“You need my help going after her?”
Bastian shook his head. He would track her alone. She’d feed him from the Meridian. Like DNA, the unique energy imprint she left in her wake was all her own, and now he would be able to find her anywhere. “Go home. Get stitched up.”
With a murmur, Rikar unfolded his wings and leapt skyward. Bastian followed, pinpoint stars above his head as he watched his friend bank north toward their lair. He went east, drawn to Myst like a thirsty man to water. He needed to get her back. She was his responsibility…his female now. The sooner he retrieved her, the safer she would be.
Driving a car while holding a screaming baby was harder than juggling live hand grenades. Somehow, Myst managed. But her arms ached, one from cradling the newborn, the other from her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. The hatchback’s headlights ate at the night-slick blacktop, but didn’t reach far enough into the gloom. Still, she drove on, gas pedal to the floor, kamikaze speed breaking every law in the book.
She was one giant moving violation. And holy crap. Where were the police when she needed them? Certainly not anywhere near Route 18. The useless jack-offs.
Swallowing another sob, Myst forced herself to breathe. Unconscious from lack of oxygen was the last place she needed to end up. A close second? Wrapped around a hundred-year-old white pine. There were, of course, no guarantees, but she was pretty sure the tree would win in a game of Chicken.
And speaking of chicken, she was so cooked.
Bastian wouldn’t let her go…not now. Not after seeing what she’d seen. Myst knew it with a certainty that terrified her.
She was going to have to run and hide. Create her own kind of witness protection program and disappear. Tania was going to freak out.
Not that she would tell her best friend. No way. Not a chance. The less Tania knew, the safer her friend would be. But, man. She didn’t want to just disappear without an explanation. Knowing Tania, she would jump to all kinds of insane assumptions—like the truth wasn’t crazy enough—and blame Caroline’s jerk boyfriend for murdering and burying her under that pitiful shed in the backyard.
Myst could just see her: hard hat on, backhoes up and running, bulldozers razing the area while Tania directed the search for her body.
And God…there was something seriously wrong with her. She found the mental snapshot almost funny. In a sick, polluted kind of way.
“Okay, darling. It’s all right. We’re okay.” Eyes glued to the road, she rocked the baby with a gentle but steady rhythm. “Please stop crying, angel. Please stop. It’s going to be okay.”
She kept her voice low, soothing, praying he responded to her tone. The soft cadence was the exact opposite of what she was feeling. If forced to slap a name on it, she would call it chaos squared. The height of panic coupled with full-on desperation. And the screaming wasn’t helping.
“Please, angel…I need you to settle down. Please, baby.” The begging came with tears. Myst sang through them, each note of the lullaby strained, the words hiccupping on each breath. Small face red with anger, he paused. She shifted him a little, patted his bottom, started the chorus of “Rock-a-bye Baby” over again. The new motion moved his wail from ear piercing to pitiful whimper. “There’s my good boy. You’re all right. We’re fine.”
He seemed to accept that—thank God. She couldn’t have handled much more of his crying without pulling over. And on the side of the road wasn’t the place she wanted to be. Not right now. Not when she was so close to Sal’s. Five more minutes and she’d be around the bend and on the straightaway.
The restaurant sat at the end of that stretch. Much like mushrooms in the middle of a forest, nothing could kill it. Although Sal was long dead, the place was third-generation. A greasy spoon with deep roots; a hanger-on that clung to the little patch of dirt beside the narrow, two-lane highway. Cops liked it there, stopping for coffee and artery-clogging takeout while on patrol. Though what needed patrolling out here, Myst didn’t know. At least, she hadn’t known. Until tonight.
“Please let one of them be there.” She sang the words, interjecting them into the lullaby. Her angel didn’t mind the change in lyrics. With one last snuffle, he tucked his fists beneath his chin and nestled in, her heartbeat a throbbing mess against his cheek.
The road dipped and swung right. Myst slowed down to make sure she stayed on the road. The S-curve wasn’t called “Dead Man’s Gully” for nothing. The locals called it “unfriendly.” Myst didn’t think that was quite the right adjective to describe it.
Metal guardrails hugging the asphalt, the shoulder of the road took a nosedive on the left, sloping into a ravine. Worse than that? The sheer cliff on the right-hand side. The rock monstrosity walled her in, moonlight gleaming off its face, casting shadows, making Myst search for hidden monsters waiting in ambush.
Man, she hated driving this stretch. There was something creepy about it, even in daylight.
Coming out of the first curve and into the second, she forced herself to breathe. Just a bit further. Thirty seconds, maybe forty, and she’d be out the other end, Sal’s exterior lights flickering in the distance. She flexed her fingers around the steering wheel. God, her hand hurt. But then, so did everything else. Her back muscles were in knots. Her legs were cramping. And her head? The ache was so bad her entire skull throbbed.
The headlights flashed off the rail, reaching out into the valley beyond the thin, metal barrier. Myst wanted the railing to hurry up, to slingshot her out the other end and let her go. The pressure inside her head was building, the buzz between her ears growing louder with each relentless turn of the tires. And the vibration—
Myst sat up a little straighter and listened hard. With the radio off, she could hear the rasp of her own breathing. The tires hummed on the asphalt as a strange stillness descended, surrounding her until she floated inside it. Her stomach dipped as a sinking feeling took over.
Oh, man. She hadn’t outrun them at all. Bastian was out there…somewhere.
But…where?
She wasn’t sure exactly. Her newfound dragon radar might be up and running, but the thing wasn’t doing more than raising the fine hairs on the nape of her neck. Too bad. She could have used the accuracy. Knowing which way to go—how to react—would have been a godsend.
Without turning her head, Myst glanced toward the driver-side window. She didn’t want to tip Bastian off if he was watching her. All she needed was another ten seconds to clear the last curve and gun it for Sal’s. If she played her hand now—let him know she knew he was there—he might knock her off the road and into the ravine before she hit the straightaway.
A death grip on the wheel, she stared out the windshield into the darkness, but kept her peripheral vision sharp. If he surfaced, made his move, she would—
Something scraped the roof of her car. A second later, the tip of a dark wing came into view, dipping low over the driver’s side. Metal groaned, then buckled, giving way beneath razor-sharp claws. With an “Oh shit,” Myst ducked and, doing her best imitation of a pretzel, watched eight individual talons—four on the right, four on the left—punch through steel into her car. Horror ran hand in hand with astonishment, sucking her lungs dry an instant before her tires lost contact with the pavement.
“Hang on, baby.” The growl was deep and sure, without a hint of exertion as he lifted her car clean over the guardrail.
Seated in her car and dangling in midair. Two very different activities, ones Myst would never have put together in the same sentence. Yet, here she was, a hundred feet in the air, over a very deep gorge…flying like the enchanted car in Harry Potter.
Had she described the situation as surreal earlier? Well, she’d meant certifiable, loony with a capital L. The man—dragon…whatever!—was a complete whack job. What the hell did he think he was doing?
Sucking air back into her lungs, she screamed at him, “You maniac!”
Name calling probably wasn’t the best idea considering he was a dragon and s
he…well, wasn’t. But God help her, the baby was wailing again and she’d had enough. He’d stolen her car…with her in it! “Put us down!”
“Later.”
Bastian’s baritone rolled over her: so calm, so in control, so beautifully deep. But who the hell cared what he sounded like? All that mattered was the word. “Later” was a good sign, wasn’t it? Maybe his plan didn’t include dropping her into the gorge, hood first. Which meant she would live a little longer. “Bastian! I mean it. Put us—”
He tucked his horned head under, looking at her upside down. “Try to relax, bellmia. Twenty minutes…half an hour tops and we’ll be there.”
“Where?” she asked, holding his gaze while wondering why the hell she was talking to him.
“Home.”
Curled up in a ball in her front seat, Myst squeezed her eyes shut. Home. Yeah, that would be nice. Except there were all kinds of problems with that scenario. Number one, she was at a dragon’s mercy. Number two? Something told her the home he referred to wasn’t going to be her own.
Chapter Six
Ivar, leader of the Razorback nation, popped the black wraparounds off the bridge of his nose and rubbed the inside corners of his eyes. Man, he was tired. Sleep-deprived with a slap-happy helping of discouraged. Maybe PO’d was a better word. Either way, he was dead in the water…grounded until the construction site progressed enough for him to set his plan in motion.
Dropping his hand, the Oakleys settled back into place, shielding his eyes. Damn delays were costing him. More than he could afford. Though, he didn’t care about the money. Green was easy to come by…time, on the other hand, wasn’t.
Seven days behind schedule. Jesus, he had a headache.
And no wonder. Despite his best efforts to ignore the sting, he was hungry again.
He’d last fed, what?…two weeks ago? No, not even. Eleven days. He’d only made it eleven fucking days.
The short span between feedings worried him. Then again, he’d been burning fuel like charcoal bricks in a barbecue. More waking hours meant little sleep. And not getting enough Zs made him drag-his-ass logy. He needed to hit the streets and go hunting again, corner a female fast. One with good energy. Ivar snorted. Screw that. He’d settle for subpar—short, fat, and ugly—as long as the bone-deep ache went away.
Hitting the elevator button, he waited for the double doors to open. Installed just days ago, the pair of reinforced steel sliders retreated with soundless precision. Well, at least they worked right. Thank Christ.
Ivar rolled his shoulders, fighting muscle tension as he abandoned the deserted, concrete corridor. In less than five hours, the subterranean labyrinth would be buzzing again: a symphony of jackhammers, welding equipment, and the scraping turn of cement mixers playing a happy tune as his worker bees went back to work.
Right. Worker bees. A misnomer, for sure. Slave had a nicer ring to it—was more accurate, too.
Man, he hated humans. Filthy creatures, lowest of the low. But he needed them to build his facility. Each man had been selected and then taken for his proficiency—the skill he brought to his trade. Ivar would have preferred to leave the humans out of it, but his soldiers were warriors, not construction workers. And though each could have learned the necessary trades to complete the project, he didn’t have time to dick around. The laboratory—and the framework of tunnels, bedroom suites, and cellblocks attached to it—needed to be finished five minutes ago.
At least, the humans had one thing going for them. They took direction well…with the right incentive. Leverage. Ivar’s mouth tipped up at the corners. God, he L-O-V-E-D leverage. It never failed. The little bastards responded so well to arm twisting—literal and otherwise. Most begged for their lives, their freedom, or his personal favorite: to see their families.
Too bad Ivar wasn’t into making promises. He only provided what they required to keep working: food, water, a bunk, and their lives. The last he dangled like a carrot, the proverbial golden pledge—do what I ask and you’ll make it out alive. Jesus, he was a dog; the dictionary’s definition of deceitful.
But, hey, the end justified the means. Didn’t it?
Yeah, a big thumbs-up on that one.
War wasn’t a word with any candy coating. It was a brutal contest of wills. A fuck you to the world and the enemy. May the best dragon win.
Ivar pressed the main-floor button on the face of the electrical panel. The elevator’s ascent was smooth, a silent climb made possible by a series of huge magnets. He hummed his approval and glanced around the steel cage. It was a thing of beauty; the best technology had to offer.
The modern marvel slowed, coming to a bump-free landing on the top floor of 28 Walton Street. One hundred and fifty feet above his subterranean home, the red-brick, three-story walk-up wasn’t much to look at from the outside. Surrounded by a quiet neighborhood filled with crooked A-frames, the abandoned fire station made the ultimate HQ. A dragon lair hiding in plain sight. It was perfect: cover and proximity to prey rolled into one.
The only problem? The building. It was long on character and short on comfort. Ivar liked it anyway. The wide-open spaces worked for him and—despite the rotten stair treads and holes in the wooden floor—the structure was solid. The roof needed patching when he’d first moved in, but he hadn’t bought the place for its 1950s charm.
He’d dropped $3.6 million on the rat hole for the land. Thirteen beautiful acres of trees, tall grass, and beat-to-shit oil tanks, cars, and forgotten construction machinery. It was a graveyard, a wasteland where shit came to die. The sinkhole of Seattle.
Disgusting, just like the race responsible for it.
Without making a sound, the elevator’s double doors slid wide. Ivar stepped out into what would become the Razorbacks’ common room—into decay, dust, and moonlight. Into his XO’s (aka executive officer’s) presence.
Arms crossed, lean frame propped against the pitted brick wall at his back, Lothair’s black gaze landed on him. “We have a problem.”
The muscles bracketing Ivar’s spine tightened. Great. Just what he needed…another screwup to toss on the ever-growing pile. Taking a calming breath, he threw out his best guess. “The female escaped.”
“Not exactly.”
“What then?”
Lothair shifted, leather jacket rasping against brick. The movement was small, barely a fidget at all, but Ivar knew his XO well. The male didn’t like what he was about to admit. “Bastian beat us to her.”
“Jesus Christ.” Ivar grabbed hold of his temper before it slipped. Attacking Lothair wouldn’t get either of them anywhere but bruised. And wouldn’t that be the cake topper on an already shitty day?
Suppressing a growl, he crossed the large, rectangular room, skirting a jagged hole in the floorboards. He stopped at the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out over his new backyard. Moonlight streamed in white-blue waves, casting shadows as he stared through cracked windowpanes, his gaze moving over the twisted steel shells that littered his property.
The God-awful mess was an environmental nightmare, a slap in the face to all Dragonkind. How could the humans walk by the eyesore every day? Ignore the mess while leaking oil tanks contaminated their neighborhoods and poisoned the planet? Jesus, it baffled and angered him every time he saw the same travesty repeated in different countries all over the world.
The entire human race needed to be put down. Eradicated before the damage became irreversible and every species on Earth died a horrible death. Phase two of his plan would take care of them…wipe out the apathetic beasts in one fell swoop.
But first things first.
Ignoring the smell of stale beer and rotting wood, he glanced over his shoulder at Lothair. “Where is the female now?”
“Dead. Was when we got there.”
Ivar raised both brows, surprised by the new twist. Bastian didn’t usually kill females, pregnant or otherwise. The male wasn’t hard-hearted enough. A failing if ever there was one. “He took the child?”
&
nbsp; Lothair nodded. “Forge is going to flip out. We need to get the infant back.”
No shit, Sherlock. The conclusion was a no-brainer. Not if they wanted to keep Forge in check. Even as young as he was, the massive male was an asset to the Razorback crew: powerful, focused, with a whole lot of brutality to spare. Well, at least, he had been before meeting Caroline what’s-her-face. The little bitch had sent the normally unshakable Forge sideways. In an unprecedented move, the male had bought a cell phone to keep in touch with her.
Love. A total frickin’ catastrophe.
Ivar rubbed the back of his neck. What a mess. Precisely the one he’d hoped to avoid when he sent his warriors after the female to take the baby a month early. Kill her now. Give Forge his child. Sidestep disaster. All logical moves, but for one thing. Bastian had mucked it up…again.
The Nightfury commander was like a cat…all nine lives intact as he landed on his feet. Just once, Ivar wanted to see the male go splat. Once would be all it’d take—after which, he’d scoop up Bastian’s ashes like dog shit, put them in an ugly urn, and set it on his soon-to-be-completed mantle. The trophy of all trophies.
“How do you want it handled?” His boots scraped the floor as Lothair pushed away from the wall. “You want me to tell him?”
“Nah. I’ll deal with Forge,” he said and heard Lothair exhale in relief. Ivar almost smiled. It wasn’t that his XO was a coward, but only a maniac would go toe-to-toe with Forge when delivering that kind of news. A female taken too soon and a child lost to the enemy.
Yeah, the male was going to lose it.
Good thing crazy fit Ivar like a glove. He enjoyed living on the edge, and besides, who else would be able to control Forge—to channel all that rage in the right direction?
A little manipulation on Ivar’s part—maybe even a lie or two—and Forge would no longer be sitting on the fence, wondering if he wanted to join the Razorbacks’ ranks. He’d be gunning for Bastian and those who followed him. With the male 100 percent in his corner, Ivar would get what he wanted—his laboratory staffed and the vacancies in cellblock A filled, all while another powerful male went after his nemesis.
Fury of Fire Page 5
