Fury of Surrender (Dragonfury Series Book 6)

by Coreene Callahan

  Tonight, though, couldn’t be shelved under “the usual fun.”

  It needed to be filed under “fucked up” instead.

  With a sigh of frustration, Ivar pulled away from the eyepiece and pushed his stool back a foot. Wheels squeaked against the smooth industrial floor. The soft screech made his muscles clench. Rolling his shoulders, he loosened the tension and, tipping his head back, stared at the ceiling. Under normal circumstances working in his lab calmed him, banishing stress the way a hard workout did for other males. Not tonight. The usual things—a sterile work environment, the row of glass-fronted refrigerators against the back wall, the pleasant hum of the ventilation system—didn’t soothe him. He stewed instead, marinating in toxins spilling from a horrifying problem.

  One he hadn’t yet figured out how to fix.

  Quitting, though, wasn’t an option. He must find a solution. The solution. Do what he did best and identify the variables. Nail down the viral load and disease sequence. Isolate the contagion and eliminate it. Otherwise, he would fail . . .

  And the human race would die.

  Not that he cared about the annoying little insects. Half of him wanted to let the bastards roll right into extinction. The other half, however, refused to give up the fight. He needed humankind to live. At least, for a while longer. The idiots might be a pain in the ass, but they also represented a means to an end. Nothing more. No less. A way for Dragonkind to keep on breathing.

  With a growl, Ivar removed his safety glasses and tossed them onto the counter. The pair landed with a bang and bumped into an empty petri dish before skidding across stainless steel. He watched the clear plastic slide, then closed his eyes and bowed his head. Taut muscles pulled. Pain streaked up his spine, colliding with the base of his skull. Not surprising. Discomfort was par for the course after hours spent bent over his microscope. Now his back ached and his head hurt.

  Inhaling in a long draw, he filled his lungs to capacity. He held the air, felt the burn, then let the breath go. Goddamn virus. Idiotic fucking idea. He’d created a monster with superbug number three—a highly resistant beast that refused to slow down, infecting humans by the dozens as it worked its way south to Seattle.

  Ivar pinched the bridge of his nose.

  God. If that happened, if the bug reached the city—

  Ivar shook his head. Jesus. Scary didn’t begin to describe the situation. Catastrophic worked better considering a worldwide crisis would ensue if the virus escaped the confines of the CDC quarantine. Human casualties would jump from hundreds to thousands, perhaps even into the millions, the instant infected hosts arrived in an urban area. International airports would do the rest, ferrying sick humans all over the world, allowing the disease to go global and become unstoppable. An epidemic with far-reaching consequences.

  Serious trouble for Dragonkind.

  He’d screwed up when he released the supervirus. Been too eager to experiment and watch the havoc his baby would wreak. Which amounted to him rushing the initial trials.

  Like an idiot, he hadn’t done the usual due diligence, releasing the contagion into Granite Falls’ water supply before understanding the true nature of the bug. Or how it would affect human hosts, latching onto the X chromosome pairing embedded in every female’s DNA, infecting women, leaving men untouched. Now women in communities all over northern Washington State were dying, and the scientists the CDC flew in to contain the disease had no clue how to stop it from spreading.

  A huge problem considering Dragonkind males needed human females. As annoying as the situation was, Ivar couldn’t deny the truth. Without close contact with the fairer sex, a male couldn’t connect to the Meridian—the source of all living things—and draw the nourishment he required to stay healthy. And if he didn’t, he’d die, waste away in the most horrific way imaginable—gut-wrenching hunger and eventual starvation. So . . .

  He must deal with the fallout and fix the problem. Fast. Before more females became infected and died.

  His eyes narrowed on his workstation. Ivar flexed his fingers. The sleeves of his cotton lab coat shifted up his forearms, then settled back at his wrists. Planting his heels, he rolled the stool toward the microscope. Time to get back to work and find the cure. So far nothing he’d tried had worked. Every antivirus he produced failed. Miserably. Ivar pursed his lips. Maybe the seventh try would be the charm? He hoped so. The sickness continued to gain speed, breaking down human immune systems, ravaging families, taking mothers from children and baby girls from fathers.

  At one time, the outcome wouldn’t have bothered him. Death, after all, was a fact of life, but well . . . hell. Something had changed in recent months, leaving him more susceptible to the instability of his human side. A something he wished would change the fuck back. He liked emotional distance. Needed the numbness. Craved the cruelty his dragon half excelled at delivering. Neutrality, however, seemed to have settled in his past. Proof positive? He couldn’t ignore the damage being done. Not anymore. Not with the constant stream of teary-eyed men being interviewed on the news every night.

  The humans’ grief left him curiously empty inside, more husk-like and hollow by the day. Every time a male’s voice broke, anguish of his loss evident on his face, Ivar’s gut clenched and one thought streamed into his head—his fault. He’d done that, caused all that pain, all that sorrow, all those tears and—

  My fault. All my fault.

  The accusation jabbed at him. Ivar grimaced and, shoving the thought aside, buried the guilt under piles of icy resolve. Emotion held no place in science. If he wanted to make it right, he must wipe the outside world from his mind and concentrate. Be better—smarter, stronger—than he’d ever been before. Looking into the microscope’s eyepiece, Ivar turned a dial and refocused. He watched the microbes squirm inside the glass dish, then scowled at the contents. Too soon to tell. The cultures needed more time to mature. Six hours, maybe seven, and he’d know for certain. Would have the answer, but God, it was hard to wait.

  So much lay on the line.

  Fighting his worry, Ivar closed his eyes. Please, Goddess. Let attempt number seven be the one. The right path. The cure that saves my kind.

  The request banged around inside his head. He exhaled long and hard. His breath hit the steel tabletop and bounced back. Heat puffed against the bridge of his nose, then changed direction, ghosting over his jaw. Ignoring the rush of air, he adjusted the magnification dial again. Fluorescent box lights hummed overhead as he picked up an eyedropper and added the second dose of antiserum. Sweat trickled down his back, slithering beneath his T-shirt. Sticky. Exhausted. Pissed off. Da, that pretty much summed up his night. But he couldn’t quit. Not yet.

  Only one vile of blood remained.

  Just sixteen milliliters of the female’s plasma confined inside a small test tube. His salvation stolen from inside Cascade Valley Hospital. Dark-red cells teeming with warrior antibodies, Evelyn Foxe’s blood—the building block of his antivirus—would prove to be the answer. Or his undoing. Ivar didn’t know which, but—Goddess help him. He had so little of her blood left. Hardly any at all to synthesize into a cure.

  Cursing under his breath, Ivar raised the microscope lens and reached for the petri dish. Double gloved, his hands cupped the container. He turned toward the containment unit and, moving with care, walked to the end of his worktable. Grip steady, he slid his experiment into the clear box sitting on the countertop. He studied the maturing culture a moment. Perfect. One hundred percent stable so far. The location shift hadn’t dislodged or damaged the bacteria. Relief loosened his tension. Ivar flipped the lid closed, turned the heat lamps on low and—

  Movement flashed in his periphery.

  Knuckles struck glass. The hard rap echoed across the lab.

  Ivar glanced toward the wall of windows. Four panes thick, floor-to-ceiling glass panels separated his lab from the outer chamber. Hamersveld, his new XO, stood on the other side, an unhappy look on his puss. Ivar’s mouth curved. Nothing new there. Angry
was the Norwegian’s default expression. Well, at least, one of them. Murderous rage came a close second, gracing his friend’s face more often than not.

  Ivar’s lips twitched.

  He smoothed his expression and met Hamersveld’s gaze through the glass. Ivar tipped his chin. The abrupt gesture came off the way he intended, the inherent “What the fuck do you want?” clear in the movement. Shark-black eyes rimmed by pale blue narrowed on him. Ivar raised a brow, just to mess with the male. Sad to say, but razzing his friend—tweaking the water dragon’s tail—was the only amusement he got most days. With a scowl, Hamersveld flicked his fingers, the motion as impatient as the male. Ivar sighed. All right. Playtime was over. Teasing Hamersveld might be fun, but keeping the warrior waiting never made for a good plan. The warrior was as likely to rip his head off as talk to him.

  With a nod, Ivar skirted the end of his workstation and headed for the exit. Motion sensors went active. The door into the decontamination chamber opened. Bright lights came on. The burst of illumination made him flinch. With a murmur, he conjured his favorite sunglasses, shielding his light-sensitive eyes, and stepped inside. The unit closed around him. A red light flipped to green an instant before a blast of air hit him. Wind whipped his hair around his head. The tail of his lab coat flapped. Head low, muscles tense, he forced himself to stay still as the machine did its job, killing contaminants carried from the lab.

  The gusts increased.

  He swayed inside the chamber. Cold air rushed over his skin. His fire dragon half reacted, disliking the chill. His love of all things high tech was one thing. Being cramped inside small spaces, however? Ivar stifled a shiver. It never got any easier. Counting off the seconds, he waited, trying to be patient. Fifty-seven. Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine. Sixty and—

  The blower turned off.

  The door swiveled right, rotating open. Not wasting a second, Ivar stepped into the antechamber and his XO’s presence. He glanced at his friend.

  Arms crossed, Hamersveld leaned back against the countertop housing his computer equipment. “How’s it going in there?”

  “Should know in a few hours,” Ivar said, acknowledging the question even as he took note of the change in his friend’s tone. Well, shit. Not good. Whenever the warrior’s Norwegian accent thickened, trouble always ensued. Taking off his eyewear, he tossed his Oakleys onto the round table in the center of the room. The pair banged into a bowl full of apples. “What’s up, Sveld?”

  “Silfer’s balls,” the male said, shifting his ass against the counter edge, his expression growing darker. “What isn’t?”

  Picking over the bowl, Ivar selected a green apple. He tossed it toward his friend. He watched Hamersveld snag the piece of fruit out of the air before selecting a juicy Red Delicious for himself. “Give me the good news first.”

  “The first round of dragon combat training is complete.”

  Ivar turned his snack over in his hand. “Any standouts?”

  “Some okay fighters. Most need work, but . . .” A crunch sounded as Hamersveld bit into his apple. He hummed in appreciation, then took another bite. Black eyes narrowed, he chewed, a look of consideration on his face. “Three warriors are top notch. They blow everyone else out of the water.”

  “Who?”

  “Azrad, Kilmar, and Terranon.” Finished with his treat, Hamersveld tossed it toward the garbage can sitting beside the double doors. The core rimmed the basket before sinking with a crinkle into the plastic bag. “Best of friends, those three. All are skilled—smart, lethal, extremely fast in flight. The trio works well together. Their fighting triangle is tight.”

  “The alpha of the group?”

  “Azrad,” Hamersveld said without hesitation. “Got a bit of a temper, though. Had to stop him from gutting a male tonight.”

  “The warrior all right?”

  “Kind of.” Amusement in his eyes, Hamersveld shook his head. “He’ll need a couple of days to recover. That’ll teach him to run his mouth and piss off Azrad.”

  Ivar huffed, liking Azrad already. “Promising.”

  “Yeah,” Hamersveld said. “Good choices for the breeding program. Put any one of the three with an HE female and you’re guaranteed strong offspring.”

  “So they’ll place high in the competition?”

  “They’ll land in the top three, for sure.”

  “Good.” Eyes narrowed on his treat, Ivar took a bite of his apple. Tart and sweet, the juicy chunk melted on his tongue.

  Hamersveld motioned with his hand. Ivar threw him another apple. The fleshy fruit smacked against the male’s palm. “The competition is set, and the obstacle course ready. The pack knows the rules and is eager to start.”

  Ivar nodded. Dragonkind Olympics, right on schedule. Perfect. Not a moment too soon either. With the Meridian’s realignment approaching—one of only two times a year his kind became fertile—he needed to know which of his warriors held the most promise. The top five fighters would win time with a high-energy female and send his breeding program into its final phase. Nerve racking in some ways. Beyond exciting in others, considering what was at stake—the first female Dragonkind offspring in centuries, the liberation of his kind from the human race.

  In a month, the HEs imprisoned below 28 Walton Street would be thrown into service, and he’d know if the serum he’d been working on for years worked. So yeah. The competition was important. A means to an end—find the strongest Razorbacks, pair each with one of the five HE females in cellblock A, and wait to see what happened.

  Lifting one boot over the other, Hamersveld crossed his feet at the ankles. “I need you in the Cascades to judge the first round.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “I’ll fly out with you at sunset.”

  “That’ll do.”

  Ivar indulged in another bite. He took his time, chewing, swallowing, before he met his XO’s gaze. “And the bad news?”

  Hamersveld scowled. “That comes in two stages.”

  “The first?”

  “Haven’t found the mole yet.”

  Ivar swallowed a growl. More frustration. Another failure. A deadly game of cat and mouse, one with the potential to not only hurt the Razorbacks, but bring him to ground. “Shit.”

  “Yeah,” Hamersveld said, more growl than word. “Whoever is feeding the Nightfuries information is a slippery bastard. He hides well, is patient, smart enough not to play his hand too soon.”

  Ivar’s eyes narrowed. “Keep at it. Sooner or later, the asshole will make a mistake and—”

  “We’ll nail him. Make an example out of him.”

  “Exactly.” Turning on his heel, Ivar paced to the other side of the table. A traitor. A mole inside his pack. A Razorback in the process of betraying him. His temper sparked. Pink flame flickered over his shoulders, heating the nape of his neck. Issuing a mental command, he snuffed out the fire, imagining what he would do to the turncoat. God, he couldn’t wait to get ahold of the male. “In the meantime, we keep the information chain tight, tell the pack as little as possible. Any mission instructions will be given at the last minute . . . no lead in or prep time.”

  “Agreed.”

  Good enough, for now. Time would tell, hopefully by exposing the mole and giving Ivar what he craved—closure by way of life-affirming violence.

  “And the second problem?” he asked, turning the half-eaten apple over in his hand.

  A muscle ticked along Hamersveld’s jaw. “Zidane plans to visit Seattle.”

  Ivar tensed, the apple halfway to his mouth. He dropped his hand back to his side. Holy fuck . . . Zidane. The sadistic bastard left a bad taste in his mouth. Not that anyone cared what he thought. Eldest son to the leader of Archguard, the male enjoyed free rein. Whatever the male wanted, he got . . . with very little effort.

  Ivar rolled his shoulders, combating the sudden tension. “How solid is your intel?”

  “Very. My sources are never wrong.”

  “Fuck.”
Ivar frowned, his expression fierce enough to eclipse his XO’s. “Any way to dissuade him?”

  His friend shook his head. “Not that I can see.”

  “How soon?”

  “Something’s going on with the high council,” Hamersveld said. “Can’t find out what. Very hush-hush, but the Archguard is sequestered and that can only mean one thing.”

  “Rodin,” Ivar growled, the name leaving a bad taste in his mouth. Tossing the Red Delicious at the trash can without looking, he clenched his teeth. Not good. Nothing ever was with Rodin involved. The leader of the Archguard could contaminate a situation faster than a virus did a body. Which left him with one conclusion. The bastard was up to something, pulling strings, manipulating outcomes, meddling in things best left alone. “That asshole.”

  “Uh-huh.” Dark eyes full of warning, Hamersveld pushed away from the countertop. “Something else too.”

  “What?”

  “No one can find Nian.”

  “How long has he been missing?”

  “He hasn’t been seen in over a month.”

  Ivar frowned. Shit. That wasn’t good. In fact, it was very, very bad.

  Born into the ruling class, and as a member of the Archguard, Nian sat at the top of the food chain. His disappearance didn’t bode well . . . for anyone. Particularly him and the Razorback nation. The absence signaled a major disruption in Dragonkind hierarchy. A seat left unfilled on the high council—a voice gone unheard—was a huge threat. One that could destabilize the entire upper echelon and cause powerful packs to break away from the greater group: go it alone, form new allegiances, creating the kind of imbalance that ended the status quo and threw the Dragonkind world into chaos.

  Ivar cursed under his breath. Like he didn’t have enough to worry about already? One superbug out of control. A mole feeding sensitive information to his enemy. Zidane off his leash and the leader of the Archguard gone renegade. Damn Rodin anyway. The male sure knew how to throw a monkey wrench into a great plan. Now all Ivar wanted to do was ditch Rodin and distance his pack from the entire mess. A lovely thought, but for one problem—Rodin was too valuable an ally to trash. He needed the male’s money to fund his science experiments and the breeding program.