Bastian’s eyes narrowed. “Who the fuck’s there?”
“Your sorry-as-shit best friend.” Pale eyes locked on Bastian’s face, Rikar stood tall—boots planted, spine straight, shoulders back—like he was preparing for something unpleasant. Probably a good bet, given Bastian’s level of pissed off.
Swinging left, Bastian strode past tall bookcases jammed with thick volumes, moving away from Rikar. Pacing toward his friend wasn’t a good idea. He wanted to hit the male so badly his knuckles ached.
“Look, B. All I ask is that you hear me out.” His expression grave, Rikar strode into the library. As he slid the journal onto the table, he said, “I offer you grevaiz, Commander.”
“In here?”
“We can go to the LZ if you want. More room out there.”
Bastian clenched his hands. Great. Just what he needed. A grevaiz.
The ritual was time honored, a warriors’ tradition. An offering of first strike when one male had wronged another. A way for the offended to be appeased, and the offender, forgiven. The rite supposedly allowed healing, but as he stared at Rikar, his anger faded. He didn’t want to hurt his best friend. Yeah, yesterday he would’ve taken the shot and skinned the male alive. Right now? He needed his buddy like a lifeline.
“She’s all right, Rikar,” he said, flexing his fists to release the tension. It didn’t work. He still ached, inside and out. “Fully recovered.”
“I heard and…I’m glad. But…” A furrow between his brows, Rikar stared at the floor, offering what he believed he owed. “I still offer first strike.”
“I don’t want it.” Much as it killed him to admit it, Bastian said, “I would’ve done the same to save you. Now, enough with the bullshit. I need your help.”
Rikar tipped his chin. “Shoot.”
“Tonight…when the Meridian realigns, I want you to tranq me. Daimler’s getting a truck load of the drug and—”
“No fucking way.”
Bastian glared at his friend. “You owe me this. I don’t want to hurt her, but I won’t be able to stay away.”
“And what? You think the vault’s going to hold you?”
“It’ll work. All I need—”
“Even pumped full of drugs, B, you’ll get out.” Rikar crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. “And fuck up the rest of us.”
Hell. He hadn’t thought of that. If he hammered a hole in the vault, he would provide his warriors an escape hatch. And where would they go? Into the city—juiced with need and hungry as hell—to find the nearest female. With a curse, Bastian kicked a chair out of his path and completed another circuit around the room.
“You can’t avoid it, Bastian. She’s here. You’ve bonded with her. There’s no escape for you.” he said, honest as always.
Stopping in front of a bookcase, Bastian grabbed the shelf at eye level and leaned in, the pain of circumstance tearing him apart. “What am I going to do? How can I keep her safe?”
A chair scraped along the floor behind him. “Come and sit down, B. I think I found something that will help.”
Taking a shaky breath, he pushed away from the bookcase and approached his best friend. “What did you find?”
Rikar pointed at the journal he’d set on the table. “Found it in the vault…mixed in with frickin’ Charles Dickens. Interesting story in there about a Dragon Queen.”
“A what?”
“Yeah, pretty cool stuff.” Knocking on the red cover with his knuckles, Rikar parked his ass in the chair opposite him. “Don’t know who wrote it…don’t know if it’s true, but it might explain the connection you share with Myst. Why you were able to feed her.”
“Sloan,” Bastian murmured.
His best friend nodded. “He filled me in. Now, he’s looking through the computerized annals, searching for more info. Maybe he’ll get lucky and find something, but the journal? Christ, I’m gonna kick the Scottish pack’s ass for keeping this from us.”
The Scottish pack? Those bastards were a tight unit. Closed to the outside world, they didn’t like outsiders—dragon or humankind—and sure as shit didn’t share information.
Bastian grabbed the chair he’d booted out of his way and sat. He tipped his chin in his buddy’s direction. “Hit me.”
“One of their females gave birth to three sons. All sired by the same male…the pack’s commander.”
Three. Twins were rare, but…
“Triplets?”
Rikar shook his head. “The first two were born seven years apart. The middle and youngest son…ten years between them.”
His brow drawn tight, Bastian stared at his friend, not understanding. He heard the words, but their meaning couldn’t be. Females died on the birthing bed without exception. Myst’s patient—and the bloody mess she’d walked into—was proof positive of that. “It can’t…how…Jesus, the female survived?”
“Yeah. And according to this? She lived nearly three hundred years, dying when her mate did…an instant kind of thing. He was killed in battle. She died within minutes of him. In their lair fifty miles away.” His friend leaned forward, bringing their heads closer together. “Christ, Bastian. I think the two were energy-fused…like you and Myst.”
He shook his head. “It’s a myth.”
“Is it?” His eyes like blue flames, Rikar leveled him with his gaze. “Myths are formed around kernels of truth. You’re connected to her…have been from the moment you saw her in that kitchen.” He tapped the book again and continued, “How would we know whether it’s true or not? Our kind are notorious for the hit and run…love ’em and leave ’em fast. We never stay long enough to create a lasting bond. I think what you’ve found with Myst is so rare that the knowledge of it has been lost over time. The few who knew failed to pass it on.”
“Fucking Scots,” he growled, feeling like he’d collided with a concrete wall, skull first. Shoving a stack of tomes aside, Bastian planted his elbows on the tabletop and fisted his hands in his hair. He pulled at the strands, battling the ache and the unknown. If what his friend said was true…if the theory held? God. It opened up a whole new world—the possibility of keeping Myst in his life. “Are you sure about this? You’ve got to be—”
“Shit, B.” Reaching out, Rikar wrapped his hand around Bastian’s wrist and squeezed until Bastian raised his head and met his gaze. “You can feed her energy…healing energy. Do you know what that means? With you present, there’s a good chance she’ll survive birthing your son.”
A good chance. Not a 100 percent one. “When did this happen? How long ago did the Dragon Queen die?”
“The journal dates from over a hundred years ago.”
“Are her sons still alive?”
“The two eldest died in battle with their sire, but the third might still be alive.”
“Name?”
Releasing his wrist, Rikar grabbed the book off the table edge. Leather creaked as he cracked the spine and flipped through the pages. Near the back, he pulled out a long piece of paper folded into four equal parts. He unfolded it like an accordion, and Bastian caught a glimpse of black ink sprawled into the branches of a family tree.
Rikar traced his finger over the bottom half. He stopped on a name. “Forge.”
Bastian sat back in his chair, his mind churning over a plan.
“What are you thinking?” Rikar asked. “The Scottish pack won’t answer a summons. And no way we can get to Scotland without some serious—”
“We don’t need to jump the pond.” The thick burl of the Highlands ringing inside his head, he replayed a recent conversation. “You know the fucker in the rail yard…the Razorback rocking fire-acid?”
“Yeah.”
“From the Scottish pack.”
The corners of Rikar’s mouth curved. “We need to cage him. Find out what he knows.”
“Um-hmm.” Bastian stared at the rows of books over his friend’s shoulder, seeing them, but not really. His mind was fully engaged, turning over the plan, looking at it f
rom all angles. He needed to clip Deep Purple’s wings. The only way to do that? Reel him into the kill box…close enough to zap him with some serious voltage and lock him down.
No easy feat. The enemy male was smart. Caging him would take real effort and tons of planning. Yeah, that and time. Something he didn’t have. At least, not until tomorrow night when the realignment was over.
“So, we bait him.” Slouching in his chair, Rikar crossed his ankle over his knee and turned the journal over in his hands. “Can you get him in the pipe? Will he even come?”
“He’ll come.” Chasing an itch, Bastian rubbed his shoulder blades against the backrest, his strategy crystallizing. “He won’t be able to resist. We’ve got something he wants.”
“What?”
“His son.”
Not that he would give Gregor Mayhem to the male—to a freaking Razorback. No way. Never mind that the Nightfury code of honor forbade it. He was more concerned with his mate. Myst would skin him alive, and…well, well, well, look at him go. He was suddenly into pleasing a female. Especially given the chance he might get to keep her for a lifetime.
Yeah. Hope sprang eternal and all that jazz.
But even as Bastian made light of it—was afraid to believe she would survive birthing his son—he prayed it was true. Please, God, be merciful. He wasn’t asking for much. One simple thing. That’s all he wanted. A family: a mate for him, a mother for his son.
Clinging to the hope, Bastian pushed to his feet. He needed to see Myst. He didn’t have much time, and she deserved every bit of his before the realignment. A real date. A shared meal…or something. Anything to make her feel special.
As he rounded the end of the table, Rikar handed him the journal. Smooth, red leather slid across his palm. He stared at it a moment, knowing he’d read it front to back—in search of more hope—before he laid Myst down tonight. Gripping the slim volume, he glanced sideways at his best friend, a brow raised in question.
Keeping pace, Rikar strode with him toward the door. “The rest of us will be locked down in an hour. You’ll have the lair to yourself. Have fun tonight.”
“Asshole.”
“You know it.” Slapping him on the shoulder, Rikar followed him into the hallway. “Relax, B. Even out of control in the hungering, you won’t hurt her.”
Bastian nodded, praying his friend was right, but not really believing it. He had control issues around Myst. And that was before the hungering got ahold of him. He’d never been with a female when the Meridian surged. Had no idea what he’d do…or how rough he’d get when need grabbed him by the balls.
Chapter Thirty
Her plan got shot to hell right out of the gate. Myst shook her head, marveling at Daimler’s cleverness. The elf was magic in the distraction department…a lifelong member of “Oh, I need your help with just one more thing.” And she’d fallen for it. Had spent hours searching Web sites, scouring the Internet for baby stuff.
Now, Gregor had more paraphernalia than was strictly legal.
Well, all right. Setting her angel up with the best had been fun, but the unfortunate causality in the whole mess? Her alone time. She hadn’t gotten any yet, but things were looking up. Daimler had left five minutes ago.
Hallelujah.
Time to snoop.
Careful to keep her movements steady, she shifted Gregor in her arms. Fast asleep after his bottle, he snuffled then settled, his cheek against her shoulder as she crossed the nursery. With gentle hands, she laid him in his crib and adjusted his blanket beneath his chin.
“Sleep well, angel,” she murmured before snagging the baby monitor off the nightstand.
Tiptoeing across the room, she entered the corridor on the fly. She didn’t have much time. Daylight was fading, and the Nightfuries would roll out of bed soon, beating feet toward the kitchen and Daimler’s rack of lamb. The elf had hemmed and hawed for the better part of the morning, trying to decide what spices to put on the damn thing. Now she could smell them, the delicious mix of flavors making her mouth water.
Not wanting to bump into the chef extraordinaire, she headed in the opposite direction. No way did she want to be anywhere near the kitchen. Bastian would no doubt show up there along with his crew, and right now? She didn’t want to see him.
He’d lied to her.
All right. Maybe calling him a liar was a stretch. But crap, not much of one. She kept replaying the time they’d spent together—avoiding the sex, because…God…remembering the way he touched her sent her into fricking orbit—and she realized that he’d left a lot out. Case in point? The Meridian. What was it exactly? What did it do, how did it operate, why did Dragonkind need it? But the big one, the question to end all questions? How did the Meridian involve her?
Deep down, she knew she was mixed up in the middle of it.
Her first clue had been Bastian’s reaction. He’d avoided the issue, giving her token answers. And as he skirted the subject like a pro, her BS meter had thrown all kinds of red flags. Now her conspiracy theorist was neck deep in what-if land, kicking out theories that made her doubt everything.
Strange, but when she was with Bastian the voice in the back of her head went silent. The second he left her alone? Wham. Uncertainty came rushing back.
Raking her hand through her hair, Myst jogged up a set of shallow stairs. Her flip-flops clacked on the marble treads, echoing in the quiet as she paused under a huge archway. Her breath caught, the magnificence of the space taking her by surprise. Perfectly round, the room boasted a domed ceiling painted with a fresco. Dragon warriors took flight from its center, the colorful array of strength and power flashing above the bright light of the rotunda. The curved walls were similarly adorned, each panel between the marble half columns showcasing a single dragon. She recognized Bastian right off, the midnight blue scales and green eyes a dead giveaway. A white dragon with gold flecks occupied the spot beside him, the pale blue eyes telling her it was Rikar.
Remarkable.
Awe made her shiver and, as the fine hairs on her nape rose, she crossed the space, examining the mosaic-tiled floor. The intricate pattern swirled, forming a crest of some kind. A foreign language surrounded it, curling around the emblem’s outer edge. Myst crouched to stroke one of the letters with her fingertip. After tracing the loop, she stared at the fresco depicting Bastian.
God, he was beautiful—in and out of dragon form—and no matter how hard she tried to deny it, she yearned for him. Totally crazy. Completely stupid. But true in every way that mattered.
With a sigh, Myst pushed to her feet and got herself moving. Three archways—identical to the one she’d just passed through—stood ready to take her deeper into Black Diamond. She chose the one across from her and, after trotting down another set of stairs, entered a large living room.
The ceiling soared twenty feet above the space, looming over furniture groupings. One entire wall contained windows, the brilliance of the setting sun muted by heavily tinted glass. Myst skirted the end of the pool table, walking past the cue racks to run her hand along the back of the couch. Butter-soft leather sliding against her palm, she approached the fireplace. Double-sided, the hearthstone rose in a sweep toward the ceiling. Space flowed on either side of its massive foundation, creating two equal passageways into the dining room beyond.
Jackpot. The French doors leading out to the garden. She’d come full circle, slipping beneath Daimler’s radar.
Tiptoeing past the fireplace, she hid behind its stone facade, using it for cover as she peeked into the dining room. From her vantage point, she had a clear view of the archway leading into the kitchen. No elf in sight. Thank God. So far so good.
The smell of roasting lamb in the air, Myst prayed for quiet floorboards and, skirting the enormous table, made a beeline for the double glass doors. Outside, the trees swayed, waving her along, making Myst imagine the colorful leaves acting as lookouts in her personal getaway movie.
Except, she wasn’t trying to get away.
She’d given Bastian her word. Three days. He’d asked for three days, and foolish or not, she intended to give them to him. But as she opened the door and stepped out onto the patio, a pang of anxiety unfurled in her belly. This wasn’t betrayal. She wasn’t being unfaithful to Bastian—or her promise—by being outside the lair.
Myst frowned. Right?
Her feet rooted to the flagstone, Myst rubbed her upper arms, fighting the urge to go back inside and confess her sins. Which was just plain crazy. All she wanted was some fresh air, a little time alone to think and…to locate the garage.
And there it was, an honest thought at last.
Yeah, and she’d accused Bastian of lying. Her conscience told her she wasn’t any better. Despite her promise, she’d explored the house, searching for the best way out. Her actions spoke more of preparation than curiosity and, standing in the shadow of Black Diamond, she faced an inescapable truth.
She had one foot in and the other out.
Half of her wanted to commit and stay with Bastian while the other half itched to run. Hiding would be easier but more painful. No matter how she sliced it, Myst knew she would miss Bastian—her craving for him was too hard to ignore. Somehow, she’d fallen hard, gotten in too deep to ever get out unscathed.
A gust of wind tugged at her, playing with her hair as she looked to the sky. A storm was coming. The fury of it didn’t surprise her. About the same time each year, Seattle suffered through a doozy and the cleanup afterward. Downed trees and severed electrical lines were par for the course, and the least of the problem. She always felt supercharged during Mother Nature’s fantastic crash-bang show: unable to stay still, like she had an overabundance of energy and no viable outlet.
Usually, she did something stupid.
Last year, she and Tania had gone running, a full-on sprint fest through rain-soaked streets. Trotting down the patio’s steps, she walked into the garden, taking the pathway to her right, wondering what Tania would do without her this year. Her best friend was high-strung, a little neurotic at the best of times. But during what they’d come to call the Fall Storm, Tania got so edgy she was prone to idiocy.
Fury of Fire Page 27
