Disquiet jangled his already-frayed nerves.
Ivar scowled. Enough of the bullshit. The unease chattering inside his head needed to shut the hell up. What the males he commanded thought of his efforts—and lack of results—didn’t matter. Time, however, did. The longer he delayed examining the results, the more females would die.
Fingertips striking the keyboard, he tapped in his password and slid his thumb over the trackpad. The cursor landed on the video file he needed. One click and—
“Son of a bitch,” he whispered, staring at a computer screen full of dead virus. Raising his arms, he cupped the back of his head. His chest tightened. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. After all this time. After all his attempts. After all the frustration and failure. “I did it—I fucking did it.”
His quiet words spiraled into the room. A beep sounded as the video ended. The computer screen shifted back to blue.
A large hand landed on his shoulder.
“Jesus!” Fists raised, Ivar swung around.
Hamersveld took a giant step backward, moving out of striking range. “Sorry. Thought you heard me.”
Ivar scowled. “The hell you did.”
The sadist SOB smirked, then tipped his chin at the screen. “It’s done?”
“Almost. The antiviral works. Now—”
“Thank God,” Hamersveld said, the tension in his face relaxing.
Ivar nodded, the same kind of relief taking hold. “I need to make more of it—prepare individual doses.”
“How long will that take?”
“Minutes.” A fast timeline. Unheard of—hell, undoable—in the human world. But now that he knew the basic compound, he could use his magic and replicate the antiviral drug in a fraction of the time. Storing it wouldn’t be a problem either. The vault in his mind held more than enough room to transport the required dosages to the CDC quarantine center in Granite Falls. “Five at most, and I’ll have everything we need.”
“How long to dose the infected females?”
“A couple of hours.”
Hamersveld glanced at the clock hanging above the door. “One a.m. Ten-minute flight time, a couple of hours there, another ten to get home.” Thoughts churning behind his eyes, Hamersveld cocked his head. “We still have time to make it to the hospital and do what needs to be done tonight. Get a move on, Ivar. If you’re fast enough, I’ll get a swim in before dawn.”
Ivar raised a brow. “Thought you got enough in your homemade hot tub earlier.”
“That wasn’t a swim, man,” Hamersveld murmured, a wicked gleam in his blue-rimmed, shark-black eyes. “Just fun.”
His lips twitched. Crazy water dragon. The male never quit. Or stopped asking for time in Puget Sound, a favorite watering hole of Hamersveld’s. Ridiculous most nights, but . . . the warrior spent more time submerged than in open air. It was amazing the male wasn’t permanently pruned. Not that it mattered. With the cure in hand, Ivar had bigger fish to fry. His antiviral needed to be made without delay. Closing his eyes, Ivar fisted his hands and bowed his head. Centered inside his magic, he called on his beast.
His dragon half rose.
Inferno-like heat streamed into his veins.
The compound took shape and form inside his mind. Calibrating each dose, Ivar manufactured one vial after another. A stockpile grew inside his mental vault. Stack after stack. Crate after crate, while he sent countless thank-yous to the goddess. Without divine intervention, he never would’ve found the antidote in time. Without her grace, human females would continue to die, dragging all of Dragonkind down with them.
The last time he left Cascade Valley Hospital, Ivar vowed never to return. He’d done his job. Completed the task, only to discover the disastrous results later on. Tonight, though, would be different. It wasn’t about wreaking havoc, but fixing what he’d broken.
Righting wrongs. Mending ruined lives. Healing human bodies.
White streams trailing from his wing tips, Ivar banked into a tight turn, circling the building from above. Oh, the irony—him playing the hero to humankind. The situation bordered on laughable, but as he returned his attention to the flat roof, he didn’t laugh. He got ready instead, sharpening his senses as his personal guard flew by and fanned out, taking up protective positions around the hospital. Tucking his wings, he dropped out of the sky as the pack settled and Hamersveld landed behind him.
Huge talons thumped down on frozen grass.
His friend shrugged his shoulders. Once. Twice. A third time.
Ivar’s mouth curved as the male’s wings caught air. Rolling gusts rushed down the street. Cars rocked on tires. Leafless tree limbs swayed as debris blew down the street. His friend shifted from dragon to human form. He followed suit, conjured his clothes, and stomping his feet into his boots, stepped off the curb.
Hamersveld tipped his chin. “You all right?”
“Never better,” Ivar said, his attention on the front doors.
A pause. The sound of cracking knuckles.
Ivar glanced over his shoulder. Seeing Hamersveld’s expression, he raised a brow. “What?”
His XO’s focus jumped from him to the building, then back again. “I think I should come in with you.”
He threw his friend his best what-the-hell look. “You hate hospitals.”
“I know, but . . .”
He waited—and waited, and waited some more—for the male to spit out whatever was stuck between his teeth. Total silence. Nothing on the enlightenment front. Nary a peep from a male who enjoyed being blunt and never pulled his punches.
Hamersveld pursed his lips. “I hesitate to mention it.”
Ivar lost his patience. “Just tell me, already.”
Scratching the blond stubble on his chin, Hamersveld glanced at the hospital again. “Last time you went in there, you blew a hole in the side of the building.”
Ivar scowled. “Not on purpose. Venom ambushed me.”
“Still—”
“Nyet,” Ivar said, cutting off his friend. He’d screwed up, lost Evelyn Foxe—a valuable HE female—in the fray, and started a global pandemic. He clenched his teeth. Jesus. Like he needed reminding. Holding his friend’s gaze, he shook his head. “Stay here. Keep an eye out. If any Nightfuries—”
“Bastards,” Hamersveld growled.
“—show up,” Ivar said, rolling over the interruption. “Start a fight first, let me know second.”
“I hope they do. I need to kill someone.”
Ivar’s lips twitched. “Stay sharp.”
“Uh-huh.” Eyes aglow, Hamersveld stared at him, then shook his head, and shifted back to dragon form. Magic expanded and contracted. Water blew into the air, coating his clothes in a fine mist. Smooth gray scales glinting in the low light, his friend lifted off, jagged sawtooth spine rippling as his webbed paws left the ground. Wing tips even with the building top, his friend glanced down and switched to mind-speak. “Get it done, Ivar. I don’t want to be here all night.”
Giving Hamersveld the one-finger salute, Ivar put himself in gear. No sense arguing with the bossy male. His XO was right. He hadn’t flown all the way from Seattle to stand around all night. Time to get a move on.
Five minutes and some fast walking later, he stopped outside the CDC’s quarantine area. Ivar glanced at the electronic keypad on the wall beside the door. Disengaging the lock with a thought, he swung the door open and stepped over the threshold into a makeshift prep area. Plastic tables to his right. A myriad of medical supplies shelved to his left. Not a human in sight. Perfect. Just what the scientist ordered: no pesky witnesses, zero interruptions. Reaching into his mental vault, Ivar grabbed the first antiviral. Already filled and ready to go, the syringe settled in his hand, and he moved, pushing through the sheeting separating him from a long stretch of hallway.
The stench of sickness hit him.
Moments later, the misery registered.
His stomach clenched in protest. Fucking hell. Never in his wildest imaginings had he envision
ed this—so many in such terrible pain. Women lay dying everywhere: on beds lining the corridor, in large rooms with open doors, on gurneys by the high-countered nurses’ station. The female on the cot he stood next to moaned.
She grabbed his pant leg. Brittle nails scratched against his jeans. “My baby . . . Emma. Please check on her. Can you—”
“I will,” he said, soothing her before he thought better of it. Rotating the syringe in his hand, he fit the needle into the notch on her IV and pushed the plunger, sending medicine into a tube attached to her arm. One down, a shitload to go. “I’ll check on her.”
She whispered a weak thank-you.
With a quick swivel, Ivar turned away without responding and entered a hospital room. Boots planted just inside the door, he scanned the windowless space, taking in the rows of narrow beds. The sound of crying tore open the stale air. Ivar frowned and, ignoring the plaintive whimpers, stopped beside the nearest cot and delivered the second dose. One after another. Female after female: young and vibrant, old and crooked; he didn’t discriminate, making steady work, leaving the hospital nursery for last.
Not the brightest idea.
He should’ve done the infants first. Gotten it over with, but . . . Jesus. He didn’t want to go in there and see a host of babies suffering.
Bracing himself, Ivar stepped inside the nursery anyway and . . . almost balked. Good Jesus, just kill him now. So many little girls, each one suffering alone, without the comfort of her mother or sire.
Ivar blinked as the thought snaked through his mind.
Hamersveld would scoff at his show of tenderness. The male would tell him he’d lost his mind along with his hard edges, maybe even call him weak. Months ago, he would’ve done the same and labeled human suffering well deserved. But as minutes passed and he reached the last crib, Ivar couldn’t discount the experience. Or how settled he felt after soothing the little girls, most now fast asleep in their beds. He loved science. Adored working in his lab. Enjoyed the challenge of discovery and busting through new frontiers. But as he stared down at the final infant he needed to help, his gaze on the tuft of red hair nearly the color of his own, something fundamental shifted deep inside him. The crack in his defenses widened. Emotion spilled through the fissure, forcing him to confront a profound truth long forgotten.
He hadn’t always been an uncaring male.
Somewhere along the line, he’d shut out his human side, relying on his dragon half to carry him through difficult times. Half human, half dragon—the building blocks of his kind. Two halves of a whole, a combination of species spliced together by the Goddess of All Things. One he’d spent most of his adult life ignoring instead of—
“Ivar.”
The deep voice cracked through mind-speak, jarring him.
The infant flinched, whimpering in distress.
Ivar cupped her tiny rib cage. Responding to the gentle touch, she settled, making his lips curve as he answered his XO. “Da?”
“Almost done?”
“I just gave the last dose.”
“About time, now—” The click of claws tumbled through mind-speak. “Get the hell out of there. It’s already three-oh-five.”
“Take off, Sveld. Go for your swim, but do something for me first.”
“Aw, hell. I’m not going to like it, am I?”
“Take three of my personal guard with you.”
Hamersveld growled. “Unnecessary.”
Very necessary. An unavoidable precaution. With the Archguard sequestered, Zidane on the loose, and a traitor inside his pack, his XO’s nights of flying off alone were over. “I don’t give a fuck if you like it or not.”
“I don’t need guards,” he said, sounding affronted.
“You are a part of my pack now, Sveld. I will not risk you or Fen,” Ivar said, tightening the noose, bringing Hamersveld to heel, using his wren against him. “No one flies out alone. Not anymore.”
Hamersveld muttered something nasty in Norwegian.
Ivar ignored him. “Rinner, Gillis, Syndor—go with him. Make sure he returns home in one piece.”
“Yes, commander,” the trio said in unison.
“Good,” Ivar said, approval conveyed in one word. “The rest of you wait for me. I’m coming out.”
The remaining four guards murmured in assent.
Hamersveld cursed again.
Ivar severed the link, cutting his friend off mid-grumble, and headed for the exit. Another problem solved. Now on to the next, the one he couldn’t get out of his head. Sasha Cooper, the female forever on his mind. He wanted to ignore her. To forget she existed and move past the night she’d nearly killed him, but . . . hell. His dragon half refused to let him, so . . . yeah. No more putting it off. Time for a late-night visit and an in-depth chat.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Crouched atop a ridge on Bainbridge Island, Forge looked out over Puget Sound. City lights winked in the distance. Waves crested and rolled in the bay, merging with unseen undercurrents before flowing past Seattle and out to sea. The icy swirl threw damp tendrils into the air, coating his scales with water, obscuring his vision with fog, making his unease keep time with frothing whitecaps. Refolding his wings, he adjusted his stance for what seemed like the thousandth time.
Raising a paw, he flexed his talons. Black, razor-sharp tips gleamed in the moon-glow. The show of strength didn’t temper his worry. The relentless shift and shuffle didn’t settle him either. Step closer to the edge of the cliff. Climb to the row of boulders above the beach below him. Hop back down. Resettle once more. No matter what he did—or how often he changed position—nothing eased the disquiet. Not surprising in the grand scheme of things. Waiting always set his teeth on edge.
So did sitting in a human’s backyard.
Not that the female could see him.
Hidden by a cloaking spell, Forge glanced over his shoulder. Clad in cedar siding, the bungalow stood like a ghost against the night, a pale swath in the pitch black and . . . yup. Still there. Still burning the midnight oil. Still oblivious to his presence less than fifty yards away. Framed by a large picture window, the female stood at a tall table, hands busy making something, a solitary lamp the only light on in her workshop, her bronzy aura burning like a ring of fire around her. A beacon in the darkness. A gem hidden in the wilds of a winter forest.
Naked tree limbs creaked above him.
Rough bark brushed against one of his horns.
Sinking lower into his crouch, Forge shuffled sideways.
“Pretty little night owl.” Ice-pale eyes locked on the high-energy female, Rikar leapt onto the huge boulder behind him. White claws grazed over stone like nails on a chalkboard.
Forge gritted his teeth. He took a deep breath, exhaled in a slow rush, tried to relax, but . . . Christ. It was impossible. With his patience shot and his nerves frayed, he couldn’t stand the scrap of extra stimuli. Everything—his pack-mates included—irritated the hell out of him.
“Hard at work tonight.”
Ruffling his scales, Forge dragged his focus from the female. As the clickety-click-click of his interlocking dragon skin settled back into place, he scanned the Sound, hoping for trouble—nay, strike that. Make it, needing trouble—and a whole pack of rogues to kill. “Aye, she is.”
“Tempted?” Hanging from the cliff face, Bastian poked his horned head over the edge.
“By her?” Forge huffed. No chance. Pretty as the female looked, powerful bio-energy aglow behind her windows, she didn’t interest him. He already had a female. A gorgeous one with an unwavering spirit, an abundance of brains, and a mouth that never quit. The memory of her back talk made him smile and . . . fuck. He’d left her half-naked at home, beautiful body on display, ready for another round of loving. Goddamn his bad luck . . . and Mac’s illness. “Not even a little.”
“Spoken like a bonded male,” B murmured, hammering him with the truth again. “Well and truly caught.”
“Would you stop that shite?”
; Peering down from the boulder, Rikar cocked his head. “What?”
“I already know I’m screwed,” he said, letting his pissy mood out of the box. “I donnae need you two reminding me.”
Ignoring his wishes, Rikar poked at him. “So . . . you going to claim her?”
“I want tae, more than anything, but . . .” Searching for the right words, Forge frowned. “It isnae that simple.”
“Yes, it is, Forge.” Talons digging into rock, Bastian jumped up onto the ridge. Midnight-blue scales flashed through the fog. Shale tumbled down the cliff face and onto the beach, rumbling through the quiet as B settled beside him. Green eyes intent, his commander bumped shoulders with him. “You want her, take her. Nothing so simple as that.”
He already had—twice. It hadn’t been enough. He wanted to make love to her again. And again. Over and over until satiation set in and he found a modicum of peace. But even as the thought surfaced, Forge recognized the lie. He would never be satisfied. Not with a quick affair. Not when it came to Hope. He needed more from her and . . .
Goddamn it. Simple couldn’t be further from the truth.
What he felt for Hope wasn’t simple at all. Complicated as hell seemed more accurate. Messy and dangerous too given the bull’s-eye pinned to his back. Stupid Archguard. Goddamn Rodin and his idiotic schemes. The male didn’t know when to quit. Forge scowled. Selfish bastard. The urge to cross the pond and cut the leader of the Archguard down a notch nudged him. His eyes narrowed. Then again, why stop there? Might as well take him out completely while he was at it.
Squash him like a bug.
Skin him like a snake.
Leave him scaleless . . . ding-dong, the lead dragon’s dead.
A lovely plan. Advisable too given what Forge faced in the future—exile along with a hit squad bought and paid for by Dragonkind nobility. Confronted by those facts, claiming Hope qualified as sheer idiocy. He should leave her alone. Cooperate with the hypnotherapy, then send her home—safe and sound, none the worse for wear.
The idea made his dragon half stand up and shake its head. All right, so no agreement from that quarter. Come to think of it, his human side despised the notion as well. Which made him crazy in more ways than he could count, and yet, even knowing he might endanger her life, he desired Hope for his mate anyway. Longed to come home to her at the end of every night. Dreamed of sleeping with her in his arms each day. Craved the family—and any future bairns—she might give him.
Fury of Surrender (Dragonfury Series Book 6) Page 27
