his wings, Wick leapt skyward.

The fireball rocketed into a pair of giant fuel tanks behind them. Diesel geysered sky-high, then ignited, the orange fireball mushrooming with the force of a nuclear bomb. The shock wave blew Wick sideways. A horrific clang echoed as his skull met the side of a building.

Bastian saw him crumple a second before the explosion threw him backward, introducing his ribcage to a healthy dose of steel. Bones cracked, giving way as he was body slammed by a front-end loader. Pain spiraled, biting into his torso. Sucking wind, starved for oxygen, Bastian rolled. Air or no air, he needed to move and stay clear of the fire-acid. The poisonous gel was everywhere, mixing with diesel, throwing off black smoke and toxic fumes. Fingers of flame rose like mini-tornados, racing across fuel soaked dirt and…

Agony licked over his hip.

God, he was on fire. But worse than that? He was coated in acid from knee to shoulder along his left side. Forget the pain, he had bigger problems here. The acid worked fast, would take him apart scale by scale to reach the vulnerable muscle beneath. Once that happened, he’d lose his ability to move, becoming a sitting duck for the enemy to pick apart from the sky.

And he’d lost his wing mate.

In a heap on the ground, Wick still hadn’t moved.

Molding his wing to his side, Bastian smothered the last of the flames. The gruesome smell of burnt skin rolled with the smoke, making bile rise in his throat. He swallowed it, ignoring the pain as he scanned the terrain. He couldn’t stay here. Wick needed time to shake off the strike, which meant he must get to higher ground. Find a defensive position and hammer the enemy when they flew in low.

The fuckers wouldn’t know what hit them. But first? He needed to get his ass in gear.

Unfolding his wings, Bastian leapt skyward. His left wing didn’t catch air, sending him sideways, flapping like an injured eagle. Jesus. He couldn’t lift off. One of his wings was fried, acid eating holes in the webbing.