Fury of Obsession (Dragonfury Series Book 5)

by Coreene Callahan

  Waiting sucked.

  He hated it. Despised the delays. The reason behind each one too.

  Ivar growled. The low rumble made the rounds, echoing off glass and unpainted gypsum. He clenched his teeth on another curse. Fucking humans. Uncooperative residents of Granite Falls. His patience thinned by the second, the need to know poking at him like a pointy stick. Like a meth addict jonesing for his next fix, he craved information. Needed statistics. Yearned for colorful pie charts full of percentages—the equations detailing infection rates of the people who lived in the small town south of the Canadian border.

  Everytown USA. The perfect human petri dish. One of the best sample groups around. But only if his gamble paid off.

  Too many healthy immune systems made the outcome almost impossible to predict. Which left Mother Nature out in the cold. Not that she cared. Or gave a damn what he wanted. The fickle witch obviously didn’t appreciate bar graphs—or microbiology—the way he did. Incubation periods of powerful viruses enjoyed a different kind of symmetry. The sort that didn’t include him.

  Aggravation jabbed at him.

  Ivar shoved at his shirt sleeve. Light from a street lamp streamed through the window, hitting the face of his watch. The expensive timepiece served up the hour—just shy of two a.m. Almost seven days without a recorded symptom. Not a single one. Ivar sighed in disappointment. Delay upon delay. Days wasted watching TV, monitoring news broadcasts, listening to annoying anchormen yammer on about nothing special. Nights spent searching the Internet, streaming live video, reading blogs, looking for something—anything—to confirm his plan was working. Or whether time marched on without him.

  A good question. One that should’ve yielded a quick answer given the fact he’d infected Granite Falls’ water supply with a superbug over a week ago. A bio-cocktail, his baby was a beaut. Nasty. Fast acting. A killer wrapped up in a lethal viral load.

  Or so he’d thought.

  Until tonight.

  Fucking hell, it was frustrating. He should be there now, right in the middle of the action. Set up in the center of town, watching his experiment unfold while his superbug went to work and humans died. A lovely thought. Nothing but a dwindling hope right now. Evidence of the outbreak had yet to surface. Not a whisper on the nightly news. No word from Denzeil or a ripple of panic in the human population. Which sucked . . . big time. Particularly since he couldn’t collect a single blood or tissue sample until the infection took root. Which left him where? Stuck at home. Doing what? Twiddling his thumbs—hands tied, boots planted, bad mood escalating . . .

  Waiting for something to happen.

  Dragging his gaze from his watch, he focused on the road snaking past 28 Walton Street. An old fire station built in the 1930s, the property suited his needs. Ivar liked the symmetry of the place—big rooms, open layout, the very essence of feng shui. Toss in the underground lair sitting beneath the thirteen acres surrounding it, and he owned a winner. All he needed to keep himself busy and out of trouble, but . . .

  Not tonight.

  Ivar bit down on a curse. He was bored as hell, in desperate need of a distraction. He scanned the neighborhood again. Nothing and nobody. All quiet on the suburbia front. He pursed his lips. Different night, same results. No deviation in routine. No drama after dark. Very little to write home about. Same, same, and more of the same. Most nights, he enjoyed that about the sleepy corner of Seattle he called home. Neighbors never knocked on his door. Cops rarely drove by. And the lights inside the tiny houses dotting both sides of the narrow avenue always went out around nine o’clock.

  Nice and predictable. Safe and—Ivar sighed—completely boring.

  Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he pushed away from the wall. His reflection wavered in the dark glass. Stepping over a pile of debris, he ignored his blurry outline in the bank of windows in favor of admiring the installation. High gloss and high tech, the triple-paned quintuplets stood shoulder to shoulder—wide, tall, and church-like, with arched tops and straight bottoms: a long line of clean, clear, and fabulous. No more hairline fractures in the glass. No more heat loss or chilly breezes through rotten wood frames. Brand spanking new, just like the wide floorboards beneath his feet.

  He kicked at a piece of bamboo plank left by the recent renovation. Sawdust kicked up, dusting the toe of his boot, joining the scent of fresh drywall and joint compound. He glanced at the white patch of plaster beneath one of the window’s steel casing. His mouth curved.

  Almost there.

  Another week or two and the upper floor of the once dilapidated firehouse would be finished. Nothing left to do but furnish the rooms and enjoy the space. A pleasant notion. One that should’ve pleased him. Most of the time, it did. Especially while testing viral loads inside his state-of-the-art laboratory one hundred and fifty feet below his present position. Tonight, though, satisfaction remained miles away. So far from reach, he couldn’t summon an ounce of pride for his new digs.

  Unclenching his fists, Ivar indulged in a shoulder roll. Sore muscles squawked. No surprise there. Stiff from standing still too long, his body begged for action. Wanted him to unleash his inner beast, spread his wings, and soar above the cityscape. His dragon half perked up, liking the idea. He glanced at the ceiling. Damp plaster patches stared back, daring him to do it, but . . .

  Ivar shook his head.

  No way. Blasting through the roof to reach fresh air wouldn’t solve anything. Sure, it would lift his mood. Might even elevate the underlying tension for a while, but the relief wouldn’t last. Temporary fixes never did. He must stay on track and hold the line. Just a little while longer. A month at most and he’d have what he needed—progress on all fronts. A safe, comfortable place to land after a hard night of fighting. News about Project Supervirus and Granite Falls. More data on his breeding program and the female captives he kept caged in his underground lair.

  So many balls in the air.

  He couldn’t afford to drop a single one. Not if he hoped to protect Dragonkind.

  Some thought his fight to end environmental erosion was a phase. Nothing more than a way for him to pass the time while he played scientist. Ivar knew better. He wasn’t playing. His willingness to eradicate an entire species—the human race—indicated that much. His decision stemmed more from desperation than curiosity. Was a haven of last resort, one he’d reached months ago. The tipping point was coming . . . the point of no return along with it. Mother Earth couldn’t handle much more of the abuse humankind doled out on a regular basis.

  The idiots were killing the planet.

  Slowly. Without conscience. Or an ounce of remorse.

  Evidence of it dominated the headlines. Monster storms. A depleted ozone layer and poor air quality. Ravaged rainforests, poisoned groundwater, and sick kids with never-before-seen allergies. Ivar blew out a long breath. He couldn’t stand it anymore. The situation was so unnecessary. A ticking time bomb. One hundred percent correctable if caught in time. He shook his head. No hope in hell of that happening. The humans refused to heed the warnings. The idiots would do what they always did—take what they wanted, be greedy morons when it came to the environment, and ignore the consequences.

  Which left him one recourse. Make plans. Ensure each strategy’s success. Continue to move forward on his own with fewer resources than he wanted—and more pressure from Rodin than he needed.

  A pity in more ways than one.

  Ambitious and power hungry, Rodin liked to meddle and never let up. He wanted regular updates and called far too often. Annoying? Absolutely. A necessary evil? Without a doubt. The constant monitoring in exchange for support from one of the most powerful males of his kind was a small price to pay. Well worth the aggravation in the long term. Ivar grimaced. All right, so he didn’t enjoy the strings. Or Rodin’s habit of trying to play him like a marionette. But money was just that . . . money. And more funds equaled greater fl
exibility.

  The kind that would allow him to end the scourge called humankind.

  Turning on his heel, Ivar strode toward the opposite side of the room. His footfalls echoed, pinging off the pitted brick walls. Bang-scrap-thump. Thud-creak-rasp. Up and back. Round and round. One circuit rolled into another . . . and then into more. His reflection flashed across the wall of glass as he skirted a plastic garbage bin. Sidestepping the table saw next to it, he halted in front of the last window. Right back where he started. Sad, but true. Ending up where he began seemed to be his MO of late.

  With a long-drawn sigh, he shoved his hands into his front pockets and resettled against the frame. Steel bit into his bicep. Discomfort raced down his arm as he mimicked the sad sag of a house with ancient eaves across the street. He stared at it and the beat-up Jeep parked in the driveway. Memory clawed, then dug in, reminding him who owned the rusted-out Wrangler. His mouth went dry. Ivar swallowed as her name streamed into his head.

  Sasha Cooper . . . sex kitten extraordinaire.

  An image of her raked the inside of his skull, making his temples throb and the traitor behind his button fly wake up. Full-blown arousal in under a second. Devastating need. Burning desire. All-consuming want. Ivar closed his eyes and, giving in to recall, replayed the night he’d spent with her. The one in which Sasha had played siren to his sailor. Holy fuck, she’d been incredible. Beyond anything he’d ever experienced. Gorgeous bio-energy. Unforgettable taste. Enthralling surrender. Her beautiful brown eyes soft in welcome. The heat of her embrace. All that pale, smooth skin beneath his hands. The sound of her voice as she whispered his name, begging him to take her again. The feel of her coming around him. God. What a memory and . . .

  Ivar fisted his hands in his pockets.

  Shit. Not good. Or even the tiniest bit wise.

  He needed to get her out of his head. Right now. Before he did something stupid—like leave the lair, cross the street, and knock on her front door. Again. Like the last time. Big mistake. Even worse results. Particularly since she’d tried to kill him in the aftermath of multiple orgasms.

  Jesus, he’d almost died.

  Died, for fuck’s sake. And yet, here he stood . . . fantasizing about her. Recalling the touch and taste of her. Trying to figure out how to protect himself so he could visit Sasha a second time. Sleep with her again. Spend the entire night instead of just a few hours.

  The idea tugged at him, urging him to find a way around the problem. So far, he hadn’t come up with a single way to negate her effect on him. For obvious reasons. He’d never met a female who could counteract his magic before, never mind open a channel to the Meridian through him. Sasha had done just that, using his unique bio-signal to connect to the source and steal his core energy. She’d sapped his strength, blocked his ability to disconnect, then drained him dry. The fact he’d made it out of her house alive qualified as a miracle.

  A huge one. The kind he knew wouldn’t happen twice.

  Too bad the scientist in him refused to let it go. He loved puzzles. Excelled at finding answers to difficult problems. Sasha represented an intriguing one. Now he wanted to know everything about her along with what kind of power she wielded. Otherwise he’d remain vulnerable, flawed by weakness instead of warrior-strong. In no way ideal. He was commander of the Razorback nation. Born and bred for war, not a sissy in need of—

  “Ivar.”

  Couched in a thick Norwegian accent, the voice slid home like a knife blade: slick and smooth, almost soothing as it pricked across his skin. Ivar’s mouth curved. Thank God. About frickin’ time. A worthy distraction was headed his way.

  Opening his eyes, Ivar glanced over his shoulder. Standing on the other side of the room, a six pack of Heineken in his hand, Hamersveld frowned at him. Ivar almost smiled back. Almost, but not quite. He was too busy looking for the male’s wren. A good idea on the self-preservation front. Fen was a nasty little bugger. Devoted to the Norwegian. Great in claw-to-claw combat. Not so hot to come face to face with inside the lair. Hell, the miniature dragon had nearly taken Ivar’s head off the last time he’d bumped into him.

  “Where’s Fen?” Ivar asked, searching the shadows behind his friend.

  Hamersveld tapped his shoulder, pointing to the tattoo hidden beneath his T-shirt. “Recharging.”

  “Good.”

  “Why—you scared?”

  Ivar snorted. Scared? Not really, although he couldn’t deny his wariness. A healthy reaction driven by the need to stay alive, and yet he refused to walk away. Fen presented an interesting challenge wrapped up in a dangerous dilemma. On the one hand, the miniature dragon fascinated Ivar. And on the other? His vicious nature made him difficult to study. Less than half Ivar’s size in dragon form, Fen didn’t have an ounce of human in him. Pure dragon DNA, related to Dragonkind, but genetically distinct too. Fast in flight, deadly as hell, wrens operated on a different set of magical principles. Which . . . yeah . . . qualified as a scientist’s wet dream—Ivar’s, in particular. Mapping the wren’s chromosomal structure would take him years. Maybe even decades. A terrific opportunity, but for one thing . . .

  The wren never went anywhere without Hamersveld. Why? Interesting question . . . easy answer. Fen couldn’t survive on the earthly plane without the male.

  Wrens didn’t consume food. Or draw sustenance from human females like the rest of Dragonkind. Each wren bonded with a Dragonkind male, relying on his host to feed and keep him healthy. A unique process, one that required the miniature dragon to merge with the tribal markings on the host male’s skin. The magical tattoo functioned like an electrical socket. Plug into the source. Draw the right amount of current from the electrostatic bands ringing the planet. Recharge the batteries. The instant Fen’s bio-energy connected with Hamersveld’s, the arcane bond clicked into place and . . .

  Eureka. Two merged into one.

  Well, at least for a little while. Ivar didn’t know how long the recharging process lasted. It varied from week to week. Sometimes Fen disappeared inside the tattoo for days. On other occasions, for just a few hours.

  Which made the wren an even more fascinating specimen.

  Unable to keep his curiosity in check, Ivar tipped his chin. “How long has he been gone this time?”

  “Less than a day. Five hours.” Suspicion in his eyes, Hamersveld frowned. “Are you charting him?”

  “The thought’s crossed my mind.”

  “Always the scientist.”

  “Curiosity,” he murmured, watching the male closely. “The curse of my calling.”

  Hamersveld rolled his eyes.

  Ivar gave in to a grin. He couldn’t help it. Despite Hamersveld’s difficult nature, he liked the male. All right, so maybe like was too powerful a word. Respect might be a better one. Not that it mattered. He might not know him well yet, but Ivar had high hopes for the Norwegian. The warrior was solid, if somewhat hard to read. Accustomed to being alone, Hamersveld gave nothing away. He held his emotions in check, played his cards close to the vest, and never let anyone close.

  Ivar understood the compulsion. He suffered from the same affliction. Understood the male better than most. A lifetime of mistrust took time to overcome. And friendship never came easy. Knowing that, however, didn’t stop Ivar from wanting it. He craved the connection. Liked the idea of having a friend. One he could trust to help him shoulder the burden. Someone capable of becoming his first in command. Hamersveld fit the bill, ticking all the boxes on his wish list—smart, lethal, a strong male with an impressive gift.

  The kind that spelled water dragon.

  A serendipitous find. An even better friend to have on his side. Particularly since most Dragonkind males feared water.

  Holding Hamersveld’s gaze, Ivar raised a brow. “Back from your swim in Puget Sound already?”

  “I didn’t go.”

  Huh. Well, wasn’t that interesting
? A deviation in routine. More than a touch odd. Hamersveld never missed his midnight dip. Lake. Ocean. Small stream or Olympic-size swimming pool. The location didn’t matter as long as water was involved. Which meant one of two things: either the male wasn’t feeling well or he needed to talk.

  Hoping for the latter, Ivar glanced at the case of Heineken. “Got one for me?”

  “Maybe.”

  Rimmed by light blue, shark-black eyes met his. Looking a little unsure, Hamersveld hesitated. Ivar stayed silent, refusing to prompt his new friend. Talk? Refuse to confide? The decision belonged to Hamersveld, not him.

  One second stretched into more before the male moved. Stepping around a stack of bamboo flooring, he strode across the room. Beer bottles rattled, shimmying inside the flimsy cardboard case. The quiet thump of heavy footfalls joined the clink of glass, then ceased as Hamersveld stopped alongside him. Cracking the top, his friend handed him a beer, took one for himself, then set the box on the floor at his feet. Finished with the buddy routine, Hamersveld propped his shoulder against the window pane a few feet away.

  And Ivar waited. For Hamersveld to crack. For him to make the first move and trust him with the problem.

  A furrow between his brows, Hamersveld sighed. “What the hell are you doing up here? Thought to find you in the lab.”

  “Finished working an hour ago.” Grabbing his beer by the throat, Ivar twisted off the top. Carbonation hissed as foam bubbled up the bottle neck. Ignoring the froth, Ivar flicked the cap toward the garbage can across the room and . . . bingo. Dead center. Middle-of-the-basket accurate. Hurrah for him. A solid two points. “I’m waiting for bacteria cultures to mature.”

  “No word yet from Granite Falls?”

  Ivar shook his head. “Not a peep.”

  “And now you’re restless?”

  “Twitchy as hell,” he said, admitting the weakness even though it left a bad taste in his mouth. Ivar swallowed the burn. Humility wasn’t his strong suit. Neither was copping to vulnerability—real or imagined. But bringing Hamersveld close necessitated a different approach. One that started in honesty and ended in trust. Swiping at the beer label with the pad of his thumb, he obliterated the water droplets and cleared his throat. “I hate waiting.”