Fury of Obsession (Dragonfury Series Book 5)

by Coreene Callahan

  “Ouch!” Glued to his six, Rikar dodged right. “What the hell, B. Have you lost your freaking mind?”

  Upping the velocity, Bastian ignored the question. He wasn’t interested in conversation. Not now. Maybe not for a while either. Instead, he kept his gaze fixed on the rough terrain and blew past a cluster of ancient pines.

  “Holy shit—” His first in command banked hard, dodging more debris. “Watch it.”

  Bastian didn’t respond to the edge of pissed off in his friend’s voice. No reason to ruin the moment and open his mouth. Or flip off his wingman through mind-speak. Rikar could handle the dustup along with the breakneck speed. So could the forest. Damage. No damage. The landscape—and any carnage left in his wake—didn’t matter. Not tonight. Nature would do what it always did—so would his XO—and survive. His mind was on other things. Urgent things. Worrisome things, and the situation in Seattle.

  Or rather, the non-situation.

  Which meant he needed to get home. Reach the waterfall. Fly into the underground cavern. Land on the LZ, shift into human form, and beat feet toward the computer lab—the brainstem inside Black Diamond—and Sloan, faster than fast. Good intel, after all, was tricky. It only stayed current so long. So forget patient. Quick and clean. Down and dirty. Both sounded good at the moment. Either strategy would work, but only if he acquired the information he needed to fill in the blanks.

  A long shot by any standards, but . . .

  He needed to try. Otherwise, he’d be shit out of luck with two of his warriors MIA halfway around world.

  “Fucking hell,” he growled, rotating into a tight flip.

  Rikar cursed and, wobbling in mid-air, unleashed his frosty side. The temperature dropped. Damp air turned into icy swirl, coating Bastian’s midnight-blue scales as the terrain dipped. Thick woodland thinned as it neared a two-hundred-foot drop. Gaze on the rocky ledge, he blew past the crag. Shale rolled, tumbling toward the river below. Ignoring the splashdown, he banked hard, blasting into the next turn. Water rippled, whipping into frothy chop. His muscles squawked. He didn’t care. The ball-busting flight felt good. Seemed appropriate too. Exertion brought clarity along with certain knowledge.

  Set aside the problem with Gage and Haider for the moment. Something else was bothering him too—a something that landed a whole lot closer to home, ’cause . . . no shadow of a doubt. The vibe in the city tonight had been all wrong.

  Bastian snorted. Lightning sparked from his nostrils as he shook his head. Jesus. Who was he kidding? Wrong didn’t begin to describe the last few hours. Bizarre. Fucked up. In no way normal. Sure, use one of those. Each one applied. Particularly since he hadn’t encountered a single Razorback in downtown Seattle. Not one. After hours spent hunting. After visiting every one of the enemies’ known haunts. After he’d unleashed his magic time and again, giving away his position, inviting the enemy pack to come get him.

  Usually that was all it took—an invitation to fight.

  Not tonight. The usual hadn’t done the trick. No matter how many pings he’d sent out, the enemy hadn’t flown out to engage him.

  The switch-up signaled trouble. Razorbacks didn’t do different. The idiots were predictable. No deviation in behavior. No variation in ideology. Just in-your-face savagery most of the time. So yeah, the change in Razorback tactics concerned him. The reason behind the strategic shift must be significant. Huge, in fact. Big enough to keep the enemy pack inside—and out of the sky—for three straight nights. Add that worry to the situation in Prague and his problems multiplied, going global in a blink of an eye.

  Which left Gage and Haider in the hot seat.

  An ocean away without backup. Or the slightest hope of receiving help anytime soon.

  Dread congealed in the pit of his stomach. A bad taste washed into his mouth. Bastian swallowed the burn. God. Forget wrong. Everything had gone sideways. Was upside down, inside out, and backward. So messed up, he didn’t know where to start. Should he say the hell with it, head to Prague and challenge the Archguard? Or stay the course and trust his warriors? Instinct urged him to get involved. Experience told him to wait . . .

  Just a little longer.

  His warriors weren’t lightweights. Each one was vicious on his own. Put them together, toss off-the-chart IQs into the equation, and . . . no question. The pair made savage look tame. And yet, Bastian couldn’t shake his unease. He had a bad feeling. The kind that told him his warriors’ disappearance and the Razorbacks’ sudden retreat were somehow connected. Pure supposition? Guesswork without a foothold in fact? Bastian gritted his teeth. Without a doubt. He didn’t have a shred of proof. Wasn’t likely to get any either. Not if Ivar—leader of the Razorback nation—kept his warriors off the playing field.

  “Asshole,” Bastian growled, wishing Ivar would come out and play.

  “You’d better not be talking to me, ’cause—” Spine flexing, Rikar rotated up and over. Frost-covered scales rattled. Halfway through the flip, he drilled Bastian with a skull-thumping look. “You’re the only asshole around here right now.”

  “I’m on edge,” Bastian said, by way of apology. “Six days, Rikar. Six fucking days without word.”

  “I know. I’m worried about the Metallics too, but—” Flipping right side up, his friend settled into a smooth glide off his left wing tip. “The crazy-ass speed won’t solve anything, B.”

  “Maybe not, but it helps me think. I need some perspective.” Or a really stiff drink. A glass filled with Johnnie Walker Blue fit the bill. Suited his mood too. Throwing back a few always smoothed out the edges. Tonight would be no different, except . . . Bastian sighed. Drinking wasn’t a good idea. The guilt belonged to him along with the burden of command. So no. Whiskey wasn’t in his immediate future. He needed to stay sharp. Remain focused. Be able to see the problem from every angle. Otherwise, he’d never get his warriors out of Europe in one piece. “It’s all gone to shit. I sent Gage and Haider over there, Rikar. I—”

  “It was a slam dunk . . . a good decision all the way around. We needed the intel. Now we have it and know what to expect.”

  Bastian understood the rationalization. Hell, he’d been the one to come up with the plan in the first place. Knowing it was the right play, though, didn’t make him feel any better. “What if they’re already dead?”

  “Not a chance. Trust them, B. Gage and Haider know what they’re doing.” Rikar bared his fangs on a growl. “Rodin’s too greedy to kill our boys in private. The bastard needs a public stage—wants to make an example of us without jeopardizing his position.”

  Bastian grunted. “By exiling our pack.”

  “A hard sell,” Rikar said. “Xzinile is tricky business. The other members of the high council remember your sire and know you. With Nian in our corner, Rodin will have a hard time convincing them to declare us outlaws, never mind sanction a hit on members of our pack.”

  True enough. An excellent argument, if somewhat problematic.

  Particularly since Nian had gone missing too.

  Bastian grimaced. The radio silence might not mean anything. Nian could be lying low, working in the background and under the radar to get the Metallics to safety. He hoped so, but . . . one never knew with Nian. The male was power hungry and ambitious. Which made him unpredictable and by extension untrustworthy. Not the kind of warrior Bastian usually invited into his camp. And yet, he’d gotten involved with Nian anyway, agreeing to support his agenda inside the Archguard. Why? Bastian huffed. Good question. One he’d been asking himself for over a week. The question refused to leave him alone. It simply kept coming around, reappearing like an annoying person through a revolving door. But like it or not, the answer never changed.

  Call it intuition. Chalk it up to experience. Label it dangerous, but Bastian saw something in the younger male. Something he liked and knew would only strengthen over time. Nian cared. He wanted to do the right thing. Yearned
for change. Craved peace and a healthier path for Dragonkind—no matter how difficult the road or how many enemies he made along the way. So yeah, all things considered, Nian made a good ally.

  But only if the idiot returned his calls.

  Swallowing a curse, Bastian flexed his talons. He didn’t like it. Gage. Haider. And now Nian. Three males missing in the space of six days. The situation carried all the markers of a plan gone wrong.

  Gaze on the jagged terrain, he banked around a cliff rising from the river’s edge. His mind churned. His chest tightened, squeezing his heart as instinct squawked, warning him to watch out. Rodin was behind the disappearances. Smack-dab in the middle of the power play somehow. Bastian bit down on a snarl. Not surprising. The bastard would do anything—hurt anyone—to remain in power. Manipulation. Intimidation. Murder. The male dabbled in it all. Bastian should know. He’d watched Rodin maneuver while under the Archguard’s thumb as a ward of the state after his sire’s death.

  A murder Rodin had set in motion.

  Not that Bastian could prove it. The slimy bastard was smart. Rodin never got his hands dirty. He issued orders and expected others to carry them out. Which meant Bastian still didn’t know who killed his father—Sigvoid, High Chancellor of Dragonkind, the male voted in by pack commanders to oversee the Archguard and uphold Dragonkind laws. A crappy hand dealt at the eleventh hour. No matter how hard he pushed for information, no one talked. Ergo he couldn’t lay the blame at Rodin’s feet. That ship had sailed. No going back. No evidence to collect or guilty parties to charge. No closure of any kind. Just the pain of loss and the certain knowledge his sire had died safeguarding the future of his race.

  A tough job. One made more difficult by assholes like Rodin.

  To be expected. The political arena remained forever the same. Like a game of chess, the landscape never shifted, only the positions of the players on the board. Which was why he lived in Seattle, far away from all the bullshit. His sire had wanted something better—something more—for him. A real life. A chance at happiness, not the constant threat from power-hungry males who coveted his position.

  The entire reason behind his promise. One he’d made to his sire before his death. Never go into politics. Or assume the role of High Chancellor. No matter how many males asked him to lead the whole of Dragonkind.

  Bastian exhaled in a rush.

  So many years had passed since that fateful conversation. So much pain and strife since he’d turned away from his birthright. Bastian shook his head. He’d been so young—just seventeen years old, three years from his change and the ability to shift into dragon form. Too naive to understand what giving his word meant. Or what it would do to his race. Complete upheaval. Total turmoil. Brother pitted against brother. Sometimes Bastian wondered whether his sire had predicted what leaving the throne empty would do, and the kind of chaos that would ensue. Maybe that’s what he’d wanted. Maybe he’d known all along what his race needed . . .

  Real change. Responsible government. A restructuring of Dragonkind hierarchy.

  Bastian didn’t know. His father was dead and gone, never to return. And worrying about what he intended? A total waste of time. Guessing games wouldn’t help. He couldn’t go back and change his mind. Couldn’t fix two centuries’ worth of problems, never mind know his sire’s intentions. He lived—day in and day out—with the reality of the situation left by his father. Well, that and the memories: the cruelty he’d suffered by Rodin’s command in the aftermath of his father’s murder.

  Sorrow tightened his throat.

  His mind supplied the rest, flashing images on his mental screen, reminding him of opportunity lost and mistakes made. So many botched attempts. Far too many males interested in the throne. Sigvoid had been dead less than a week when Rodin made a play for power.

  Hostile takeover at its worst.

  Dissention had been the result. And the position had yet to be filled. Years spent without a true leader had fractured Dragonkind, allowing individual packs to splinter off and lay claim to different territories. Now his kind no longer lived in a central location, but all over the planet. Some still backed Rodin and his twisted aspirations. Others wanted Bastian to step into the role, just as his sire had done. And with the two camps set in direct opposition? Bastian shook his head. Political maneuvering without end. Stupidity to the next power. Jesus. No wonder it was such a mess.

  No one could agree.

  Or understand why he refused to become High Chancellor of Dragonkind. But the truth remained the same. His answer too—

  He’d given his word and promised his sire.

  Which put him in the middle of a mess, didn’t it? Front and center, playing a lethal game of tug-of-war. One that went something like—keep those who supported him happy enough to accept his refusal to seize the throne while thwarting Rodin’s attempts to claim it at the same time. By no means easy. Particularly when Rodin turned the political wheel, threating the Nightfury pack with Xzinile. Bastian growled. Fucking Archguard. The pansy-ass idiots didn’t have a clue. His refusal to assume his sire’s role didn’t make him weak. If anything, it made him more dangerous. Toss the threat of Xzinile into the pile and . . .

  It spelled trouble. For those on the high council, not him.

  Exile—being labeled an outlaw—would unleash him. Give him the freedom to discard the law, follow his sire’s example, and go after the Archguard. Eliminate them all. Dismantle an archaic system that no longer served Dragonkind interests and replace it with something better. So bring it on. Let the Archguard declare him a traitor. Bastian hoped Rodin proved to be that stupid. He really did. The second the high council voted, signed the paperwork, and put a bounty on his head . . .

  Holy fuck. He couldn’t wait to see what happened.

  Not many males would be brave enough to come after him. Or any of his warriors from half a world away. His reputation was solid, and his methods, well known. Toss in the fact his allies would rally to support him and . . . little doubt. Rodin was headed into dangerous territory. Was risking it all to assuage his pride instead of playing it safe to keep the status quo. Which would lead to one thing . . .

  War on a global scale. A chance at significant change.

  “Hey, B?”

  Bastian glanced at his best friend. “Yeah?”

  “How’s it going with Forge?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  “He still doesn’t remember?”

  “I’m working with him.” Bastian rolled his shoulders. His scales clicked together. Ice chips peeled from interlocking dragon skin, blowing behind him as he adjusted his wing speed. “No details of that night yet, but his memory is coming back . . . slowly.”

  Par for the course. And Bastian understood.

  Forge didn’t want to remember, never mind relive the attack. Or the resulting anguish of seeing his sire and older brothers killed. Compartmentalizing to isolate the pain, the Scot had locked the memory away inside his mind. Now he couldn’t access it at all. He’d had no reason to either. Until now. Bastian wanted to know what happened that night. So cue the mind regression techniques along with the magic. He was using it all, trying to regress Forge enough to stimulate recall. It was slow going, no question, but fortune favored the patient. He refused to push Forge too hard, too fast, and damage his synapses in the process. Piecing memories together took time, and Bastian had faith. The Scot would remember—eventually—and give him what he needed.

  More information. All the nitty-gritty details.

  The real reason Rodin wanted the Scot dead.

  But first, Bastian needed to know the why behind the smoke screen. The secret holding up the network of lies surrounding the leader of the Archguard. Was the bastard targeting his warrior to cover up a crime? Like oh, say, his involvement in the murder of Forge’s sire—commander of the Scottish pack—years ago. A good guess. Rodin hadn’t always been so careful. T
he bastard might like to pull strings behind the scenes, but every once in a while, he screwed up. Maybe the murder of Forge’s family was one of those times. Maybe Rodin had made the trip to Scotland to coordinate the attack. Maybe . . . just maybe . . . Forge could place the bastard there—flying as lead dragon in the death squad.

  Pure conjecture. Assumption without a shred of proof.

  Bastian hummed in anticipation anyway. The theory made a certain amount of sense. It explained everything, in fact. Rodin’s fixation on Forge. His willingness to risk reinstating Xzinile to not only hide the truth, but eliminate the only witness to his crime. A misstep that would topple Rodin and see him convicted in a Dragonkind court.

  A little snippet. One jagged piece of information. Confirmation that Rodin had been there. Bastian knew what the bastard looked like in dragon form. All he needed from Forge was a description of the death squad—all the males who attacked that night. Valuable intel that could even now be locked away inside the Scot’s mind. His eyes narrowed on the treetops, Bastian went over his strategy again. Slow and steady. Mind regression at its most patient. He must help Forge remember. Otherwise, he’d lose what he needed to take the leader of the Archguard down.

  Once and for all.

  “The sooner Forge remembers,” Rikar said, deep voice rolling through mind-speak, “the better for us.”

  “I know. I might need your help with him.”

  Rikar frowned. “What—tag team him? Two is better than one?”

  “Don’t know—maybe. Can’t hurt to try.”

  “Yeah, all right.” Rikar nodded. “Whatever you need.”

  “I’ll speak to Forge,” he murmured, glad to have his friend on board. “Get his okay before we spring you on him, then—”