Fury of Desire (-4

by Coreene Callahan

  “They will be held until Bastian complies and delivers the Scottish whelp to me for execution.”

  Held, his ass. Nian stifled a snort. Imprisoned was more like it. “He won’t do it.”

  “Exactly.” Halfway across the club, Rodin glanced over his shoulder. A terrible gleam in his eyes, he murmured, “This is a power play, Nian. When Bastian refuses to hand over Forge, all of the Nightfuries… every last fucking one… will fall under the rule of Xzinile and—”

  “The Metallics become fair game.”

  “Duel beheadings at the festival’s closing ceremony sound good to you?”

  “Could be fun.”

  “I think so too,” he said, dark voice drifting.

  The handle clicked. The door opened then closed behind Rodin.

  Christ help him, he felt sick. A stomach full of rotgut would be more pleasant. But as Nian pushed to his feet, automatically returning the chair to the upside-down perch alongside its fellows, he refused to acknowledge the chop and churn. He tilted his wrist and glanced at his watch, checking the time instead. So much to do, so little time. Just under an hour to reevaluate his plan, formulate a new one and… Nian swallowed… decide how much to tell Bastian. All while he tried to figure out a way to smuggle Gage and Haider the hell out of Prague without compromising his position.

  Or getting caught.

  15

  Silence seeped from the ground, licking through chilly air to electrify the neighborhood. A good sign. The fewer humans around the better.

  Wick didn’t want to be interrupted. Not while hunting Azrad.

  All right. Maybe hunting wasn’t the right word. Rendezvous might be more accurate considering Bastian wanted to talk to the bastard first. But as Wick scanned building tops, searching for hidden threats behind steel and concrete, his commander’s agenda didn’t concern him. Not at the moment, anyway. His need for retribution trumped the party line. Payback sounded better. A lot more fun too, so…

  No. The tatted warrior who liked to hurt females wouldn’t get a free pass. Not this time. Not with him involved.

  Night vision pinpoint sharp, he looked across the cityscape. Puget Sound sparkled in the distance, water rolling in to wash up on shore. The corner of his mouth curled, exposing one huge fang. Frigid air ghosted over his teeth. He relished the chill. Jack Frost enlivened him, coating his scales, prepping him for the showdown and…

  Jackpot. About time too. Coffee shop at twelve o’clock.

  Slithering in on a slow glide, Wick swung wide, banking into a holding pattern. He revolved into a continuous series of concentric circles, widening the grid with each pass, reconning the area, searching for hostiles within the target zone while avoiding the airspace above Starbucks. No sense tipping the bastard off. Better to arrive undetected. And if he flew directly overhead? He risked alerting the enemy to his presence.

  Not advisable. Particularly while planning a sneak attack.

  Eyes narrowed on the city below, his sonar pinged. Alive with magic, the cosmic net spread, molding over rooftops to flow unrestricted into the street. Or rather… the avenue. First and Pike, a veritable hub of activity during the day. Completely deserted at night. Nothing but tidy street corners, stone-clad buildings, and wide, pedestrian-friendly sidewalks. Charming with its old style, three-globed lampposts and inlaid-brick intersection, both throwbacks to a simpler time and place.

  The golden age of wholesome.

  Wick snorted. Wholesome. Jesus. Where the hell had that comparison come from?

  It took him less than a second to figure it out.

  Jamison. Despite her past, she embodied innocence with her big blue eyes, smooth as silk skin, and innate beauty. Wick shook his head, told himself to stay on task, but… God. It was hard. She was so damn pretty, her dark hair so long and straight he wondered what it would feel like wrapped around his fist. Or sifting through his fingers, caressing his palm in a sensual sweep. The visual made him swallow. The imagined sensation drew him tight. His muscles flickered in reaction, forcing a shiver down his spine.

  Killing the twitch mid-shudder, Wick flexed a talon. The tips of his claws met the center of his palm. Pinpricks of pain nicked interlocking dragon skin, setting him straight. He needed to get a grip. Fast. Obsessing about her wouldn’t change the facts. He wasn’t built for connection, never mind the intimacy that went with it. And yet, he couldn’t deny his curiosity. For the first time—ever—he allowed himself the possibility. Wanted to follow the trail of bread crumbs to its conclusion, maybe get closer to her and see what happened.

  Damned strange. More than a little bent too, considering his phobia. And the fact he never touched anyone or fed… unless forced by desperate need and Venom’s pain-in-the-ass prodding. Wasn’t inclined to modify his behavior either, except…

  Shit. He’d done a lot of touching in the past twenty-four hours, hadn’t he? Caring for her. Holding her. Waking up with his hand pressed to the softness of her skin.

  With a frown, Wick swung around a chimney stack. Smoke swirled in his wake, dancing with the frosty air. He watched tendrils curl, then drift, disappearing against the dark sky and—

  “Wick,” Bastian growled. Sensation swirled against his temples, turning his attention back to the mission. Thank fuck. He needed his head in the game, not on Jamison. Thinking about her distracted him, splitting his focus in two directions. Never a good thing when headed into a potential firefight. “How close are you?”

  “Thirty seconds out.”

  On point, five minutes ahead of the pack, he played lead male tonight. Although, maybe bait described his role better. Venom had balked, not liking the plan. He’d insisted. No way he wanted his commander on-site—or anywhere near Azrad—until he assessed the situation. An ambush? Could be. Probably was too. Wick huffed. Hell, the meet and greet inside the human-owned coffee house had bait and switch written all over it.

  Which made him the best male for the job.

  The most maneuverable in flight, stealth was his specialty. Good at covering his tracks—able to camouflage the unique energy signal he left in his wake—most males never saw him coming. Unless, of course, he wanted them to, which… truth be told… happened nine times out of ten. He couldn’t abide a quick kill. Liked the claw-grinding, muscle-stretching challenge of a good fight and engaging one-on-one. Or in his case, three-to-one odds. Being outnumbered equaled fun on a grand scale. A way to test his skill each night while out on patrol.

  Not that it ever amounted to much.

  The rogues were woefully inept. Unskilled. Lily-livered. Inexperienced. A damning combination that amounted to even less satisfaction.

  More’s the pity.

  “Heads up.” Flipping into a slow spiral, he went head-to-head with an apartment building. The angle gave him a clear shot down Pike Street, and in turn? The Corner Market building situated across the street from Starbucks. All clear. Nothing to be alarmed about… at least not yet. Banking right at the last moment, he circled behind a skyscraper. “Making a final sweep.”

  “Watch your six.” With a curse, Venom growled long and low. “No screwing around. You see anything hinky, bug out first, holler second.”

  Hinky? Wick frowned. What kind of word was that? Not a very good one considering he wanted hellish, not hinky. Nasty sounded good too. And fatal? Even better… as long as it referred to the enemy. Hell, he hoped he got that lucky. With his dragon half itching for a fight, he craved scale-splitting calamity. Wanted to sink his claws deep. Watch rogue blood flow between his talons and splatter, warm and wet, up his forearms.

  Only death would do.

  The natural born killer he kept caged agreed, humming in anticipation. Oh-so-much promise. The next few hours held loads of bright and shiny hope: the kiss of possibility, the probability of foreplay, the skills required in an assassin’s game. As he made one more pass, the spikes along his spine rattling, Wick could taste the potential. He felt it in his bones too. Smelled its stench on the night air, allowing it to invigo
rate him as he picked his spot.

  The perfect insertion point.

  One that would put him close to the target, yet allow for some wiggle room.

  Tucking his wings in fast, Wick set down hard. His talons thumped against the ground. Windowpanes rattled in their frames, and momentum took up the cause. Slick with recent rain, the blacktop sent him into a sideways skid. Gritting his teeth, Wick bore down to control the slide. Friction burned the pads of his paws. The tips of his claws bit, ripping narrow grooves in the asphalt. Chunks of rock flew. Sound rippled like a wave, ricocheting off glass and steel, undulating down the avenue to reach the waterfront.

  With a silent curse, he slid to a stop in the middle of the street.

  Alert, ever watchful, tail flicking back and forth, he crouched like a cat poised to strike, ready to kill, magic feeding him information. Like gaping wounds in a pale face, the windows stared back at him. No reflection. No surprise. Cloaked in magic, invisibility didn’t allow for detection. Sound either, and as Wick searched the perimeter, looking first left, then right, quiet stroked over building facades to tumble down the empty street.

  Nothing and nobody. Two thumbs up so far.

  “Just landed on Pike.” Lifting his forepaw, Wick shook tiny bits of gravel from between his toes. A repeat performance on the other side freed his other foot of debris, and switching gears, Wick transformed, shifting into human form. Without thought, he conjured his clothes. Leather settled against his skin. Protected by his fighting gear, he veered into the shadowed enclave of a building. “I’m going to walk the block. No one moves without my say-so.”

  As the other Nightfuries “uh-huhed,” Venom grumbled.

  Wick ignored his best friend. The overprotective SOB would have to wait. He was a grown male, for fuck’s sake. Well able to take care of himself. So screw Venom and his opinions. Clearing the scene came before his brother’s skewed sense of responsibility.

  Footfalls silent, he walked toward the corner of 1st and Pike. Planted not long ago, young trees lined both sides of the street, skinny limbs bobbing under the influence of saltwater breezes. The scent of brine hung in the air, and Wick paused under an eave, his gaze locked on the coffee house. An outdoor terrace hugged one side of the establishment, providing humans with the benefit of sunshine. Empty now but for tables and chairs set at odd angles, the patio abutted a bank of large windows that rose toward the second floor and the ornate architectural frieze above.

  Shadows moved behind the thick panes.

  “B? I sense three males inside. Sound about right?”

  “Same. All in human form.”

  “Skill set?” Wick asked, tapping Bastian’s talent for assessing a male from a distance.

  “The first breathes acid, the second… Scald.” As his commander paused, magic vibrated in the void. And Wick hummed in anticipation, ’cause… oh baby. Scald. Such an interesting weapon. One not many Dragonkind males possessed. Natural napalm mixed with venom, the exhale was potent—toxic swill that ate through scales and sent deadly neural inhibitors deep into muscle. A real challenge to avoid, which made doing so all the more fun. “But the third? Shit, I don’t know. I can’t get a read on him.”

  “Azrad… guaranteed,” Wick murmured. “The fucker’s powerful.”

  “Christ,” Rikar said, entering the fray. “All right, guys… here’s the plan.”

  Mac chimed in. “Break it down.”

  “You, Sloan, and Forge set up post outside. Nothing and no one comes in or out.”

  “Anybody tries, we’ll pull the trigger,” Forge murmured, his brogue thicker than usual.

  A telltale sign. The Scot’s accent always became more pronounced at the first hint of battle. Excitement, maybe. Eagerness, certainly. Wick related. He couldn’t wait to get started. Or put his fist in Azrad’s face.

  Rikar growled. “Good.”

  “The rest of you… with me. Let’s rattle the bastard’s cage,” Bastian said. “And Wick?”

  “What?” His attention riveted to the front door, Wick crossed the street.

  “Remember our deal. Stay put until we land. We go in together.”

  Bullshit. Screw the deal along with the direct order.

  Wick could see the assholes moving around inside. Fate had given him a single shot. A moment in time to wrong a right. Now he stood just a hop, skip, and jump away from the male who had hurt a female. No way would he allow B or anyone else to get in his way. He needed to unleash, exact retribution, make Azrad pay the price for Jamison’s pain.

  Not wasting a second, Wick ramped into a run.

  Shitkickers hammering concrete, he sprinted beneath the steel overhang fronting the shop. B snarled a warning. Venom seconded the motion, cursing a blue streak as Wick slammed the door open with a mental shove. Reinforced steel whiplashed, rattling the glass pane in its frame. Claws clicked down on asphalt behind him. Wick didn’t care. All he needed was thirty seconds. Time enough to snap Azrad like a twig, and as he roared over the threshold—heart thumping, aggression level topped out, ready to unleash hell—he zeroed in on his target.

  Spinning on his heels alongside his two companions, Azrad settled into a fighting stance beside the coffee bar, fists raised and eyes flashing. Wick bared his teeth. Oh goody. Kick-ass came in size extra-large, it seemed, ’cause… yeah. The male was ready, and oh so willing, to engage. Too perfect. Beyond satisfactory. Azrad deserved every ounce of pain he was about to deliver.

  Forget reason. Sideline sensible. Fuck it all.

  Jamison belonged to him. She’d become his responsibility the moment he saved her. Now his retaliation would be her revenge.

  Venom grunted as he got elbowed in the face. The shot to his chin backed him up a step, making his skull bobble-head on his shoulders. Blood washed over his teeth, filling his mouth with an awful metallic flavor. Pain streaked along his jaw, then clawed up the side of his face to hammer his temple. Scrambling to avoid another elbow, he lunged forward, boots sliding on the wooden floor, his gaze centered on Wick and the flurry of fists.

  Frigging male. So much for the chitchat with Azrad.

  Wick had started a war inside Starbucks. Now a full-on brawl was in progress… Nightfury pitted against three strange males in a battle of wills that trumped good sense. Goddamn it. Trust Wick to toss a monkey wrench into the mix and twist the screw the wrong way. Not that he blamed his best friend. Wick was who he was—violent, unpredictable, merciless—and after what had gone down at Swedish Medical, Venom understood. He really did, ’cause… hell. Had it been him protecting a female? Azrad would be dead already.

  Wick cracked the male again.

  Azrad cursed and stumbled backward as a cut opened beneath his eye.

  “Fucking hell, Ven.” Low and lethal, the growled words whiplashed, giving Venom chills as Rikar entered the fray behind him. An enemy male cursed. Ice crackled and frost spread, coating the inside of the coffee house’s windows, dropping the temperature until each breath became white puffs of air. “Get a hold of him, for Christ’s sake!”

  He lost his grip on Wick a second time.

  “Goddamn it.” Venom gritted his teeth. “Like I’m not trying?”

  Easier said than frigging done.

  Wick was a force of nature on a good night. On a bad one? He was the devil incarnate. Un-frigging-stoppable.

  Venom made another grab for him.

  Slippery as a water snake, Wick slid right. Venom’s hands caught nothing but air, throwing him off balance. As he compensated, shifting mid-stride, Wick widened the gap, driving the male backward across the shop. The scramble of footfalls echoed against the high ceiling. Frustration riding shotgun, Venom went after the pair as his best friend slammed Azrad against the wall. Picture frames rattled against plaster. One let go, plummeting into a free fall. Wood splintered against wood. Glass shattered, spilling across the floor as Wick hammered his opponent again.

  And again. Then one more time.

  Venom closed the distance between them. Quick h
ands bought him a fingerhold on his friend’s leather jacket. Determination sealed the deal, intensifying his grip. He yanked. Wick rocked backward, but resisted, regaining his momentum. Thrusting his knee forward, he unleashed more hell, nailing Azrad in the stomach.

  The male doubled over.

  “Son of a bitch.” Locked in a battle of his own, Bastian kicked a male’s feet out from under him. The warrior hit the floor with a thud. With a nifty move, B wrenched his arm back and flipped him belly down. Driving his knee into the male’s spine, he pressed him to the floor. “Put a leash on him, Venom.”

  “You think it’s so easy…” Out of breath, he lodged his forearm against Wick’s throat. “You come over here and do it.”

  Wick raised his combat boot, aiming for Azrad’s head.

  The warrior swung around and countered, hammering his friend with a right cross. Bone cracked against bone. Wick’s head cranked to one side, and Venom took advantage. One arm at his throat, the other around his chest, he wrapped his friend up from behind and hauled him sideways. Up. Off. And over. Fantastic. He had liftoff… the kind that arrived with a crapload of imbalance.

  Venom cursed as he careened backward. His arms locked around Wick’s chest, the male came with him, both of them acting like pinballs, bouncing off tables, sending chairs flying, reeling across the narrow space. Bolted to the floor in the center of the room, a massive hardwood table stood strong and—

  Ah, hell. This was going to hurt.

  He was right.

  Pain bit, scoring his hipbone as he collided with the thing. The table edge sent him up and over. With his friend along for the ride, he hit the floor on the other side with a bone-jarring thump and slid, knocking a quartet of club chairs askew. Refusing to let go, he clamped down on Wick. An unnecessary move. His buddy stayed put—thank God—and glanced over his shoulder. Shimmering golden eyes met his. Calm. Steady. Not an ounce of pissed off in sight. Venom frowned. What the hell was going on? After that display, he’d figured Wick would fight to regain his footing.