The wailing sirens were getting closer. In another two minutes the humans would be on top of him. The nightmare scenario hammered Bastian, prodding his get-up-and-go. Too bad his adrenaline was pretty much tapped out. He could’ve used a shot of it right now.
Reaching deep, he dredged the last of his reserves, forced himself to keep moving. Pain tightened its grip, tearing at him like barbed wire. His vision wavered. Bastian blinked as his mind followed suit and shorted out, flickering like an overloaded electrical circuit. It was like getting the plug pulled on his cerebral cortex. And as mental acuity went down the drain, he landed in Blanksville. What did he need again? Something important. Or maybe it was someone.
That thought sparked another.
Yeah, definitely someone.
He groaned. That was it. He needed to go home…to her.
Digging his claws in, Bastian dragged himself another few feet. Wet earth pushed between his talons, mounding over his knuckles. The fuel-soaked ground burned the raw patches of flesh exposed by his shot-to-shit scales. He didn’t care. He had to find Wick and get them both back to the lair.
The harbor beyond the bank of warehouses was the only option. And yeah, that was going to be a bitch. Especially the saltwater part.
Bastian cringed. He hated the swimming almost as much as he hated elevators. But with his energy stores gone, he couldn’t cloak himself, never mind Wick. The dark inky water would do what he couldn’t: provide enough cover until Rikar performed his knight-in-shining-armor routine.
Dragging his broken leg, Bastian crawled over a burning pile of timber. His eyes stung from the smoke as he squinted to get a line on Wick. The male had to be close. The building he’d been introduced to skull first was just ahead and—
Something shifted behind him.
Bastian spun, his bladed tail arching wide. The dark shadow ducked and lunged, coming straight at him. He caught the load in the chest. Anguish rippled through him as he lost his footing and…fuck. He was going down. Would die for making a rookie mistake.
Goddamn it. He knew better than to assume anything in a firefight. The Razorback wasn’t dead. Or retreating from the truckload of humans less than a mile away. The rogue had played it perfectly. Was practically on top of him, coming in for the kill.
With an agonizing twist, he followed the SOB’s movement. The second before he moved in, Bastian filled his lungs, set to hammer the enemy with another electro-pulse. A huge talon struck. Flipping him up and over, the male grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.
Bastian snarled and reared, striking with his claws.
“Shit!”
Jesus Christ. Bastian’s knees went weak as he switched to mind-speak, “What the fuck, Wick?”
“Sorry.” The warrior swayed above him, stumbling sideways. “I’m not…shit. Can’t see. My eyes are fucked up.”
Headlights flashed, the fire truck behind the halogens roaring into the rail yard.
“Shift.” With a groan, he moved from dragon to human form. His muscles screamed, but he hung on. He couldn’t pass out. Wick needed him. “We gotta move. I can’t fly, but my vision’s good.”
As Wick shifted to human form, he slung Bastian’s arm around his shoulders. “Which way?”
“Right…twenty feet to the warehouse. Head for the water.”
Aligned from shoulder to hip, naked as a pair of fifty-dollar whores, his warrior dragged him toward the corner of the building. His burnt skin slid against Wick’s and Bastian gagged, nearly passing out as agony yanked his chain.
Stay awake. Don’t black out.
He was dangerously weak, so far gone he couldn’t get his legs to work, never mind manage a pair of leathers. Not that Wick minded. The male had problems of his own, and being naked was the least of them. The head injury coupled with the blindness was screwing with his speed, making him stumble under Bastian’s weight.
Rounding the corner of the warehouse, Wick lost his footing. They went down, face-planting into the steel barrels stacked against the wall.
“Fuck me,” the male groaned.
Shouts sounded, the rise of male voices joining the roar of the fire. God, they were close, barely one hundred feet away. Bastian heard the zing of fire hoses and the clank of steel as humans got busy fighting the blaze.
“Go. Leave me and…” Black spots in his vision, Bastian rolled onto his back. Rough asphalt pressed into his side, grinding small stones into his burns. “Go.”
“And fuck you, too.” Pupils contracted to pinpoints, golden eyes glowing like headlights, Wick hauled him to his feet.
Bile hit the back of Bastian’s throat, but he got with the program. As he made his broken leg work, he cursed himself. He was an idiot. Not only had he screwed up the fight, now he’d insulted Wick. No Nightfury got left behind…ever. Blind, deaf, or dumb, it didn’t matter. His warrior would sooner cut off his own arm than abandon him.
Carried by Wick, they stumbled forward under Bastian’s direction. There was a ton of debris lying around: rotting square timbers, steel rods, and broken pieces of concrete slabs. Maneuvering around an old boat carcass, they reached the pier. Rough wood scraped the soles of his bare feet. Thank God. They’d made it…were almost out of sight.
Crooked and bent from years of neglect, the end of the dock twisted up to one side. Wick stumbled as he hit the incline, but he kept going, the smell of ocean salt galvanizing them both. And oh, shit. This was going to hurt.
“Hang on to me,” Wick said, wisps of fog curled around their feet. “Don’t let go.”
Bastian tightened his grip on his warrior. Muscles flexed around him as Wick lunged, pulling him headlong off the end of the pier. Splashdown hit Bastian like a sledgehammer, dragging him under. And as the ocean closed in, filling his mouth and nose, salt water attacked, invading his wounds. Pain went from debilitating to apocalyptic. In full body spasm, he twisted, screaming in silence as darkness swallowed him whole.
Chapter Twenty-one
Sirens wailing, emergency vehicles raced down Alaskan Way, the street running parallel to the waterfront. Rikar watched the bumper-to-bumper light show from a mile up, flying fast as he scanned for his brothers. Cold Seattle air rushed against his scales. Thank God. The CSI offices had been hot as hell.
Why did they do that? Crank the heat up when a two-degree downshift on the thermostat would save a boatload of energy and cost them less, too. It was annoying, not to mention senseless. Wasn’t that why they invented sweaters? To take the chill off?
Rikar shook his head. There he went again, letting his mind wander to keep the fear at bay. Bastian wasn’t answering. He’d sent out a dozen pings, trying to connect and…
Nothing. A big fucking doughnut hole. Not even static in the mind-speak arena.
Which meant one of two things. His best friend was either unconscious or…dead.
A chill skated beneath Rikar’s scales. He couldn’t lose him. Not Bastian. Anyone else and he’d cope, deal with the loss and grieve. But not his best friend.
Still cloaked, Rikar broke cover. Slicing through storm clouds, he dropped fast and came in low, approaching the rail yard from the water. Whipped by the wind, the harbor threw up ocean spray, reducing visibility. Terrific. Great night for a fricking storm. His friends were out there—needing him—and Mother Nature was in her usual West Coast snit, getting in his way, pissing him off.
Breathing deep, Rikar caught the smell of chemical smoke. A second later, he saw it through the mist, black plumes billowing across the roof of the nearest warehouse. He circled right—ignoring the human circus of wailing sirens and squealing tires as they roared over the bridge and onto the scene—to take a closer look.
Holy shit.
Lit up like a war zone, the entire rail yard was on fire. Melting steel and burning timber littered the debris field, surrounding a massive crater. The whole area had gone nuclear, a dragon-style face-lift of shredded fuel tanks, railcars and…
A totaled dump truck. Yup, Wick had definitely been
here.
Reconning the area, Rikar sent his magic rolling in search for his friends. The ping spread like an invisible net, molding over land and sea, steel and concrete like living radar. From his bird’s-eye view, he watched firefighters work and circled a second time, hoping for a signal.
Again…nothing.
He had to get down there. His brother might be trapped under the rubble. And the humans working fire hoses? Totally FUBARed. He didn’t have time to scrub memories, and that left one option…death.
Which sucked on so many levels.
Not that he minded killing humans. Even though he avoided humankind whenever possible, criminals weren’t off-limits. For a very good reason. Serial killers and rapists hurt females, something a Nightfury never condoned. So yeah, capping one of those idiots turned murder into justifiable homicide. But icing a bunch of cops and firefighters? Man, that was just plain wrong.
Invisible to human eyes, Rikar drew up short. He hovered for a moment, wings spread wide above the males below. Heavy dread settled in his chest as he took a deep breath. Ice crystals formed in his mouth as he bared his fangs and—
A faint ping slid over his scales, circling the horns on his head.
Rikar’s focus snapped toward the harbor. He closed his mouth, swallowing ice. The sound came again. The static was soft, fading in and out, barely a signal at all, but…it was definitely there.
Christ, they were in the water, the last place a dragon wanted to be. None of Dragonkind were strong swimmers. Well, except for water dragons, but Rikar discounted that myth. He’d never seen one, never mind talked to one.
Reversing direction, Rikar flew toward the center of the bay. Waves bashed the breakwater, spraying thirty feet in the air. The mist coated his underbelly, then wicked away, falling like raindrops from his scales.
“Bastian!”
“Down.”
Wick? Holy Christ. “Where are you?”
“Can’t hold him…much longer. Current’s…too strong,” Wick rasped, the weakness in his voice nothing like the usual harsh tone.
“Hold tight, buddy.” His head on a swivel, Rikar scanned the inky waves. Seconds ticked into more, triggering his internal alarm. The water was too black, hiding his comrades beneath choppy spray and rolling whitecaps. Jesus, he couldn’t find them, not in the dark like this. He needed more…a tracking device to lock onto and hold. “Wick, man. Talk to me.”
Silence came back, revving Rikar into panic mode. “Wick?”
Nothing. No heavy breathing, rasps of pain or—
A yellow flash of light whipped Rikar’s head to the left. Like Morse code, the blinking light found a rhythm and…
Had Rikar been the weeping kind, he would’ve cried. Thank God for Wick, the tough, wicked-smart SOB. The male was blinking, using his golden gaze as a beacon in the dark.
Shifting mid-flight, Rikar rocketed toward them. Coming in low, mere feet above the white caps, he spotted them. Holding B around the chest, Wick bobbed in the waves, fighting to stay afloat. Without slowing, Rikar arced his wings and drew his front talons back. He wouldn’t get another chance. Wick might go under and not resurface if he missed.
As the next wave crested, he struck. His talons plunged and caught. With a snarl, he climbed, pulling them free of the icy chop.
He heard Wick’s gasp of pain, but didn’t slow as he hauled ass for the lair. Both males needed care, but Bastian? His best friend’s life force was dangerously low. He needed a serious energy infusion. If he didn’t get it soon, he wouldn’t survive.
Flying fast and hard, Rikar reached altitude. With the city below and storm clouds gathering above, he felt the first raindrops and started to pray. For the wind to push him east toward Black Diamond. For the lightning to hold off. And for Myst to survive Bastian’s energy-greed when Rikar placed his best friend in her arms.
Christ, his wish list was way too long. And when a male got greedy, something always went wrong.
Three days. A whole seventy-two hours of Bastian and nothing but Bastian, so help her God. Had she really agreed to that?
Yes.
The word slithered through her mind, the “S” turning into a long-tailed hiss. As the special brand of poison sank deep, Myst rubbed a slow circle on her temple. She deserved the Idiot of the Year award…and a plaque. One that said, For Going Above and Beyond the Call of Stupidity.
Okay, maybe that was a bit harsh. She’d been pinned, after all, pushed to the wall by Bastian and his crew, but still…
Baby name or no baby name, she should have stuck to her guns and demanded that he take her home. But oh, no…what had she done instead? Promised not to escape. Made a pact with the guy who’d not only kidnapped her but had flown her to the secret lair of a dragon-slash-human military unit.
Or whatever they called themselves. Nightfuries. Or something.
But that was only half the problem.
The real crinkle—the one that had her tied in knots—was tantamount to self treason. A betrayal on all fronts: moral, intellectual, and emotional. And even though she wanted to deny it, Myst wasn’t into lying, especially to herself.
Which left her with one doozy of an admission.
She only half regretted being taken by Bastian.
Myst let the cupboard door close with a bang. Yeah, she really, really deserved that stupidity award.
But Bastian. He was just so…so…intriguing and smart, gentle in ways that drew her. And let’s not forget gorgeous. Throw in his scent and…wow. She was in real trouble, and that was before she remembered how he looked at her. The amped-up intensity in his eyes coupled with affection made her feel important and precious, maybe even a little loved.
She’d lost her flipping mind.
No way should she be romanticizing Bastian. What did she really know about him, anyway? Not much beyond what she’d seen, and most of that landed in the just-plain-crazy column of her running tally.
God, she needed a drink.
And not one of those fruity concoctions, either. She wanted a strong one, something vicious tasting with lethal alcohol content. The problem? She wasn’t much of a drinker. When stressed, she went straight for the hard stuff…70 percent chocolate.
Oh, baby. What she wouldn’t give for some Lindt right now. Or some M&Ms. Plain or peanut, she didn’t care. Either one would do.
Standing on her tiptoes, Myst peered into a top cupboard. She pushed a package of raw almonds to the side so she could see to the back. Nothing. Nada. And that was the last in a long line of ultramodern cabinetry to check. The entire kitchen was full of organic, whole food that no one in her right mind would want to eat. And she was a nurse, for pity’s sake…totally game for the health food scene.
What was wrong with these guys? Did they have something against junk food? Obviously, no one in the house ever suffered from PMS.
And wasn’t that a shame.
She needed someone to talk to…someone with enough estrogen to counteract the heavy dose of testosterone that lived in the house. But Daimler had put the kibosh on that idea fifteen minutes ago, informing her she was the only female for miles. For miles! God, that sounded ominous. Though, come to think of it, she should probably be happy about the intel. After all, if she was the lone kidnappee, the Nightfury gang couldn’t have any other victims chained up in their dungeon.
Or somewhere equally scary.
But then, scary was a matter of opinion, wasn’t it? A question of degrees, and her compass had been spun in the wrong direction. True North? Yeah, right. Try upside down and backwards. That’s what Bastian did to her. Now she couldn’t tell which way was up, how to get out, or whether she wanted to.
Three days.
Of Bastian.
God help her.
With a frown, Myst abandoned her quest for chocolate and turned toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. Framed by huge timber beams, the glass panes had lost their opaque sheen, allowing her to see through to the garden beyond. Fall flowers bloomed along flagstones paths.
Huge trees and well-groomed shrubs swayed in the night breeze, moonlight painting their leaves with a silver brush.
A lovely prison. Yeah, Black Diamond was absolutely that: modern, beautiful, well designed, but a prison all the same.
Pausing beside the kitchen island, Myst glanced at the baby sleeping in the crook of her arm. Was Gregor worth all this? Worth the kidnapping, all the fear, and now, her promise to stay in a place she knew was dangerous?
Disgusted with herself, she shook her head.
Of course, Gregor was worth it.
He was life affirming, an innocent caught in a horrible net. Which begged the question…how could she possibly leave him?
The answer was obvious. Everything inside her said no. She didn’t want to leave Black Diamond without him. Yet she couldn’t take him with her, either. Bastian had made that clear. Gregor was only half human; the other half was pure dragon.
So…
She couldn’t raise him on her own. He needed to be with people who understood him, knew his history, and were able to teach him about the challenges of his nature.
With a sigh, Myst brushed his cheek with her fingertip. How unfair. Holding him was heaven, but in three days, she’d be forced to give him up. Never see him again. The thought left her stuck in the middle…jammed between her world and his. And in that small space, there was no compromise or easy way out. It came down to one thing…a choice.
Stay or Go. Her life for his.
Her throat went tight and, skirting the island, Myst walked toward the playpen. She needed to put him down…just for a while. Cuddling him wasn’t helping her. It made the ache worse. Made the thought of leaving him harder to bear and the idea of keeping him seem less like a sacrifice. But he wasn’t a puppy. Adoption was serious business, and she had a decision to make.
Releasing her hold, she forced herself to lay him down. As she adjusted the blanket and tucked him in, she traced the whorl of his tiny ear, listening to him breathe. Limited time. They were destined to have limited time together, and she wanted to remember everything. From his beautiful baby smell and the softness of his skin to the way he looked bundled up, so small and perfect, in his playpen.
Fury of Fire (Dragonfury Series #1) Page 18
