Fury of Fire (4 page)

Bastian smelled the Razorback before he saw him. But seeing was believing, so he stayed low, eyes glued to the edge of the tree line. He didn’t wait long. The rogue came in on a slow glide, wings spread, iridescent brown scales flashing in the moonlight. Caught by the sudden rush of air, black smoke swirled, touching the dragon’s underbelly as he circled the debris field, looking for bodies in twisted metal and burning medical supplies.

Crouched between a rusted-out car and the garage wall, arms locked around Myst, Bastian stayed perfectly still. The big male circled again, giving Bastian a clear shot from his vantage point on the ground.

He didn’t take it. The approach was all wrong, the sight line way too easy.

Hovering above the crumpled ambulance, eyes glowing like beacons in the night sky, the Razorback waited. Bastian counted to seven before the rogue gave up and banked left, dipping low over the sad-looking house. As the tip of his brown tail disappeared behind the peak of the roof, Bastian shifted right, keeping them hidden behind the Buick while he improved his view.

The jack-offs were getting smarter.

Usually the Razorbacks attacked en masse, without care for the consequences. Sending in a lone soldier to draw him out was new for them. Smart as far as strategy went; dumb-ass stupid in terms of outcome. Did the idiots really think he would take the bait?

Probably. He sometimes did—just to keep things interesting—but couldn’t now.

Not tonight.

Tonight the battle strategy revolved around one thing…protecting Myst and the precious bundle sleeping in her arms. He sure as hell wasn’t going to risk them. And the idea of Myst’s death? Yeah, no way he would go there.

Bastian pulled Myst a little closer. She’d stopped fighting him—thank Jesus. But, shock had set in and she shivered, air coming in raw rasps as she struggled for each breath. He wanted to apologize for that: for her fear and what she was about to witness. She deserved better, had been through hell already, and didn’t need the added trouble of discovering dragon-shifters in her tidy little world.

It couldn’t be helped. Circumstance had dealt her a bad hand. All he could do now was make sure she lived to see another sunrise.

Sheltering her, Bastian drew the edges of his leather trench coat around her. Curled into a ball between the spread of his thighs, she turned her face into his chest. With gentle hands, he tucked her head beneath his chin, lending his heat, absorbing her chill while he scanned the perimeter and listened hard. Fire licked towards the night sky and long grass rustled as enemy claws touched down in the backyard.

The sound carried on the damp wind, the infinitesimal snick louder than a gun being cocked at close range. Battle-lust roared through Bastian, tightening muscle over bone, urging him to shift, to make the rogue pay for coming near Myst and the baby. He locked himself down. Patience was the priority, caution an absolute must. The cloaking spell was doing its job, hiding them from enemy eyes—making the pack improvise and change tactics.

Bastian understood the Razorbacks’ strategy. They couldn’t attack what they couldn’t find. Shit-for-brains in the backyard was a smoke screen, a decoy sent to draw him into the open for the others to tear apart.

And yeah, there were others.

Five, counting the one sniffing around the dilapidated shed.

On a normal night, the small pack wouldn’t have presented much of a challenge. Not when he and Rikar closed ranks. But with a female and child to protect? The sliding scale went from mildly irritating to FUBARed in a hurry.

Rikar pinged him from outside the fighting triangle—a three-mile separation that prevented the enemy from detecting him. “
Bastian…what the fuck are you doing?
”

“Waiting.”

“For what?”

“The decoy to move.”

“Hell, they’re getting smarter,”
Rikar said, soft growl tinged with amusement.

“Not exactly what we need tonight,”
he said, not liking the odds.

Bloodthirsty to the point of obsession, the Razorbacks were goal-oriented and single-minded—Bastian gave them full marks for that—but they fell short in other areas. Intelligence, for one.

Made his job easier most nights, if not entirely interesting.

Opening his senses wide, Bastian mapped the imprint of each, measuring the electrostatic signature all of his kind carried. Like a fingerprint, the impression was unique to the individual, a code written in his DNA. The ability to dissect a dragon’s strengths and weaknesses from a distance was an unusual talent. Most never acquired the skill. Bastian excelled at it. He knew to the degree how powerful each male was, down to the color of his scales and the poison he exhaled.

The group hunting him was young, more ballsy than experienced. Good in some respects, terrible in others.

Seasoned fighters would see Myst as a trophy and keep the fighting away from her. Inexperienced ones would set the trap and attack without care for collateral damage.

“How is she?”
Rikar asked, concern edging out impatience.

He cupped the nape of Myst’s neck, praying his touch soothed her. She was throwing off too much energy, levels that drew dangerously close to breaking through the invisibility cloak he’d thrown around them.
“Petrified.”

“Shit.”

No kidding. He needed her to calm down, to level out before enemy eyes turned in their direction.

“Figure it out, man,”
his friend said, ready to break cover.

“You’ve got about thirty seconds before I break cover and the fuckers sense me coming.”

“Give me a couple of minutes. Let me get a handle on her first.”

His first in command grunted, but held course, flirting with the edge of the fighting triangle and detection.

Bastian lowered his head until his mouth brushed Myst’s ear. He kept his voice low, more vibration than actual sound, and said, “Relax, Myst…you’re safe with me. Take a deep breath.”

Air caught, hitching in the back of her throat as she tried to do as he asked. It didn’t go well. She was strung too tight, panic locking her lungs into spasm.

“In through your nose, out through your mouth…come on, baby. Listen to my voice, feel the release.” Keeping his tone soft and steady, Bastian kept talking as he found the pressure point at the base of her skull. He rotated his thumb, massaged in gentle circles, hesitating, not wanting to do it. He shouldn’t be touching her, not like this, without her understanding or consent.

In the kitchen, he’d been unable to help himself, had taken a sip and sampled her energy…and God. She was delicious, so sweet that arousal hit him like a brick house. The head below his waist had a mind of its own, was still complaining, wanting inside her with an insistence the circumstances didn’t warrant.

Jesus, he was sick. She was scared out of her mind, and he was turned on.

What did that say about him? That he was a deranged fuck? Or that he hadn’t fed in far too long?

Probably a little of both, but he couldn’t worry about either now. Rikar wouldn’t wait much longer.

Myst took another choppy breath and, with a silent curse, Bastian slipped his free hand under the hem of her green hospital scrubs. His palm settled on the small of her back. He spread his fingers wide, touching as much of her as he could reach, and nearly came in his leathers.

Oh, man, she was good, her skin the softest he’d ever touched.

Shifting her so he wouldn’t crush the infant, he set his mouth to her temple, breathed her in, losing himself in her scent. Connected at three junctions—nape, lower back and temple—he tapped into Meridian. White hot, potent, energy surged, flowing through her into him. Bastian bit down on a groan. God, that was unbelievable. Delicious in a way that defied description.

He only meant to soothe her: to drain the excess, bank her energy to keep her hidden, ensure her safety, but…Jesus. He was starving, so empty inside he couldn’t control the hunger. It was too powerful, and Myst was too good. He needed more than just another sip.

With a growl, Bastian let his baser needs take over. Guilt was nothing but an echo now—something to endure later when compulsion subsided and reason returned. Hunger overwhelmed him and, senses wide open, he pulled the white-hot energy she possessed out of her body and into his own. She hummed, the sound one of pleasure and relief as Bastian drank, mouth traveling across her cheek to her neck. Flicking his tongue across her pulse point, he took her in, damning himself with the incredible taste of her skin.

When she sagged, he capped the flow and lifted his head, so full his fingertips tingled. A violent shudder rolled through him and, dipping his chin again, he brushed the corner of her mouth with his own. The kiss could barely be called one; the simple touch nothing more than a gentle pass, a small thank you for what she had unknowingly given him.

She sighed. “I feel better now.”

“Good,” he murmured, forcing his hand from beneath her shirt. Continuing to touch her wasn’t doing him any favors. It made him want to strip her down and take the sex he craved. The thought made Bastian back the hell up, putting space between them as he helped her sit up. She swayed. He steadied her, gripping her elbows, supporting her until she gained her balance. “Do something for me?”

Myst blinked, coming out of the feeding-induced fog a little at a time. As her vision cleared, her pupils contracted, and he felt her mind sharpen. She looked right through him, reading his intent. “D-don’t go.”

Her entreaty turned him inside out.

Holy shit. How did she do that? Two words—simple, non-threatening, and under different circumstances? Crazy appealing. Two words, that’s all. And now, he was waffling, ready to wrap her hard against him and retreat to some place private…somewhere safe where he could lay her down.

Exhaling hard, Bastian forced his lungs to unlock. He needed to keep her the hell out of his head and stay in the game. Not wanting to leave her didn’t mean he could stay. “Myst, I need you to stay here. I won’t be gone long.”

Balling her hand in his leather coat, she shook her head. The movement was small, tight…still desperate despite the energy drain. The new spike in her anxiety moved through him until he tasted it on the back of his tongue.

Swallowing the bitter tang, he murmured, “Myst—”

“I saw that t-thing. Don’t leave us alone.”

Bastian almost growled. Thing. She’d called his race a “thing.” Like he and his kind were no better than the monsters children feared lived under their beds or the nasty predators humans recoiled from in movie theaters. It shouldn’t bother him—her reaction was a natural one—but it did. More than he wanted to admit.

“
Bellmia,
listen to me.”

Myst held his gaze. The desperation in her eyes almost killed him. “I’ll go with you…follow behind. I can—”

He cupped her cheek, cutting her off. “No. I need to draw them away from you and the baby. Do as I say. Dig in. Stay here. They can’t see you…won’t be able to track you. The cloaking spell will hold as long as you don’t move. Understand?”

“No.”

Well, at least she was honest. He couldn’t fault her for that. Was too taken with her to be anything but proud. Tracing her cheekbone with the pad of his thumb, he whispered, “Hang tough, baby. I’ll come back for you.”

“Bastian…” she trailed off as he shuffled backward, taking his hands from her. She clutched at him. “No.”

“You’ll be all right.” With a gentle twist, he broke her hold and shifted out of range. If she grabbed him again, he wouldn’t be able to leave. “Stay here. Trust me to keep you safe.”

Without a backward glance, he shut out the hitch of her breath, the sound and smell of her fear, and keeping low, moved around the Buick’s rusted-out rear bumper.
“Rikar…I’m on the move.”

“About fucking time.”

“I’m going in hot. Deal with the back end.”

Rikar hoorahed as he broke through the three-mile barrier, allowing the Razorbacks to detect him. The enemy’s focus spilt, half on his first in command, half on him, as Bastian shifted into dragon form. Baring his fangs, he roared and, ignoring Myst’s cry of “Oh, God,” he hammered Shit-for-brains in the backyard with an electro-pulse. As much as Rikar liked to razz him about it, Bastian didn’t breathe fire. His magic was more lethal than that, a wicked blue ball of energy combined with poisonous gas—more lightning strike with the added flare of a psychochemical agent.

Yeah, he was a one-man/dragon show. A regular chemical warfare specialist.

Shit-for-brains sucked wind as the blast picked him up and threw him backward into the forest. Tree trunks gave way like toothpicks, the crack of wood deafening as the enemy dragon smashed through them, traveling thirty feet into the underbrush. His eyes on the target, Bastian waited for the rogue to get up. He hoped he did, wanted to deliver another nasty exhale for the idiot to choke on. Instead, the rogue turned belly-up. Paws in the air, the dragon twitched into a full body spasm as Bastian’s brand of poison went to work on his central nervous system.

Bastian snorted. So much for bright and shiny hope, never mind the satisfaction of a good fight.

Cold air stirred above him.

Rolling right, Bastian ducked under another set of enemy claws. His razor-sharp tail collided with the Cape Cod, slicing through the two columns supporting the front porch. With a groan, the narrow strip of roof slumped, collapsing over the cedar door. The new threat swung around, purple scales flashing, keen for another go at him. The dumb ass. What did he think? That an aerial assault gave him the advantage in a firefight?

Bastian almost shook his head. He bared his teeth instead, shifting to face the dragon head-on.

Warrior-honed patience kicked in and, crouched like a cat, he waited for the rogue to reach him. A split second before the enemy struck, Bastian leapt skyward, twisting in midair. His talons caught and held as he grabbed Dumb-ass’s spade-shaped tail. Muscles along his side pulled, protesting the stretch as he yanked, dragging the Razorback out of the air. Bastian’s paws hit the ground with a thump. Dumb-ass went down hard, wings tangled, horned head buried beneath a pile of earth.