Fury of Shadows: Dragonfury Series: SCOTLAND #2 Read online

  Fury of Shadows

  Dragonfury Series: SCOTLAND #2

  Coreene Callahan

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, locales is entirely coincidental.

  FURY OF A SHADOWS

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2017 by Coreene Callahan

  Cover Art by Yocla Designs © February 2017

  www. CoreeneCallahan.com

  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher.

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  For a limited time, you can get a FREE copy of Inside the Dragonfury Series: EXTRAS — an insider's guide to the Dragonfury Series — directly from here. Just click on the link or image above to get started.

  For all those who believe they can’t—be brave.

  You absolutely can.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Excerpt: Fury of a Highland Dragon

  One

  A Note From the Author

  Also by Coreene Callahan

  About the Author

  One

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  The scent of blood thickened the night air, mixing with soupy fog along rain-soaked streets, carrying the stink along the cobbled length of the Royal Mile. Hidden inside a cloaking spell, Cyprus scanned the deserted avenue from his roof top perch. No dead bodies littering refuse-lined alleyways. Nary an unconscious human in slight. Or even a hint of a blood trail to follow.

  At least, not yet.

  There would be, though. The stench said all that needed saying. It was only a matter of time before he found the crime scene…and got a bird’s-eye view of the carnage.

  With a shrug, he resettled his wings and, shuffling left, peered over the parapet. His night vision sparked. His eyes started to glow. A pale purple wash rolled out in front of him, coating all it touched, allowing him to see in the dark as he searched dense shadows. Dragon senses dialed to maximum, he fine-tuned his sonar. A pedestrian turned onto High Street. The thud of footfalls rang through the quiet. One eye on the male, the other on the city skyline, Cyprus watched the unsuspecting human jog up a set of shallow steps and, keys jingling, let himself in to a flat fronting one of the busiest thoroughfares in Edinburgh.

  A total tourist trap.

  People from all over the world came to walk the Royal Mile and visit the Castle on the cliff. View the magnificence. Touch a piece of history. And be regaled by bloody battles and the brave Scots warriors who’d fought in each.

  Cyprus glanced south. Pretty place, Edinburgh Castle. Lit by bright lights, thick stone walls glowed like a beacon in the dark, inciting creative imaginings, setting the stage for yet another long night. He shook his head and, dragging his focus from the fortress, stifled a growl of frustration. What a fucking mess. His mission should’ve been easier than this—than being forced to cool his heels while the rogue male he hunted played hide and seek in a busy human city.

  Clenching his teeth, he shifted sideways and rounded another corner, his eyes trained on the ground below. The tips of his claws scraped the low wall as he moved. Nothing. Still no sign of the bastard…or the dead bodies.

  Annoyance made his muscles tense. Combating his impatience, he rolled his shoulders. Iridescent black scales reacted to the shift, ruffling into a cascade of clickety-click-click. The jagged spikes along his spine joined the parade, clattering in the quiet. A whisper of disquiet rattled through him. The situation stank of a set-up. A well-devised trap with one purpose in mind—to draw him away from Aberdeen, into a city he didn’t know well and liked even less.

  “And so, the hunter becomes the hunted.” Winter chill fogged his exhale, making white puffs rise in rings above his nostrils. “Clever.”

  Or so the bastard believed.

  The rogue, though, had failed to take crucial point into account. Cyprus never engaged in anything random. He plotted and planned instead. Which explained why he’d made the trip south now, didn’t it? The instant he sensed the strange male fly into his territory, he’d chosen to do what his enemy wanted—played the fool, allowed himself to be lead and followed the breadcrumbs. To what end? His mouth curved. For the hell of it. For the need to avoid layering one boring night atop another. For the sheer want of a good, claw-ripping fight.

  Crouched like a cat, he leapt to the adjacent building top. The yawn of an alley flashed beneath him. His bladed tail whiplashed. The click of his scales sliced through the cold as the wind picked up, rustling the trees standing sentry over vacant sidewalks. He landed with a thump and walked along the edge, attention on the street below, the rasp of his paws against tarred roof tiles loud in the stillness.

  The cacophony of sound didn’t matter. Nor did it travel. He made sure of it with a murmured command, strengthening the shield of invisibility that concealed his presence from human and Dragonkind alike. Eyes narrowed, irritation rising, he looked over the raised roof edge and scanned intersecting alleyways. For what seemed like the thousandth time.

  “Come out, come out wherever you are.” His upper lip curled, exposing the twin rows his serrated teeth. “I want tae play.”

  His voice hissed through his fangs, the invitation hanging in frosty air. The acceptance he craved didn’t come back. Silence reigned instead. Cyprus flexed one of his front talons. Bloody hell. The bastard was smart. Or scared shitless. One or the other, but…no way to tell until he set eyes on the warrior who’d invaded his territory. The bold move worried him. All of Dragonkind knew to stay clear of Scotland. The land, sky, mountains and lakes—shite, all of it, every nook and cranny, down to the last blade of grass—belonged to his pack, and no one crossed his border without suffering the consequences.

  Immediate death by dragon claw.

  He liked the sound of it. Wanted to follow through on the promise, but with the rogue using city streets to hide, he couldn’t smoke him out without doing serious damage. The thought didn’t bother him—much. Humans, after all, thrived on misery. For whatever reason, their race enjoyed demolition and reconstruction, so…aye. He could level an entire city block, turn it to rubble, create new jobs, fuel their economy with one tiny fireball. Inhale. Exhale. Crash, bang, slam. Simple. Nothing to it as long as he didn’t take human lives in the process. Big satisfaction. No guilt. The perfect crime.

  Cyprus snorted at the thought. Fire-acid sparked from his nostrils, heating the air as he jumped to another rooftop and—

  “Anything?”

  The inquiry thumped on his mental door. Cyprus linked in, accepting the connection with his first in command. “Not yet.”

  Wallaig growled. “Is the wanker reall
y going to make us hunt all night?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Christ,” Wallaig said, pure annoyance in the soft curse. “Of all the nights to be away from the lair, this isnae one of them.”

  The comment made him pause mid-stride. Cyprus’s brows snapped together. “Why?”

  “Rannock’s making Haggis for breakfast. I want to be home when—”

  A gagging sound came through mind-speak. “Fucking disgusting. I hate Haggis.”

  “Shut yer yap, Levin,” Wallaig snapped, his irritation redirected from the hunt to his pack-mate. “Donnae you dare insult his cooking. If you hurt his feelings, he’ll stop making—”

  “One can only hope,” Levin said. “That shite smells like vomit and—”

  “Tastes even worse,” Kruger murmured, finishing his best friend’s sentence.

  “Aye, well, think what you like, but…” Wallaig trailed off, waited a few seconds, the threat of violence shimmering in the silence. “If you ruin the best meal I’ve had in weeks, I’ll make sure you suck yer next one through a straw.”

  “You’d have to catch me first, old man.”

  “Whelp,” Wallaig said, his voice so deep he sounded past homicidal and well into satanic. Cyprus knew better. Could detect his first in command’s enjoyment in every vicious syllable. Wallaig might be the eldest of their pack, but he loved a good fight—verbal or otherwise. “I’m going to rip yer claws out and nail yer scrawny arse to the ground with them.”

  Levin snorted.

  Cyprus grinned. The threat wasn’t a new one. Wallaig promised to de-claw one of them at least once a week. Hell, the pledge of violence was practically the male’s way of saying “I love you”. Shaking his head, he ignored the continued banter of his warriors—and Wallaig’s vow to gut Levin like a toad and feed him is own entrails—and refocused his search. Over by the church, mayhap. The scent of blood grew stronger the closer he came to St. Giles Cathedral—to sacred ground held by priests and forgotten prophets.

  His attention shifted to the crown-shaped spire atop the church. Surrounded by golden light, the High Kirk of Edinburgh glowed, pouring light onto cobblestone streets and the square butted against its front entrance. With a growl, Cyprus leapt from one building to the next, his gaze fixed on the stone walls of the cathedral. Blown by a brisk wind, the acrid smell of spilled blood spiked. He snarled, the savage sound shredding the air in front of him. Bloody hell. Could the bastard really be that depraved? Had he taken the fight to humans on holy ground?

  The question circled less than a second before—

  Shock made him freeze where he’d landed.

  Gaze riveted to the square, Cyprus sucked a horrified breath. One second ticked into two before the true extent of the carnage registered. Goddess help him. Dead humans lay everywhere. Decapitated and de-limbed, body parts strewn from the base of the statue in the middle of the quad to the church’s front steps. Like a sick kind of bread trail. Or the beginnings of a grotesque human puzzle with too many pieces to fathom. He didn’t want to count, but…shite. There had to be at least five—mayhap six—different humans in the mess.

  “Mother of God,” he whispered. “The bastard.”

  Wallaig paused mid-insult. “Cyprus?”

  “What’s going on?” Kruger asked, the intensity of his focus so keen Cyprus registered it from three miles away. “What do you see?”

  “Dead humans…everywhere,” he said, voice gone hoarse. “Or at least, what’s left of them.”

  “What the fuck?” Levin growled.

  The click of scales echoed inside his head.

  “We’re on our way.”

  “Nay, Wallaig. Stay put.”

  His first in command cursed.

  Cyprus growled a warning and, gaze glued to the human casualties, leapt over the roof edge. The rush of cold air curled over his horns. Six feet from the ground, he transformed, shifting from dragon to human form. Dropping fast, he conjured his clothes. Jeans, a T-shirt and his favorite leather jacket wrapped him in warm comfort as his booted feet landed on stone. Rising from his crouch, he looked both ways, searching the empty street for humans. Nothing so far. Only one conclusion to draw—no one had stumbled upon the massacre yet. Which meant he needed to move…and it had to be now. Before someone came along and called the police, forcing him to leave.

  “Hold your positions, but be ready tae move.” He didn’t want to spook his enemy. The second his warriors took flight the rogue would sense the power of his pack and run for his life. Cowards always did when faced with superior strength, so…nay. Better to keep things under wraps until he got his claws on the male. Stepping off the sidewalk, Cyprus crossed the street. “I’m going tae take a closer look.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Wallaig grumbled, not liking his plan. Or the fact he waited outside the three-mile maker—distance enough to avoid being detected by the enemy, too far away to be of any help if the situation devolved and shite hit the proverbial fan. “Watch yer arse, laddie.”

  “Is the rogue gone?” Kruger cracked his knuckles, the sharp snap echoing through mind-speak.

  Cyprus shook his head even though no one could see him. “He’s still here…somewhere. I smell him. I think he may be in the church.”

  In fact, he was sure of it.

  He scented the bastard now. Plain as day. No need to question his dragon half. The scent trail grew more intense with every step he took. And as he stepped into the square and strode past the statue of a long-dead Duke—stepping over amputated arms and legs, skirting heads with jagged neck wounds and mutilated human torsos, boot soles splashing through puddles of human blood—the senselessness of it slammed through him. Rage burned a hole in his heart, waking the vicious urge to annihilate everything his path.

  His dragon half seethed, wanting out of its cage.

  Cyprus obliged, letting the killer inside him out to play as he reached the front steps of St. Giles Cathedral. He took the stairs three at a time. How dare the bastard murder innocent people in his territory. He might not like the human race, but those who lived inside his borders did so under his protection…whether they knew it or not. So aye. Retribution now belonged to him. Their deaths must be avenged and a clear message sent. No one infringed on his land. The rogue had just signed his own death warrant. All he needed to do now was find the male and complete the kill.

  Two

  Feet beating a furious pace on the sidewalk, Elise Woodward skidded across uneven pavers in front of the five-story walk-up. The instant she stopped sliding, she grabbed the handle and flung the front door wide. Ancient hinges groaned a warning. Beveled glass rattled in the pitted wooden frame. She ignored the clatter and, heaving her shoulder bag, raced across the lobby. Without looking, she shot past the elevator with a stained Out of Order sign taped across its face, and made for the stairs. Her shoes rapped over cracked floor tiles. The strike of each footfall echoed, buffeted by a low ceiling in the small space. Her heart adopted the rhythm, hammering inside her chest as she took the steps two at a time.

  Out of breath, palm slapping against the handrail, she rounded the next landing and headed for the fifth floor. Almost there. Another thirty seconds, and she’d be home. Keys in hand and at her apartment door. After that, she had…Elise glanced at her watch and grimaced. Crap. Less than five minutes to change her clothes, grab her kit, and dash into the night again.

  Otherwise, she’d be late.

  For her very first consultation.

  That it happened to be with a priest was neither here nor there. Late was late, no matter how God fearing or forgiving the client.

  Worn carpet bunching beneath her heels, she stopped in front of her apartment door. Pea green paint peeled from the surface, revealing different colored layers underneath, the same way a Gobstopper did when cracked open. Digging her keys out of her bag, Elise drew a deep breath. As she exhaled, she shoved her key in the lock. The metal teeth stuck, resisting the forward momentum. In a battle with the deadbolt, Elise shook her head
. Yes, indeedy. She lived in a real peach of a place, so low-brow even the paint protested, curling away from the door, obscuring part of the number seventeen screwed into its center.

  With a hard twist, she turned the lock, cranked the handle and—

  “About time you got home.” Graced by a thick French Canadian accent, the voice came at her like an arrow from the kitchen tucked into the back corner of the flat. Elise glanced in that direction. A pastry chef at a popular downtown bakery, Amantha stood like a pixie armed with baking prowess. All of five foot nothing and stationed at the butcher block that served as the kitchen island, her best friend—and roommate—wore a red apron with pink piping and a threat on the front—How can you help? GET OUT OF MY KITCHEN!

  Reading the warning, Elise closed the door and raised a brow. “Not going well?”

  “Stupid soufflé. It collapsed when I took it out of the oven.” Her friend scowled at the pan sitting on the cooling rack next to her.

  Her lips twitched.

  Amantha’s eyes narrowed. “You laugh, you die.”

  She held up both hands in surrender.

  Dark brown eyes leveled on her, her friend plunked a turquoise mixing bowl down on the countertop. Brandishing a pink-tipped whisk like a sword, Amantha pointed at the clock hanging between two arched windows in the living room. “You’re late, El. You’re never going to make it if—”

  “I know. I know.” Lifting her bag over her shoulder, Elise flung it toward the loveseat. The leather satchel bounced, assaulting frayed purple upholstery as she skirted the bistro table and jogged toward the short hallway to the right of the kitchen. Wrestling with the buttons on her coat, she swept past the narrow refrigerator, turned into her bedroom, and kicked off her shoes. “I got caught up at work.”