Fury of Ice (Dragonfury Series #2) Read online

  Reaching out, Angela turned the shower off. Time to get out. Time for some reconnaissance. Time to help Mac.

  She cranked the door open, stepped out of the shower, and onto the bath mat. Her mind raced as she flipped a towel off the heated wall rack, sorting through the possibilities. Which emergency room had he been taken to…the Seattle General hospital? Swedish Medical? She frowned. Probably the latter. Most cops ended up there when injured in the line of duty or—

  Nope. Not going there. Her partner wasn’t dead. No way. Not Mac.

  Fear for her partner rose fast as she toweled off. The new clothes went on in record time. Finger-combing her hair, she zipped up the hoodie, slipped her feet into a pair of girly-girl flip-flops, and grabbed her Glock. As she headed for the exit, she slid the gun into her waistband, cranked down on the handle and, swinging the door wide—

  Got an earful of baby sounds: soft gurgles of happy cooing.

  Angela frowned as she pivoted toward the bed.

  “Hey, you’re finally out,” a soft voice said. “I thought you’d melted in there.”

  Habit made her slip her hand around the Glock secured against the small of her back a second before she spotted the owner of the voice. Blonde hair pulled into a ponytail, Myst Munroe sat cross-legged in the center of the king-size monstrosity. Serious blue eyes met hers, concern and more in their depths, and Angela cringed. She couldn’t stand the pity or the certain knowledge she saw in Myst’s gaze. Both made it hard to hide: to throw her shoulders back, put on a brave front, and pretend that she was all right.

  She tried anyway, deflecting Myst’s concern. “Hey…are you okay?”

  “That should be my line.” Myst worried her bottom lip as though she had something important to say but couldn’t decide how to say it.

  Angela swallowed. Oh, so not good. She didn’t want to talk about the shipyard. About their capture, attempted escape, or…what had happened to her afterward. The topic wasn’t up for discussion. Not that Myst cared. Her expression said it all. Talk was exactly what she wanted to do.

  “Look, I know you probably don’t want to see me right now, but…” Tears filled Myst’s eyes, making the irises appear more violet than blue. “It has to be said and—”

  “Don’t,” she whispered.

  Myst didn’t listen. “I’m sorry…so very sorry. It’s my fault. Had I listened to Bastian and not run away.” Her breath hitched, breaking up the fast-paced spill of guilt. “God…the explosion at the precinct, the shipyard…the whole damned thing wouldn’t have happened, and you…y-you would be all right. W-would never have been h-hurt.”

  Angela closed her eyes. She couldn’t handle this, not now. Work. She needed to work, to distract herself with something she excelled at. Something that made her feel strong. An activity like, oh, say…outsmarting and catching bad guys. But Myst and her Dr. Phil moment were mucking up the plan, making her remember when she wanted to forget.

  Please, God. Someone just shoot her now.

  “It wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known and…” Angela paused to collect her thoughts, to find her brain before she broke down. If she started to cry, Myst would cry and then…hell. They’d both be knee-deep in a blubber-fest with no way out. “I’m all right. Myst, really…I’m good. Rikar’s helped a lot.”

  Okay, she hadn’t meant to admit that last part. But, well…crap. Just crap. It was true. Rikar had helped. Was still helping: making her feel safe, supporting her without demanding anything in return, giving her a shot at justice. And boy oh boy, she really needed to get a grip. Otherwise she’d fall out of anger with him.

  “I’m glad,” Myst said, her voice soft. “But if you ever want to talk—”

  “I won’t…not for a while. Maybe never.”

  “I get it, but…” Myst cleared her throat. “The offer stands…anytime, okay?”

  Angela nodded and glanced away, silence stretching until she felt like an elastic band. Ready to snap any second: to run, hide, and never come out.

  The small bundle of blue blanket next to Myst caught her attention. Thank goodness. A distraction. She needed one. Much more of the trip down memory lane and she’d lose it for sure. But the baby was a ray of sunshine. A gift in the face of tragedy.

  Unable to stay away, she walked toward the bed. As she got her first glimpse of him, her mouth curved. Little cherub. Sweet angel. He was so beautiful. Dark Mohawk of hair running down the center of his head, the little guy cooed and grabbed hold as Myst gave him her finger. Angela huffed, the sound more amazed than amused. Man, he was small and…happy. So perfect he made her ache with a sudden gladness that almost overwhelmed her. And in that moment, as she stared down at him—memorizing his features, seeing his happiness, and knowing he was safe—the pain pinching her chest eased just a little bit.

  Reaching out, she touched the dark hair gracing the top of his head. With a suddenness that startled her, the baby turned his head and…

  Angela blinked. Wow. He was extra alert for a little guy. Maybe too alert. “He’s Dragonkind?”

  Liberating her finger, Myst rubbed his belly and nodded.

  “Is he Bastian’s? The guy you—”

  “No. He belongs to the male chained in the basement.”

  Oh, of course. Chained in the…what? “Excuse me?”

  “It’s a bit of a story,” she said, adjusting the blanket, tucking the baby’s arms in as she swaddled him. “And speaking of which, we’d better get moving.”

  Okay, now they were going somewhere? Jeez. Talk about a switch-up. The conversation had gone from bad to bizarre in a heartbeat. “Ah, you want to fill me in? Who’s chained in the basement?”

  “Forge. Gregor-Mayhem’s father.” Scooping up the baby, Myst tucked him against her shoulder and slid toward the edge of the bed. “I think you need to meet him.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s spent time with the Razorbacks. He might know something that might help you catch the assholes.”

  Bingo. Myst had her attention. The only problem? Mac. Her partner was the priority, not the guy imprisoned in the dungeon. “I need to talk to Rikar first.”

  “Not a good idea,” she said. “At least not until after we visit Forge.”

  Well, wasn’t that cryptic? “What about a cell phone?”

  Patting Gregor-Mayhem’s bottom—man, the kid needed a shorter handle…like G.M. or something—Myst turned toward the door. “There aren’t any phones in the lair.”

  “A computer, then?”

  “What do you need?”

  “My partner, Mac, is in trouble and—”

  “Not anymore.” Blue eyes fixed on her, Myst stroked the back of G.M.’s head. “Rikar left an hour ago…at nightfall…to go get him.”

  Closing her eyes, Angela said a silent thank-you. Mac was safe, but even as relief sent her sideways, she wondered whether Rikar going after her partner was a good idea. Probably not. Especially considering Rikar’s track record. She’d gone into McGovern’s in great shape, for pity’s sake, looking for a glass of Cran-Raz, and come out one memory light of a full load.

  “Rikar won’t hurt him, will he?” He’d better not. Otherwise she’d find some 9 mms to go in her Glock’s empty magazine clip.

  “Nah, I don’t know what happened exactly, but the plan is to bring Mac back here. Which means…we really need to get moving before my mate and the boys get home.”

  Angela blinked. “Mate?”

  “Bastian. I’m mated to him.” After tossing her a grin, Myst headed for the door on the opposite side of the room. “Sounds crazy, I know, but I love him, so staying with him is a no-brainer…the best decision I’ve ever made.” Pausing at the exit, her expression went from lighthearted to serious as she glanced over her shoulder at Angela. “The only thing that bothers me is leaving Tania. I miss her so much it hurts.”

  Angela nodded, remembering Tania from when she’d hauled her into the precinct for questioning. “She misses you, too.”

  “You talked to
her?”

  “We interviewed her when we couldn’t find you.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Pretty determined to find you, though.”

  “Crap.” A pained look on her face, Myst shook her head, battling the sudden threat of tears. “I’m dying to call her, but it’ll only make things worse. A catch twenty-two, you know? If I contact her, she’ll try harder to find me. It wouldn’t be fair to pull her into this world, so it’s better if I disappear. But it’s killing me that I can’t let her know I’m all right.”

  “I hear ya,” she murmured, understanding Myst’s dilemma. Damned if she did, damned if she didn’t…such a nasty place to be. Which meant it was time to change the subject before Myst got weepy-eyed again.

  Angela cleared her throat. “So…you live here now?”

  “New home. New life. But here’s the real kicker.” Cupping the baby’s bottom with one hand, Myst patted her stomach with the other. “New baby on the way, too. How’s that for a trifecta of holy crap?”

  “Game. Set. Match,” Angela said. “The win goes to Ms. Munroe.”

  She laughed. “Pretty much.”

  “What else should I know?”

  “Rikar’s important around here. Well, actually…all of the guys are, but your male is Bastian’s best friend and first-in-command of the Nightfuries.”

  Your male. Just two words, but wow. They packed a punch. One that left Angela breathless for all the wrong reasons. Fighting the backward slide into the Kingdom of Stupidosity, she concentrated instead on the last bit of intel. Bastian’s go-to guy. Nothing like being informed of that by the man-dragon himself. Jeez. Rikar didn’t have a collaborative bone in his body. Or any idea what partner meant, for that matter. Angela pursed her lips. Just wait until she got a hold of him. He wouldn’t have a clue what hit him.

  “Can you grab the container on the bedside table?” Halfway across the room, Myst pointed to a blue-and-white metal tin. When Angela raised a brow, her new friend explained, “Cookies for Forge.”

  Skirting the end of the bed, she grabbed the container and hightailed it after Myst. “And we need cookies because…?”

  “To bribe our new inmate.” Shifting the baby, Myst cradled him in one arm and opened the door with the other. Hinges hissed. Metal clicked and…bingo. They were out of the hospital room and into the wide corridor on the other side. “You should know he’s a hard-ass.”

  “Terrific,” she said, thinking of Rikar…the poster boy for hard-ass. “Just what I need. Another one.”

  Ignoring her sarcasm, Myst turned left, footwear flip-flip-flopping against the linoleum floor, sound bouncing off white walls. Spotlighted by twin rows of halogens, the hallway was wide, the ceiling high, not a picture in sight. Plain. Utilitarian. Function over form, just like a hospital.

  “So that’s your plan? Ply him with cookies and hope he cracks?” Strangest interrogation technique she’d ever heard of, but all right. It was worth a shot.

  “Forge has a sweet tooth,” Myst said, eyes twinkling, expression impish. “He’ll take one whiff of the shortbread and cave.”

  A Scottish treat, one of Mac’s faves. “Is he from Scotland or something?”

  “The Highlands.” Upping her pace, her new friend made a beeline toward the end of the corridor. And a set of double doors. “Just wait until you get a load of his accent.”

  “Gerard Butler good?”

  “Better. Think Sean Connery on steroids.”

  Oh, boy. Angela loved that actor. And couldn’t wait to meet Forge. No, scratch that. Make it hear the guy talk.

  “But…” Myst paused to crank open one of the doors. “We need to get to him before the boys come home because the second they do, Daimler will squeal on us.”

  “Don’t tell me.” Right on Myst’s heels, she jogged into a clinic of some sort. Neat and tidy, the setup was high-tech with stainless-steel countertops, a crapload of medical machines, and supplies. The smell of antiseptic hand wash hung in the air as she skirted the examination table on the way to a sliding glass door. “Daimler is Black Diamond’s eyes and ears.”

  “Yeah…the nosy butler.” Turning into another corridor outside the clinic, the combined flip-flip-flop of their footwear ricocheted off ancient stone walls. Medieval looking, the granite blocks bore grooved tool marks—probably made by equally old chisels. “Love him to death, but he’s got a big mouth. And what Bastian says goes.”

  Angela raised a brow. “But not for you.”

  “Not always. I know how to get around my mate.” Myst tossed a grin over her shoulder as they passed a bank of elevators. The hallway dead-ended soon after, and she stopped in front of a reinforced steel door. With a flip, she opened the electronic keypad and punched in an access code. The locks clicked. The door swung inward. “Stick around long enough and you’ll figure out the best way to handle Rikar too.”

  One could only hope.

  But sticking around wasn’t part of the plan. Do the job. Get even, and then get out. Ding-ding-ding. That had a much nicer ring to it than settling into domestic bliss with a man-dragon. So yeah, no matter how appealing, Rikar was a means to an end. Nothing more. Nothing less. Now all she needed to do was remember that important fact. Maybe writing it on a Post-it would help. Maybe if she taped it to her bathroom mirror and recited it each morning, she’d learn to cope. Maybe with enough practice, she’d kill the disease.

  The one called Rikaritis.

  But as Angela followed her new partner in crime over the threshold, something warned her there wasn’t a cure for that.

  Ahead of the pack and on point, Mac took the last flight of stairs two at a time, the echo of three sets of boots on the metal treads behind him. It was his lucky day. Venom and Wick had joined the parade, bringing up the rear behind Bastian. Man, like he needed an audience for this shit?

  Fly or die.

  Venom’s words, not his.

  Mac felt them all the same as he reached the landing and punched the metal handle barring the security door. The wind took over, grabbing the steel and slamming it back against the skyscraper’s facade. He stepped out onto the rooftop, onto gravel and rock dust, aware of nothing but the building edge thirty feet away. Goddamn, it was a long way down. How did he know? He climbed the whole way up, pounded the flights between floors like a gym rat on a stair-climber.

  Nine hundred and sixty-three feet above Cherry Street. Seventy-six floors of I-wanna-see-Mac-go-splat.

  Or maybe that was just Venom. Bastian didn’t seem to want him dead. The guy had coached him the whole way over in the Denali, going over it again, making sure he understood. Still, he couldn’t help thinking…

  Where the fuck is Rikar?

  He needed the guy. An ally. Before he hit the point of no return. Before he fell seventy-six floors and got messy on the asphalt in front of McCormick’s Fish House and Bar.

  Lovely thought, wasn’t it?

  But it wasn’t as though he had much of a choice. Unless, of course, he wanted to look like a pansy. Normally, the crack to his tough-guy reputation wouldn’t bother him. That’s what his middle finger was for…to say fuck off to anyone who gave him grief. Tonight, though, he was off his game. The whole dragon thing still freaked him out.

  Mac ran his hand through his hair. His leather jacket stretched across his shoulders, reminding him he’d learned to conjure the thing less than an hour ago.

  Conjure.

  Mother of God, that sounded weird. Like something a voodoo high priestess said during ritualized killings or something. Okay, so the skill was useful. He’d cop to that. No one wanted to see him bare-assed in the moonlight, but man, the ability to whip up leather gear with nothing but a thought fit nicely into the little bag of horrors he’d been carrying around all day.

  Which, naturally, pissed him off.

  He’d never been the kind of guy who got rattled. Uh-huh. Cool under fire, that was him. But tonight, standing on top of the Columbia Center in downtown Seattle, Mac
wondered if that was about to change.

  Blowing out a breath, he glanced at the night sky as gravel crunched under his boots. The real estate above him was cloudless and clear, a strange occurrence for Seattle, especially for the time of year. Fall brought rain and cold, damp weather. Bitter wind aside, though, tonight was picture perfect. A wash of midnight blue with pinpoint stars that winked at him from their beds beyond the earth.

  Another gust pushed against his back, spinning into mini tornados around his boots. Rolling his shoulders, Mac headed for the raised edge of the roof.

  Venom passed him on the left-hand side, brushing shoulders with him.

  “Dickhead,” he said, trying out his fancy new mode of communication.

  Ruby-red eyes flashed, then narrowed as Venom mind-spoke, “Pansy-ass fledgling.”

  Mac clenched his teeth, holding on to his grin. Ah, the sweet stab of predictability. The touchy SOB had been rising to his bait all day. Made for an easy target and even more fun. And hey…wonder of wonders, he’d graduated sometime in the last two hours, moving from blockhead to pansy-ass fledgling.

  Pretty soon the guy would call him brother, instead of slinging insults. Mac would make sure of it. Make Dickhead eat his words before the night was done. Yeah, he might be new, but he wasn’t a lightweight. He belonged with the Nightfuries. Felt it in his bones. Knew it with more certainty than he had anything in his life.

  He was one of them. No fucking doubt. Now all he needed to do was prove it.

  The toes of his shitkickers touched the skyscraper’s metal lip. Mac peered over the edge. His stomach pitched then rebounded, leaving a bad taste in his mouth. From seventy-six stories up, everything looked miniature, like the detailed mock-ups architects constructed for their clients. Small green trees, tops swaying in the breeze. Tiny people rushing to get somewhere: home, the market, maybe even a restaurant to meet their spouses. And the cars looked like colorful Hot Wheels instead of life-size versions.