Fury of Fate: A Dragonfury Short Story

  FURY OF FATE

  Coreene Callahan

  DEDICATION

  To the brave ones. May you always be so courageous.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Love hurt. Evidence of it stood across the street. One hundred feet, two raised voices, and a shitload of annoyance away. Gaze riveted to the couple, Ivar slid deeper into the shadows, and using the narrow alleyway for cover, settled in to watch the show. Listen to it, too. His favorite companion, a bottle of Jim Beam, dangling from his fingertips, he rotated his wrist. Whiskey sloshed against glass, joining the whisper of winter wind as he shook his head.

  Jesus. Humans and their drama.

  It never ended. Witness the fact the female staged the scene in a public place. Right out in the open. Drawing sidelong glances from passersby on a sidewalk in city central. Cheeks flushed, she pointed a slender finger at her companion, accusing him of cheating, telling him this time was the last straw, refusing to take it anymore. Ivar snorted. Right. The last straw. A likely story. Nothing but a big fat lie.

  He could tell by the way she held herself—shoulders hunched beneath her expensive coat instead of squared. Tears in her eyes instead of steely determination. Gloved hand shaking instead of rock steady. Ivar sighed and took another swig of J.B. Beyond disappointing. She should be walking away from the dumbass, but...nah. Her body language was all wrong, 100 percent non-assertive. The raw hitch in her voice, though, was the true tip-off. A real fuck-you to feminism, telling Ivar all he needed to know. The human male had nothing to worry about. His lady love wasn’t going anywhere. She lacked the ingredients required when threatening to leave another.

  Backbone. Bravery. The courage to go it alone.

  Tightening his grip on his buddy in a bottle, Ivar swallowed another mouthful. The whiskey went down smooth. The burn of discontent circling the inside of his chest, however—not so much. Just like the female across the street, he ached with it. Hurt deep down where old wounds festered and new ones never healed. Stifling a snarl, Ivar propped his shoulder against the brick building façade. His eyes narrowed on the squabbling couple. He really should oust the pair.

  Unlock the chains, release his dragon half and...

  Send the lovebirds running for their lives.

  No doubt the smart thing to do. He didn’t, after all, have much time. Too bad compelling the duo with magic—and his special brand of mind control—held little appeal. Odd in more ways than one. Out of character for him too. As a general rule, he enjoyed scaring the hell out of humans. Razing the inferior race equaled big fun. At least, most nights. Tonight, though, didn’t qualify as most. He was tired. So goddamn sick of everyone and everything. Which meant he needed to cross the street and get on with it. Do what he’d flown into Seattle to accomplish. But as he listened to the escalating argument, Ivar couldn’t make himself move.

  Emotional gridlock. Physical lockdown. Mental anguish.

  All were present tonight, keeping his feet glued to cracked pavement. Which left him neck deep in the kind of turmoil he didn’t normally experience, never mind know what to do with. Emotion wasn’t his forte. Until recently, he’d thought himself incapable of feeling anything. Untouchable. Numbed out. Beyond help. A state of grace Ivar knew no longer applied to him. And hadn’t for months. The death of his best friend had seen to that, cracking him wide open. Now he bled sorrow, grieving in ways he didn’t understand and couldn’t shut down.

  Picking at the frayed corner of the bottle label, Ivar frowned. He needed it to stop. Wanted the numbness to return and the hurt to go away. No doubt a childish wish. Life wasn’t simple. Neither was mourning a friend, so...fuck it. Guess pain and suffering was par for the course and his for the duration. Which—yeah—made him want to hammer the humans even more. His gaze ping-ponged between the male and female. Jesus help him, but the twits deserved it—for causing a scene, for contributing to noise pollution, for being part of the problem instead of the solution. One that began with environmental crisis and ended with the death of the planet along with every living creature on Earth.

  Pure selfishness. Abhorrent greed. So incredibly short-sighted.

  The human race owned it all in spades.

  But worse? None of them gave a damn about cause and effect. Or the fact the planet they called home died a little more each day. The cause was easy to pinpoint...the human race. The effect was more catastrophic. Environmental meltdown on a massive scale. Proof of it headlined the news every evening—monster storms, record setting temperatures, shrinking polar icecaps, the rise of disease and...

  Shit. He could go on...and on.

  And on.

  He shut it down instead. Whining wouldn’t solve the problem. Taking the imbeciles across the street out, however, just might. Gaze narrowed on the lovebirds, Ivar flexed his hand. Magic bloomed. Pink flame licked across the center of his palm. Hmm yeah, that felt unbelievable...like power, glory, and the promise of something better. Something shiny and bright. Something more than the relentless despair circling behind his breastbone. Inhaling deep, Ivar filled his lungs, then exhaled smooth. The chill took up the cause, sending his breath out in a stream of frosty air. God, it would be so easy to kill the pair. A soft murmur. A rudimentary spell. A little Dragonkind hocus-pocus, and a fireball would rise upon command. Nothing left to do then but wind up and let the inferno fly.

  Slam-bang. Sizzle, burn, scream...poof-gone.

  Nothing but two piles of human ash on the sidewalk with a minimal amount of trouble. Ivar swirled the whiskey in the bottle and pursed his lips. Tempting...oh so very tempting, but not nearly satisfying enough. KOing a couple of humans wouldn’t alleviate the tension, never mind assuage the source of his aggravation. His frustration stemmed from a much larger problem. He needed to get his act together and his ass in gear. Before he ran out of time and his warriors came looking for him.

  Not an optimal outcome.

  He didn’t want any interference right now. Tonight belonged to him. Not to the humans and global issues. Not to the warriors under his command or the greater health of the Razorback organization. Just him. Only him. He hadn’t snuck out of the lair, slipped past his personal guards, and flown downtown to become distracted from his larger goal. Or get caught in the middle of a domestic dispute. The melodrama unfolding across the street wasn’t his concern. Here and now didn’t have a thing to do with a couple of squabbling humans. It did, however, have everything to do with him.

  He needed to be alone. To mourn his loss and honor the dead.

  Brows drawn tight, Ivar fisted his hand, snuffing out magical flame in favor of getting back on track. Pushing away from the brick wall, he stepped out of the shadows and onto the sidewalk. Half-frozen puddles cracked beneath his boots. Sharp sound traveled, rolling down the narrow avenue. Despair welled, collecting behind his breastbone. Fighting the rising tide, Ivar stared at the building he still owned. So much damage. Not much left to salvage. Little wonder. The fire had shown no mercy, licking through shattered windows to blacken the face of pale stone. Now the roof sagged, and the once beautiful brownstone looked sad. Beyond hope beneath the gloom of midnight and the weak light thrown by nearby lampposts.

  Deuces...a once thriving nightclub in the center of Seattle.

  Now nothing but a burned out shell.

  Disastrous destruction, courtesy of the war Ivar fought with the Nightfury pack—a group of Dragonkind warriors who didn’t agree with his politics. Or the plan he put in place to solve the environmental problems plaguing the planet. To be expected, he guessed. He knew Bastian—commander of the Nightfury pack—better than most. Had trained with the male, coming up in the same dragon combat training squadron in Europe.
Once brothers-in-arms, now forever enemies. The finality of it should’ve bothered him. It had, years ago, but not anymore. Fate was fickle, spinning a male with a flick of her fingers, sending warriors down different paths and...

  Sometimes on a collision course with one another.

  Win some. Lose some.

  Just like three nights ago. One building destroyed. Five Razorback warriors dead. And the entire reason he was here, revisiting a place he’d once considered his home away from home. With a sigh, Ivar stepped off the curb. Pace steady and strides smooth, he crossed the street. Startled by the sound of his footfalls, the couple glanced his way. Both flinched. The female met his gaze. Hers widened in appreciation an instant before fear spiked in her scent.

  Same old, same old.

  Women always reacted to him that way. Fascination and arousal first. Alarm and a healthy dose of wariness second. Some overcame the second in favor of the first, bypassing smart in favor of stupid, wanting to try him on for size. Not that Ivar liked to brag, but...yeah. He knew his appeal and always delivered. Sex, after all, equaled the best of all things—relaxation in the form of release. So instead of snarling at her, he winked, and slipping between two parked cars, waited. If he got lucky the bastard would take offense and enter the ring to defend his lady love. Fortune, after all, favored the—

  The bastard spun on his heel. Snagging the female’s arm, and with a muttered “come on, Sally,” the coward hightailed it toward the intersection at the other end of the street. Heavy footfalls along with the clatter of high heels shattered the quiet.

  Ivar rolled his eyes, and dragging his gaze from the fleeing couple, mounted Deuce’s front steps. Three treads from the top, he unleashed his magic. Wood groaned. The plywood boarding up the entrance shattered, blowing into the marble-clad entryway. Splinters hammered the back wall, then fell to the floor, joining the smear of ash and soot on the mosaic tiles. The scent of smoke still hung in the air, gathering like wispy ghouls against the high ceiling. Without a moment’s hesitation, Ivar stepped over the threshold and...

  Into chaos and the smell of death.

  Ivar glanced right. The double doors into the nightclub stood wide open, one hanging off broken hinges. Ruined furniture—some intact, most missing legs and chair backs—littered the open area beyond the vestibule. Twin bars stood on either side of the room, facing off like foes, stools lying like dying soldiers in front of both, the identical antique mirrors backstopping each tarnished by time and now devastation. He strode past it all, coming to a stop at the edge of the dance floor. Moonlight bled onto the once glossy surface, shining through a gaping hole in the roof. Throat gone tight, Ivar hit his haunches, and shifting his weight, knelt amid the debris.

  “I’m sorry. Please forgive me for failing you,” he whispered, hearing the ache in his voice.

  Raising the bottle of Jim Beam, he toasted his fallen comrades and drank deep. The whiskey burned on the way down and caught fire in his belly. Heat spread inside his chest. Ivar swallowed the pain, and filling his lungs to capacity, shouted each warrior’s name. His voice rang out. His heart grew heavy, and yet he continued, honoring their memory in the way of his kind before tipping the mouth of the bottle toward the floor. Amber liquid poured out in a stream, splattering the hardwood as he drew a circle around himself. With a murmur, he let his magic roll. His dragon half responded, lighting the fuse, setting the ring of alcohol on fire in the center of the club.

  Pink tendrils of flame dancing around him, Ivar pushed to his feet. “Rest well, my brothers. God grant you peace.”

  The reverent words echoed, reaching up to meet the night sky.

  His duty done, Ivar tossed the bottle aside. Glass shattered. The sound cracked through the quiet as he tipped his head back. Gazing on the moon through the hole in the ceiling, he transformed, shifting from human to dragon form. Muscle and bone stretched beneath blood red scales. Hands and feet turning to talons, Ivar bared his fangs and snarled at the night sky. His growl rippled as he left the fire to burn, unfolded his wings, and leapt toward the soot smeared ceiling.

  Blasting through what remained of Deuce’s roof, he sent wood and steel flying like pick-up sticks. Wrapped in magic, hidden from human eyes by a cloaking spell, he climbed, rising above the cityscape, and turned north. Time to go home. Before grief got the better of him. Before his guilt became insurmountable. Before Denzeil—his pain in the ass second-in-command—noticed he wasn’t in his laboratory and sent a squadron of Razorbacks—

  Static exploded between his temples.

  Ivar’s sonar pinged. Rocketing around a skyscraper, he rotated into a tight spiral and waited for the deep voice to come through mind-speak. The equivalent of a cell phone for his kind, the cosmic connection worked like a charm, linking males who accepted one another over great distances. Magic expanded, then whiplashed, ghosting around the horns on his head. Any second now. A few more seconds and...ah, yes.

  Here it came. Interference with a capital I.

  “Boss-man,” the voice said, echoing inside his skull.

  Ah shit. So much for getting home before anyone noticed he was gone. “What is it, D?”

  “Where the hell are you?”

  “In the lab.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Inevitable. Denzeil might be a pain, but the male wasn’t stupid. “Really?”

  “Ja,” Denzeil said, reverting to his failsafe...German, his mother tongue. A habit of his whenever the warrior became annoyed. “Particularly since I’m standing in your lab and you’re not here.”

  He sighed. “I’m on my way home.”

  A pregnant pause followed that statement, then...

  “Scheiße. You promised, Ivar. You promised you wouldn’t—”

  “Watch it, Denzeil,” he said, soft tone full of warning. “You are not my keeper.”

  “I know, but you shouldn’t be out on your own. The Nightfury pack—”

  “Fuck the Nightfuries.” An excellent sentiment. Now if only the enemy would die as planned. Not an easy thing to accomplish. Luckier than most, the Nightfuries were like cats. The assholes kept landing on their feet. “Downtown is quiet. None of the bastards are around tonight.”

  “Regardless...” The sound of heavy footfalls came through mind-speak. “I’m coming out to meet you anyway.”

  “Don’t bother.” Focused on the north end of the city, Ivar increased his wing speed. A blast of frigid air skimmed over him. The spikes along his spine rattled, providing a symphony of sound as tall buildings gave way to squat apartment buildings, leading him toward Suburbia. “I’m a few minutes out.”

  “Five minutes. I’m giving you five minutes then I’m—”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Ivar growled, severing mind-speak.

  The connection shattered. Static hissed, curling inside his ears as his warrior’s voice faded along with the concern in his tone. Silence settled in like an old friend, rushing him across the night sky and over houses full of sleeping humans. Ivar exhaled in relief. Quiet was always welcome. Particularly when Denzeil went on the warpath, charging in on a worry rampage. Ivar huffed. Fucking male. Mother hen to the next power. Not that Ivar didn’t appreciate the sentiment or that his warrior cared. He did. Well, most of the time anyway, but—

  Jesus.

  Sometimes the babysitting routine got to be too much. And sometimes he needed to break away. To get out from beneath the yoke of leadership. To step away from the harsh reality of war and responsibility. To feel unencumbered, free of the weight he carried as commander of the Razorback Nation and just live. Maybe even pretend all was right with his world.

  At least, every once in a while.

  Not too much to ask...right? Ivar nodded. His scales rattled, clicking together as he angled his wings, banking right to line up his final approach. His night vision sparked. Details sprang in pinpoint focus. A brick façade with wide windows and pale cornerstones flashed in the moon-glow up ahead. Ivar’s mouth curved. Hmm, there it was...

  28 Walton
Street. Home sweet home.

  Built in the 1950s, the old fire station anchored the entire neighborhood, rising about the tiny A-frame houses it sat alongside. Neglected for years, the property sat on thirteen glorious acres half an hour from downtown and still needed a helluva lot of work. Ivar didn’t mind. He enjoyed challenges. Building the underground lair beneath the property had proven an excellent one. Almost complete, the subterranean lair he now called home was a thing of beauty—high-tech, sophisticated, and comfortable. But the absolute best part...the detail he loved most about his new digs? The complex operated on a closed electrical circuit. Was completely off the grid. No need to draw from city power sources. No reason to become involved with the human race. No carbon footprint to speak of, 100 percent eco-friendly and self-sustaining.

  Just the way he liked it.

  Flipping up and over, Ivar angled into the last turn. Icy air streaming from his wing-tips, he rocketed over an abandoned gas station. His eyes narrowed on the fire station two streets over. Almost there. One hundred and fifty feet out. X marked the spot on the blacktop in front of 28 Walton Street. Twin lines of reflective road paint flashed on asphalt below.

  Ivar tucked his wings.

  Gravity took hold, yanking him out of the sky. The chill of midnight blasted over his scales. He hummed, relishing the rush as his paws thumped down. An answering vibration rumbled along the street. Recycling bins sitting on the sidewalk jumped. Window glass rattled. Lamp posts swayed, making electrical cables click together. The cacophony of sound echoed, pinging off aluminum siding and cheap chain-link fences planted in front yards. Still cloaked in magic, Ivar froze in the middle of the street and listened hard, waiting for the racket to wake the neighborhood. Cold seeping into the pads of his paws, he glanced over his shoulder. Nada. Zero movement. No lights came on. No front doors opened. Not a peep from the sleepy section of Suburbia he called home.

  Thank Jesus. The last think he needed was—