Fury of Obsession (Dragonfury Series Book 5)

by Coreene Callahan

  “Free and clear.”

  White jets streaming off his wing tips, Wick shot over the top of the bluff. With an acrobatic flip, he dove over the cliff edge, the move pure kamikaze. Bastian ducked to avoid a collision. The crazy SOB changed course, missing him by inches, rattling the spikes along his spine, pissing him off in the process.

  Bastian scowled at him.

  “Nice to see you too.” Wick grinned, all wolf, no apology. “Where’s Sloan?”

  “Right here.”

  Dark-brown scales tinted green and gold glinted up ahead. The flash of Sloan’s pure white paws followed in the gloom. Bastian’s gaze narrowed. Bingo. Target acquired. One earth dragon, dead ahead.

  “What the fuck, Sloan?” Coming within range, he threw his warrior a sidelong look. Sloan didn’t return the favor. Expression intent, dark eyes moving over ragged terrain, the male cursed under his breath. And Bastian went on high alert. Less volatile than most, Sloan never overreacted. He thought things through, using his off-the-charts IQ and wicked IT skills to puzzle things out. Which meant whatever had the male so focused required his undivided attention. “Lay it out.”

  “Three rogues playing hide-and-seek,” Sloan said, giving him the lay of the land. “Weirdest thing, though.”

  “What?” Bastian asked.

  “Seems to me they don’t want to fight.” Sloan glanced over his shoulder and met his gaze. “Hell, tangling with them was more dance than combat. All theatrics, no bite.” Worry in his eyes, he shook his head. “I can’t even sense them anymore. It’s as though they—”

  “Up and disappeared?” Firing up his gift, Bastian unleashed his magic.

  The powerful wave rose, then unfurled, rushing over the landscape. His heightened sense of perception twitched. Sonar dialed to maximum, he hunted for the unique signature every male left in his wake. A glimmer came through, giving him a vague sense of the trio, but . . . hmm, odd. More than strange. The signal was muffled by something, preventing him from getting an accurate read. Normally, he could track males for miles. No such luck tonight. With the beacon muted, his senses blurred, running together, folding over, smothering his ability to connect.

  Winter wind picked up.

  Dead leaves rustled as tall trees swayed.

  A hum teased his temples, urging him farther north.

  Changing tack, he zigzagged in the cold air and tried again. A throb came through. Same result, except . . . his eyes narrowed. Wait a second. His internal antennae twitched, grabbing hold of a faint signal—

  Bastian sucked in a breath. Holy God. He recognized the sizzle of sensation now. It had been years. Ages. Far too long. Something he’d only felt once before—when his sire had been alive.

  Locked on to the vibration, Bastian flew toward the highway. “Follow me.”

  His warriors fell in beside him, taking up wingman positions as he tracked the buzz. North-northwest. Up over smooth bluffs. Around the tops of huge pine trees. Half a mile of asphalt and gravel to reach the construction site. Parked to one side, excavators sat beside graders and pavement rollers. Dropping in from above, Bastian rolled in on a slow glide, then wheeled in behind a row of dump trucks.

  Black tires shone in the moonlight. North wind tumbled, blowing dust across the narrow roadway as the sizzle intensified, gouging his temples and . . . ah, yes. X marked the spot—a dead zone just ahead. An artificial one created by a Dragonkind male, more cone of silence than Bermuda Triangle. But just as effective. Fifty yards wide and just as deep, the enclosed area muffled signals and killed electronics, creating a force field around the user. One most males would never detect.

  Nifty trick. Clever ploy. A very effective maneuver.

  Without slowing, Bastian flew through the clear barrier. The side wall rippled, flowing over him like water, coating his wings. Energy shards nicked his scales. The uncomfortable prickle raced the length of his spine. Wick cursed behind him. Bastian refused to slow. He wheeled right instead, circled into a holding pattern, and scanned the terrain inside the energy shield. A whole lot of nothing special. Tall cedars standing at the edge of the dead zone. Huge boulders heaped in a haphazard pile next to an abandoned backhoe. A single pickup truck parked on the shoulder of the gravel road.

  Movement flashed in his periphery.

  The F-150’s headlights flipped on.

  Twin beams lit up the surface of the highway. The pickup swayed, rusty side panels creaking as a male uncloaked near the front bumper. Pure black scales glinted in the light, framing the blood-red spikes along the warrior’s spine. So familiar. Beyond strange to see a male made in the image of his sire. But the true giveaway to his identity? The scarlet spider inked on the side of the warrior’s throat.

  “Holy shit,” Sloan murmured.

  Wick hummed, the sound full of welcome.

  Bastian’s mouth curved. “Azrad.”

  “Brother.” Head tipped back, blue eyes narrowed, Azrad watched him glide overhead. “You gonna land or what?”

  Folding in his wings, Bastian dropped out of the sky. The magical barrier warped. His paws thumped down a few feet away. Gravel rolled, pinging against the side of the pickup truck. Wick and Sloan landed behind him. Huge talons scraping over hard ground, Azrad sat up straighter. The slight flinch spoke volumes. Bastian got the message. His brother was uncertain of his acceptance. To be expected. Until two weeks ago, he hadn’t known his father had sired another son.

  Or that Azrad existed.

  And yet, Bastian welcomed the news. No rhyme. No reason. Just faith wrapped up in the need for family. He huffed. God, he could hardly believe it. A baby brother who shared his bloodline. Same father. Different mother. A chance at forging a bond the same way other brothers did. Too bad familial DNA didn’t mean immediate closeness. Trust and strong relationships took time to build. Lots of hard work and commitment too, so . . . yeah. He understood Azrad’s hesitation. He felt it too—the need to insulate himself just in case things took a turn for the worst. Still, despite his reservations, he refused to turn away.

  Too much hung in the balance.

  His brother’s future. Bastian’s need to support him. A chance at true connection with the only male who shared his blood. All of it lay on the line.

  Holding Azrad’s gaze, he shifted into human form. A bold move, one that left him vulnerable. Probably not the smartest thing to do. His scales acted like armor, providing protection from attack. Human skin left him open to injury. Bastian didn’t care. He needed to start somewhere. Here . . . tonight . . . seemed as good a place as any to begin building bridges that would stand the test of time. Stomping his feet into his boots, Bastian rolled his shoulders, adjusting the fit of his leather trench coat.

  His gaze traveled over Azrad again. He tipped his chin. “You look a lot like Father in dragon form.”

  Surprise sparked in his brother’s eyes. Azrad looked down at his scale-covered chest. “Really?”

  “Same coloring . . . minus the spider.”

  Interest sharpened in Azrad’s eyes. “Will you tell me of him sometime?”

  Bastian nodded. “If you like.”

  His brother rewarded the response and returned the trust, transforming to human form. Crew-cut short on the sides, a dark Mohawk rose in the center of Azrad’s head. Dark-blue eyes met his a second before the hardware arrived. Two black metal studs appeared on the male’s face—one in his eyebrow, the other piercing a nostril. Bastian blinked. Well, all right then. He’d almost forgotten about all the steel. Kind of strange, but—

  He swallowed his amusement. Crazy. Completely bent. Who would’ve thought he’d end up with a Gothed-up male for a sibling?

  Shrugging into a beat-up army jacket, Azrad glanced toward Sloan, then back at Bastian. “Sorry for the theatrics. I had to make it look good for the rogues, and short of killing your warrior—”

  Wick snorted in derision, inte
rrupting the explanation.

  “No chance of that,” Sloan said, a hard gleam in his eyes.

  “Surrounded by the enemy, warrior. I had you outnumbered,” Azrad murmured, staring at Sloan as he snapped his fingers.

  The cone of silence warped.

  Two warriors stepped through the disturbance, becoming visible in twin tracks thrown by cracked headlights. Black hair cropped short, a leather patch over one eye, the larger warrior walked forward. Leaner of frame, but just as tall, the blond crisscrossed, moving behind his comrade. Feet crunching over crushed gravel, both warriors stopped behind Azrad. Eye Patch set up on his right. Pretty-boy blond took the left. Bastian’s lips twitched. Would you look at that? Pyramid position, a formation designed for one purpose—guarding a leader’s back. Heavy muscle ruffled as Wick and Sloan did the same, moving in tight to protect him.

  Gaze narrowed on the newcomers, Sloan shrugged. “Three to one in a fight. Pretty good odds—in my favor.”

  “Arrogance is a precursor to death.” Flexing his hands, Eye Patch smiled in challenge.

  Unimpressed, Wick rolled his eyes. “Fuck off.”

  With a laugh, the big male dropped the tough-guy act. “I am Terranon. First in command to Azrad.”

  “Kilmar,” the blond said, settling into a more relaxed stance.

  Unfurling his fists, Sloan introduced himself.

  The trio nodded, then looked past him, to a spot over his right shoulder. A tense moment passed. Wick remained silent. Bastian stifled a laugh. Stubborn to the point of fatalistic. Quiet per usual. Trust Wick to be the lone holdout.

  “Meet Wick.” Bastian hitched his thumb, indicating a spot over his shoulder. “So, now that we all know each other . . .” Pausing, he closed the distance. He stopped in front of his brother and raised his hand. Azrad flinched, but stayed true, allowing him to cup the side of his neck. “You all right? Surviving the Razorback camp okay?”

  Azrad exhaled, relaxing in his grip. “I’m good. Tough going, though.”

  “Much infighting?”

  “Some,” Azrad said, shrugging his hand away. Pivoting toward the truck, he tipped his head back and looked up at the night sky. Stars blurred, pinpoint brilliance interrupted by the energy shield. “It’s hard to get messages out.”

  “I got the one about Granite Falls,” Sloan said. “Short, sweet . . . to the point.”

  “Best I could do.” With a sigh, his brother stretched, attacking tense muscle. “Security is tight. Warriors are watched. And now that Hamersveld is the new XO?” Azrad blew out another breath. “It’ll only get worse.”

  Hearing the frustration in his voice, Bastian stayed silent. His brother needed to talk. He could see it in Azrad’s eyes. In the way he held himself and the raw undertone in his words. Not the least bit surprising. Being undercover wasn’t easy, and Azrad had put himself in the middle of a mess. Toss in the fact his brother had spent years alone inside a Dragonkind prison. No one to talk to. No one to listen to. Total isolation with little noise and . . . yeah, no question. Returning to the real world, only to be thrust into a war, couldn’t be easy.

  Brows drawn tight, Bastian stared at his profile. “Azrad, if you’re having second thoughts—”

  “Bullshit.” Baring his teeth, his brother spun on his heel. Navy eyes shimmered as he nailed Bastian with a hard look. “I’m not turning tail. Forget running. I’m in all the way, Bastian—all the way, but . . . fuck. Do you know what that bastard is doing?”

  He shook his head. Silence was the better part of patience. Listening gave him more than talking right now. He’d get more information that way. Important in and of itself, but with added value. By playing the mute, he helped Azrad release the tension.

  Big bonus. A win-win all the way around.

  “He’s hurting females, Bastian. Ivar’s got HEs locked up, doing God only knows what to them.” Brushing a hand over his Mohawk, he made twin fists, then unclenched his hands. Open. Closed. White knuckles to open palms. Rage sparked in his gaze. Azrad raised his arm, spread his fingers, and thrust his palm forward. “He’s got five so far. Five innocent females imprisoned somewhere.”

  Terranon snarled. “Sick bastard.”

  No question. No doubt either. Bastian rolled his shoulders. “Any intel about the location?”

  “Not yet.” Bowing his head, Azrad palmed his nape with both hands. A muscle jumped, skipping along his jaw a second before he leveled his chin. “I have no idea where the main lair is located. None of the foot soldiers do. Only Ivar and his personal guards live there.”

  “Fuck.” He’d hoped for more. Why? He didn’t know. Ivar wasn’t stupid. The male allowed few into his inner circle. Mind churning, Bastian turned and paced toward the road. His boots crunched over gravel. He completed a circuit, then stopped in front of the F-150, and scowled at the rust bucket. The urge to lift his foot and kick the thing jabbed at him. He pivoted instead and hopped up onto steel. His ass settled on the hood. Metal dimpled, warping beneath him. He bent his knees and banged his feet down on the front bumper. “I don’t like it any better than you do, Azrad. No way females should be in the line of fire. But try to be patient, I’ve got an investigator working on finding them.”

  “He any good?”

  “She . . . and yeah, Ange has serious skills.”

  Kilmar raised a brow. “You work with females?”

  “When she’s ex-SPD and mated to my XO?” Elbows braced on his knees, Bastian laced his fingers and eyeballed the pretty-boy blond. “Absolutely.”

  “Good.” Settling alongside him, Azrad leaned his hip against the front of the truck. He scanned the horizon a moment, then threw Bastian a sidelong look. “She found anything yet?”

  “Not much.”

  “Tell her to work faster.”

  “What’s changed?”

  “Everything,” Azrad said, looking worried. “Ivar’s setting up a series of war games—one in which Razorbacks will compete. Top five fighters win a week with an HE female.”

  Sloan sucked in a quick breath. “When?”

  “At Meridian realignment . . . during the hungering.”

  “Fuck,” Bastian murmured as epiphany struck. Ivar’s plan bordered on diabolical. Hell, it was brilliant, highlighting Dragonkind’s ultimate weakness. The hungering happened twice a year when the electrostatic bands realigned in mid-March and at the end of October. The cosmic twist scrambled a male’s DNA, rendering him fertile for one night. Twelve hours of bliss. A glut of sexual conquest in which many males lost control in the mating frenzy. A night of singular purpose—to propagate the continuation of their kind. “He plans to breed the females with the strongest males.”

  “Yeah, and that’s not all.” Lifting his foot, Terranon kicked a stone. The round rock flew, zipping across gravel to slam into the boulders piled opposite him. A crack echoed, rushing toward the cone’s dome. “There’s a rumor in the Razorback ranks. Something about an experimental serum and the females. No one knows what it does, but—”

  “Jesus.” A serum. Bastian’s brows collided. He’d heard that word before. From his mate after she’d treated Angela’s injuries—wounds received while imprisoned inside a Razorback stronghold. Myst had described the needle marks on Angela’s stomach. Concern hit hard, making his chest tighten. Only one conclusion to draw—whatever Ivar was doing to the females inside his lair had already been done to Angela. The news pushed urgency through his veins. Bastian hopped off the hood. “We can’t wait. We need to know what the serum does now.”

  Wick shifted to flank him. “Only way we do that is by finding Ivar’s lab.”

  “Keep investigating from your end,” Azrad said. “I’ll work it from mine.”

  Bastian tipped his chin. “How?”

  “By qualifying for the games.”

  “All three of us will compete.” One corner of his mouth curved up, Kilmar crack
ed his knuckles. “Win top placement and—”

  “We get escorted right into Ivar’s lair,” Terranon said, finishing his friend’s sentence.

  “Kill the guards inside the bastard’s lair. Locate the captives,” Azrad said, a nasty gleam in his eyes. “The second we do, we’ll get the females out. Hand each one off to you for safekeeping.”

  “And relocation.” Secure each female. Find new places for them to live. Witness protection at its best. Already thinking ahead, Bastian made a mental note to get the ball rolling when he got home. Daimler knew all about rewriting a person’s history. The Numbai had done just that for J. J., Wick’s mate, less than a month ago. Fake IDs—passport, driver’s license, new SSN—included. “Easy as pie.”

  Sloan grunted. “Tricky as hell. You get caught and—”

  “We get dead.” Expression nonchalant, Azrad pushed away from his perch. The buttons of his army jacket brushed the hood. Plastic rattled against rusty steel. “Well worth the risk to dismantle the Razorback nation.”

  “No arguing with that,” Wick murmured.

  “All right, then.” With a nod, Bastian palmed his brother’s shoulder. Giving him a squeeze, he treated him to solid slap, then turned toward the highway. He needed to walk away. Right now. Otherwise, he’d say “fuck it” and pull the plug on the entire operation. He didn’t like the undercover sideshow. Direct and deadly suited him better, but well . . . he sighed. His strategy might be killing rogues, but it wasn’t ending the war. Azrad’s approach, however, just might. Scrubbing a hand over his head, Bastian stopped five feet away and glanced over his shoulder. His gaze skimmed over Azrad and his crew. “Meeting’s over. Send us updates when you can, but be safe. Don’t blow your cover.”

  Azrad nodded.

  Boots crunching over gravel, Bastian shifted into dragon form. Unfolding his wings, he leapt skyward, heart aching, mind racing, hoping like hell he’d made the right decision. And wasn’t sending his brother in too deep . . .

  Or headlong into certain death.

  Chapter Seventeen

  He had a mole. A spy inside the Razorback ranks. Mind reeling, running shoes planted on wet pavement, Ivar stood on the edge of human calamity, watching chaos run amuck in the hospital parking lot. Flashing lights from emergency vehicles. Smoke billowing from the side of the building. Firemen at the end of water hoses snaking across the ground. He frowned as someone yelled and the crowd scattered in the wrong direction and . . .