Fury of Ice (Dragonfury Series #2) Read online

  An unnecessary precaution? Probably.

  Denzeil and the females were no doubt right on his ass, but…well, a male could never be too careful. Not with a new home to protect.

  The Nightfuries were a clever bunch: well organized, skilled warriors, tenacious with a shitload of vicious sprinkled on top. A lethal combination, one he didn’t want anywhere near Ivar. The male had taken a hit at the shipyard. Was still recovering from Rikar’s ice daggers and—

  Fuck, he hated that prick. More than Bastian or any of the others. Tonight’s dance on the beach only cemented the feeling. The pale-eyed, white-scaled male had taken his prize, and because of it, he was headed into an unpleasant conversation. One that would end with him making concessions.

  Lothair growled. He’d rather chew his own arm off than admit failure…or give up an ounce of power. But Ivar would take his pound of flesh. No sense putting it off.

  The double doors slid open, dumping him into a high-ceilinged, double-wide corridor. The smell of wet plaster and fresh paint hung in the air as he strode toward the lab. Ivar spent most of his time there, at the farthest recesses of the lair. With project supervirus in full swing, the male practically slept in the antechamber.

  Not good on any level.

  He turned the last corner and punched through a set of swinging doors. White from floor to ceiling, the lab’s antechamber was Ivar’s domain. The space suited the male, showcasing his preference for all things neat and tidy. Lothair almost snorted. Neat and tidy? Jesus, it was more than that. Call it OCD on steroids, but whatever you labeled it, normal wasn’t one of the choices. Neither was colorful. The only things with an ounce of flash were the computer screens running down the left-hand side of the room and the fruit basket sitting on the table beside his commander.

  One shoulder propped against the wall, one arm supported by a sling, Ivar glanced away from the one-way window into another chamber.

  Lothair tipped his chin. “How’s it going in there?”

  “They’re not dying fast enough.” Black wraparounds in place, Ivar shook his head. The sunglasses slipped, sliding down the bridge of his nose, exposing pink irises and a visual load of pissed off. “Two aren’t even sick yet, and it’s been five days.”

  Moving away from the entrance, Lothair crossed the room. “So superbug number one is a bust?”

  “A total fucking failure.”

  “Then gas ’em.” Slowing his roll, Lothair stopped beside his friend. He looked through the glass into the hermetically-sealed chamber/apartment. Decked out with the best, the suite boasted everything a human could want: high-tech kitchen, comfortable bedrooms with en suite bathrooms, a kitted-out living room with modern furniture, and a sixty-inch plasma TV complete with every video game console known to mankind. Why Ivar bothered with the luxury when the humans inside were nothing but guinea pigs, he didn’t know. A quirk of character, maybe. “Clean up the mess and start over with a new batch.”

  “I like this bug.” Ivar sighed, dark red brows furrowed behind the Oakleys. “I’ll give it a few more days.”

  Lothair wanted to shake his head. He didn’t dare. His friend would kick his ass if he thought for one second he wasn’t 100 percent on board. Not that he wasn’t. He hated humankind as much as, if not more than, Ivar, but…

  All the science stuff was above his pay grade. He didn’t understand it—wasn’t sure he wanted to—but Ivar loved the shit: playing with viruses that would scare the piss out of human doctors, never mind the best biochemical experts in the business.

  To what end?

  The extermination of the human race.

  Stupid insects. The assholes were killing the planet with their greed and neglectful attitude. Global warming. Entire rain forests laid to waste. The oil spills, nuclear power plant leaks, companies spilling toxic chemicals into lakes and rivers…into the fucking sky. Where he flew every night. If they didn’t wipe the humans out soon, there would be nothing left to save.

  “I’ll get another batch of humans together. Strong ones with healthy immune systems.”

  Ivar scowled at him.

  “Just in case,” Lothair murmured, not pushing his luck. His commander was touchy enough already. Ivar liked fast results and positive outcomes when his babies (aka superviruses) were involved. “I’ll get some low-energy females to throw into the mix too.”

  “Good idea.” Pushing away from the wall, cradling his injured arm, Ivar limped over to the bank of computer monitors. A couple of quick keystrokes and the screens went active, scientific data, spreadsheets as well as the video feed from the chamber, coming online. “Vary the ethnic backgrounds as well…Latino, Caucasian, Asian. You name it, toss it in there. I want to test exactly what kind of RO ratio we’ll get for both male and female.”

  Lothair frowned.

  “RO ratio?” Ivar raised a brow, enjoying the science lesson. “Rate of infection.”

  “The faster, the better.”

  “Not necessarily.” Fingers flying, his friend tapped a command into the keyboard. A spreadsheet complete with a pie graph morphed on the screen. “We need an infected human to stay alive long enough to spread the contagion to at least five or six other people. We want a global, systemic epidemic. An untreatable one.”

  “Deadly with a extra dose of kick-ass.”

  “Exactly.” Ivar’s mouth tipped up at the corners.

  Lothair grinned back, then turned his attention to the humans caged inside the chamber. Some were coughing. One was passed out on the La-Z-Boy recliner. Two were playing Xbox, a version of Halo. He loved that game. Would probably play some himself before he hit the sheets for the day. But first? Eats. He was as hungry as hell.

  Filching an apple from the basket, he bit into the red, juicy, and delicious. As the sweet taste hit his tongue, he glanced sideways at his friend. Jesus, even with his injuries half-healed, Ivar was in rough shape. He took another bite and murmured around the mouthful, “Two high-energy females are in the house, Ivar. You should feed.”

  His friend nodded. “You’re coming with me.”

  Without a doubt. No way would he let Ivar go alone. His commander liked killing females too much. Would drain one of the coeds dry if Lothair wasn’t in on the action. His balls fisted up tight as he swelled behind his fly. He could do with some action right now. Particularly after the goat-fuck his night had turned out to be.

  He tipped his head toward the door. “Let’s go now.”

  “Tell me about our other project first.” Turning away from the computer, Ivar ass-planted himself on the lip of the desk.

  Ah, hell. Here it came. His confession and talk of the breeding program.

  So not what he needed right now. He’d hoped to Zen Ivar out with an energy feed first. No such luck. The male was too savvy. Was reading his level of pissed off and making the right conclusion. The one that had shot-to-hell written all over it.

  Lothair sighed. “We ran into a snag tonight.”

  “Shit.”

  No kidding. Losing another high-energy female didn’t bode well. Not for him. Not for the breeding program Ivar wanted operational, oh, say…yesterday.

  Designed with one purpose in mind, the program was simple. At least in principle. Dragonkind males didn’t produce female offspring. Why? Something about a vengeful goddess and a curse, but…whatever. Lothair didn’t believe in old wives’ tales. As long as Ivar knew how to manipulate the DNA and map the genomes to allow a Dragonkind male to produce a girl-child, it was all good. He’d hunt down however many females his commander wanted. Impregnate as many as needed when the Meridian realigned.

  He was happy to do it. For results. For a daughter of his own.

  A Dragonkind female with the ability to feed males of her own kind. Hmm, what a concept. Something worth striving for if it eliminated his dependence on humankind once and for all.

  For the program to be successful, however, they needed six females to start: all healthy, high-energy, and of breeding age. Anyone under eighteen need
not apply. Which meant he needed to track, trap, and imprison six twenty-something candidates.

  No easy task.

  High-energy females were the rarest of the rare. Smart. Tenacious. Skilled in their chosen fields, there was nothing run-of-the-mill about them. Which meant he was in FUBAR territory before he even stepped outside the lair each night. The theme song from Mission: Impossible thrummed through his head. Forget Tom Cruise. Hands down, he had the actor beat in the crazy mission situation.

  Ivar’s gaze zinged him from behind the dark lenses. “What happened?”

  Fuck. Truth time. All of a sudden, Lothair wished he could choose dare. But whatever…truth, it was. “Lost the third tonight.”

  “The she-cop?”

  “She ambushed me before I could get her in a cage,” he said, angling his face, showing off his cheek. “Got out through the ventilation system.”

  “Smart,” his friend said, pushing away from the computer console. The sound of his boots thudded as he came at Lothair from across the room. The approach was slow and measured. Dangerous by any standards. Lothair tensed, waiting for the blow, refusing to fight back, knowing he deserved the beatdown. But as his friend stopped in front of him, he didn’t lash out. He reached out instead and with a gentle touch grasped Lothair’s chin. Leaning in, Ivar got up close and personal with the butterfly bandages. “Nasty cut. You okay?”

  The question wasn’t about physical injury. It was about headspace and intention. Ivar wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly what kind of male he’d chosen as his XO.

  “Nyet,” he growled, shaking free of Ivar’s hold. “I’m not fucking okay.”

  “You looking for some payback?”

  “A shitload.”

  “So retrieve her come nightfall and…” Ivar trailed off as Lothair cursed. Reading him right, his eyes glowed pink behind the Oakleys. “Goddamn it, Lothair. Tell me Bastian didn’t—”

  “His evil twin…Rikar.”

  As the name rolled out, a sour taste filled his mouth. Unpleasant in more ways than one. Not only must he admit the bastard had gotten the better of him but also that he’d come home empty-handed. With a snarl, Lothair swallowed the name like a mouthful of mothballs. Unable to stay still, he rolled his shoulders to work out the frustration. When that didn’t work, he put his boots in gear and paced the length of the antechamber.

  He strode back in the opposite direction, his footfalls echoing off the glossy walls. Coming within inches of Ivar, he passed his commander, then stopped, dead-ending at the computer console. Asleep from disuse, the touch screen that controlled the “apartment” was black. He stared at his reflection a moment, seeing himself, but not really. “I hate that asshole.”

  “Fucking ice princess,” his friend hissed, dissing Rikar with his usual slur. “So we’ve only got two in the tank.”

  Yup. Two high-energy females. Four short of what Ivar wanted—needed—before the Meridian realigned in the spring. The electrostatic current’s realignment happened twice a year, and it was the only time a Dragonkind male was fertile. Just his luck. His genetics were a natural frickin’ disaster, working against him with the force of a hurricane.

  Uncurling his fists, Lothair cracked his knuckles. “I’ll get you the others.”

  “And the she-cop?”

  “She’s out of the program.” With a big REJECTED stamped on her forehead.

  “Lothair.” Ivar’s tone was full of warning. “She’s high-energy. She’s prepped with the serum. We can’t afford—”

  “To what…waste her?” His boot soles squeaked as he spun and glared at the male he loved like a brother. Any other time, he would’ve backed down, but not today. Or tomorrow. Or the day after that. He wanted Angela Keen to suffer: pure, simple, no negotiation required. “Bullshit. I don’t care how rare a female she is…or how high her energy. When I find her, I’ll fuck her hard while I drain her dry.”

  “Jesus Christ, man.” Ivar popped the wraparounds off the bridge of his nose. As he rubbed the corners of his eyes, he shook his head and sighed. “Okay, look…I’ve got no problem with you laying her out, but if you want her dead, you pay the price.”

  “Name it.”

  “Seven,” he said. “I want seven females instead of six in the next two months so they can be prepped and ready to go before the Meridian realigns.”

  Diabolical. And difficult. Lothair didn’t care. Killing the she-cop was more important. If he needed to bust his ass, serve up five females in eight weeks, so be it. He loved a good challenge. “Done.”

  Ivar huffed. “Just like that?”

  “I’m working on something,” he said, holding his friend’s gaze, mind churning over the facts. High-energy females might be elusive, but he’d noticed something while hunting them over the last month. HEs often stuck together…find one, find more. “A new hypothesis.”

  “Feel like sharing?”

  “Not yet,” he said. “When I know, you’ll know.”

  Wasn’t that always the way? Ivar planned. Lothair put the plan in motion and made it happen. The how, where, and why held little consequence. So…

  No problem. Seven high-energy females, coming up.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Stream rose like a curtain, fogging up the glass as Angela planted her hands against the shower wall. Cool marble pressed along each palm as she leaned in, bowed her head, warm water streaming down her spine. The contrast was classic. Hot versus cold. Fight versus flight. The will to resist battling the urge to give in. And there she had it…her relationship with Rikar in a nutshell.

  Angela snorted. Relationship. Wow. Now there was stretch. Not a very comfortable one, either. Especially since she’d woken up the second time around tonight A-L-O-N-E.

  Why that upset her, she didn’t know.

  Happy to be alone had always been her MO. Not today, though. All by her lonesome meant peace and quiet, the last thing she needed. The silence gave her too much time to think. To feel. To relive all the bad stuff and none of the good.

  God, how could Rikar leave her like this? Skip out on her without leaving a note…without so much as a Hey, angel, don’t worry, I’ll be back at X o’clock on a scrap piece of paper. Was that too much to ask?

  Goddamn it, no. It wasn’t.

  He could’ve shaken her awake after his trip through the shower. Could’ve rubbed her back, rustled her hair, murmured to her as—

  Angela touched her forehead to the shower wall. Good God. Rub her back. How stupid was that? Very. Beyond idiotic.

  She barely knew the guy. Shouldn’t trust him. Need him. Want him. But the truth was a bitter pill to swallow. Especially since she craved those things from him.

  Leaning into the spray, she fought the sudden tightness in her chest, tried to breathe through it, around it, refusing to shut down. Or show any fear. Rikar. No Rikar. It didn’t matter. She couldn’t afford to freak out. The moment she broke down, he would cut her out of the investigation: say it was too dangerous, try to shove her somewhere called the Safest-Place-on-Earth. The certainty of the assertion gave her perspective. Made her want to prove him wrong even as she soaked up the concern she saw in his eyes.

  And, okay. There she went again, driving straight into Crazytown.

  She couldn’t be weak and strong at the same time. Not with Rikar. He was too demanding, too watchful…too afraid for her. Which meant keeping it together long enough to earn the right to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him. Easier said than done. At least she understood the parameters and inherent challenges. Had climbed over all kinds of gender bias when she’d been transferred to Homicide from Vice. All the old-timers had balked, hating the idea of a woman detective on their squad. She’d shown them, given the boys’ club the finger, and then left them in the dust.

  And she could do it again.

  But first? She needed to man up and hold the encroaching panic at bay. And find Mac. Which meant locating Rikar. She wouldn’t get far in a lair full of man-dragons without him.

  With a sh
ove, Angela pushed away from the wall. Water rolled over her shoulders, then headed south, cascading between her breasts as Rikar’s voice whispered through her mind. Angel. She sighed, enjoying the endearment way too much. She shouldn’t like the pet name at all. It was just a word, nothing special to him. He no doubt called all his—

  Ah…strike that thought. No sense going there. It didn’t matter what he called other women. Rikar’s personal life was just that…personal. In other words? None of her flipping business. But even as she cemented the “he’s not mine” in her mind, the hair on the nape of her neck stood straight up, like a she-lion’s might when another lioness encroaches on her territory.

  Raking a hand through her wet hair, Angela took refuge behind her no-chance-in-hell attitude. She wasn’t at Black Diamond to hook up. All right, so Rikar was gorgeous. So he was gentle, caring, and willing to give her space. None of that mattered. She had a job to do, one that entailed killing a certain Razorback, so, yeah, the whole attraction problem could take a backseat. In another country. Or universe. Wherever…just as long as it stayed the hell away from her.

  Angela nodded. Excellent plan. On to the next issue. Rikar and his disappearing act.

  Freaking guy. She could just picture him, tiptoeing past her and out of the room.

  She’d made it easy for him. Curling up in his spot on the bed while he showered behind a closed door. Using his pillow, burrowing so deep his scent rose from the sheets, enveloping her in a masculine richness that was all Rikar. Allowing the splashing sound of water and the warm quilt to cocoon her until…

  Yeah. Classic rookie mistake.

  She’d taken her eyes off the target. Literally. Allowed them to close instead of keeping them glued to the damned door. Now—courtesy of her additional four hours in la-la land—he was gone. No explanation. No first assignment. No clue about how, when, or where. Just a neatly folded pile of clothes at the end of the bed and an empty room.

  Which she appreciated. Really, she did, even though she wanted to stay pissed off. But as far as gestures went, the tank top, track pants, and Lululemon hoodie was a thoughtful one, particularly since naked wasn’t something she needed to be in a lair full of man-dragons. Add that to the fact the hoodie was her favorite color—a green so dark it reminded her of a forest full of evergreens—and well…Rikar had scored a few points. Enough maybe to get off with a verbal thrashing instead of a smack upside the head with her shiny new Glock.