Fury of Ice (Dragonfury Series #2) Read online

  Mac frowned at the ground. “You’re out of your fucking mind.”

  “Myst’s building isn’t tall enough.” Shoulder-to-shoulder with him, Bastian glanced at him sideways. “You need lots of height for the first go-round. Columbia Center is the tallest building in Seattle…the best bet to get you airborne.”

  And what? There wasn’t a happy medium between five stories and…shit. This?

  Bastian raised a brow. “You used to jump out of airplanes for a living.”

  “With a parachute.”

  “You’ve got better than that now,” Bastian said. “You’ve got wings.”

  Did he ever. And yeah, those fuckers were cool, but only if they opened. Only if he figured out how to work them. And what did that depend on?

  Wait for it…

  Shifting into dragon form while free-falling from a thousand feet up. Not something he was all that confident he could do. Sure, he’d spent the day practicing, but if there was one thing he’d learned in the SEAL teams, it was that stress screwed with performance. Practice made perfect. That’s why they’d drilled so hard, running through training ops until everyone had it down cold. But what Bastian wanted him to do wasn’t about practice. It was trial by fire…do it right the first time or go splat.

  “All right.” Rolling his shoulders, Mac worked out the kinks. He went through the usual checklist, the way a pilot would his preflight routine. Body ready? Check. Mind focused? Double check. New magical abilities? Okay, so the jury was still out on that one, but what the hell. It was now or never. He wanted to become a member of the Nightfury pack. If he acted like the blockhead Venom liked to call him, he’d never earn their respect. “Tell me again.”

  “Venom’s on point. You follow him.” With a flick of his hand, Bastian pointed to the building across from them. Moonlight reflected off the glass, throwing black scales into stark relief. Hanging upside down like a bat, talons curled around the steel structure, Wick tipped his chin, acknowledging him without speaking. “Wick’ll help you with trajectory, flank your right wing while I keep you cloaked and stay on your left.”

  Cloaked. Another new trick. “When will I be able to do that?”

  “One thing at a time. Tonight’s for flying. Once you’re back at the lair, we’ll teach you the other stuff.”

  Good enough. One thing at a time sounded like an excellent strategy and about all he could handle at the moment. Putting himself in reverse, Mac counted out each step as he backed away from the edge of the roof. Take a running leap while yelling Geronimo! the whole way down. His kind of plan.

  Seven feet from the ledge, he settled into a runner stance. “Who’s got my six?”

  “I do.” Like a wraith in the dark, the voice came out of nowhere.

  “Jesus Christ!” Mac spun, dropping into a fighting stance.

  His fists raised, he searched the shadows and saw…nothing. A heartbeat later, a white dragon uncloaked, becoming visible in the darkness. Rikar. Mac knew it without asking. He recognized the vintage, 100 percent lethal. Horned head cocked to one side, pale eyes narrowed, Rikar looked him over as he tucked his wings. Jesus, he was a sight to behold, blinding against the night sky, so beautiful in dragon form he took Mac’s breath away and…

  Goddamn it. After the hellish day. After wishing Rikar hadn’t split—that the male had been around to show him the ropes instead of off saving the world—he was so happy to see the bastard, he said, “Well, aren’t you pretty.”

  Rikar snorted, tendrils of frost rising from his nostrils.

  Venom grinned, amusement slaying his perpetually pissed-off attitude. And Wick? Per usual, the Nightfury didn’t make a sound.

  Bastian laughed. “Yeah, the prettiest form of lethal. That’s our boy.”

  And just like that? Crisis averted. Pansy-ass status revoked. He was back on solid ground, a Dragonkind male with the chops to hold his own with the others.

  Meeting Rikar’s gaze, Mac tipped his chin. The question was a silent one and…thank fuck. His new XO was quick on the uptake.

  “She’s safe. Was sleeping when I left the lair.”

  “Good,” he murmured, relief riding him hard. Ange was his best friend—a great detective, his little sister by choice, but man, she had a knack for finding trouble. She’d been his responsibility the last two years. Now he had help—thank you, God—and knowing she was safe did wonders for his confidence. Nodding once at Rikar, he turned back to face the ledge. “Heads up, boys.”

  Venom shifted, skin morphing into green scales, wings spread wide as he left his perch on the rooftop. Arms and legs pumping, Mac hauled ass toward the edge. Rikar took flight as Bastian transformed, midnight-blue scales flashing in Mac’s periphery. No turning back now.

  No second chances. It was now or never.

  With a curse, he planted his boot on the raised lip and leapt, launching himself into the open sky. Stretching his arms wide, he swan-dived into a freefall, clearing his mind, waiting for enough wing space to transform. One Mississippi. Please, God. Two Mississippi. I’ll do anything. Three Mississippi. If you’ll…just…let…me…clear the…

  Presto chango.

  Hands and feet turned to claws. Skin morphed into blue-gray scales, and his spine lengthened under a razor-sharp blade as he unfolded his wings.

  Rikar hoorahed.

  The rest echoed the sentiment.

  Mac growled and, fangs bared, took a tight turn, banking around the sharp edge of another skyscraper as he flew toward the ocean. Bastian cursed. Mac didn’t care. He needed to swim, and it had to be now.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Bastian dropped another f-bomb. Rikar growled, seconding the motion, becoming chairman of the committee to kick Mac’s ass. The male had gone AWOL, flying off half-cocked, losing his mind in downtown Seattle. All without the ability to cloak himself in dragon form. And with Venom and Wick out of the picture—peeling off from the pack to investigate Lothair’s disappearing Houdini act from the night before—that left him and B scrambling to pick up the slack. And leapfrogging over the cityscape to cover the new guy’s flank? Not on his list of favorite things to do on a Saturday night.

  Especially with Angela at home waiting for him.

  Freaking male. Mac was fucking up his plans.

  Rikar snarled, baring his fangs. Just wait until he got his claws on their new boy. The cop was in for a smackdown of epic proportions. But first things first. He needed to catch the crazy SOB.

  Easier said than done.

  Mac flew incredibly well. Had gone kamikaze with a capital K.

  “Mac!” he said through mind-speak, trying to drag the male back to reality.

  No answer.

  Rikar yelled at the cop again.

  Nothing.

  Banking hard, Rikar rocketed around the Space Needle, hoping to intercept Mac on the other side. A no-go. Christ, the male was fast. And not even close to normal.

  Most fledglings flopped around like baby birds before they learned to use their wings and maneuver with any speed. But oh, no. Not Mac. The cop cornered like a pro. Had the weave and dodge down cold, maneuvering between low-lying buildings and high-rises with equal efficiency. Headed for where exactly?

  The fucking ocean. Rikar’s least favorite place in the world.

  Not that he blamed Mac. His reaction wasn’t uncommon and…joy, oh, joy. The carnival ride called crazy he and Bastian were on was Rikar’s fault. He should’ve known the flash-and-fly would happen once Mac got out into the open. Despite his inexperience, the male was a warrior. His aggressive nature and history with the military—not to mention his record with the SPD—proved it. So it stood to reason the male would react the same way he and the other Nightfury warriors had after the change.

  Rikar knew all his comrades’ war stories. Had listened to each one recall the experience at one time or another. Usually while sitting around the dining room table playing poker. Texas Hold ’Em, at Wick’s insistence.

  They’d all gone a little nuts after transiti
on. Bastian, he knew, had gotten up close and personal with a lightning strike once or…ah, make that seven times. A fire dragon, Wick had burrowed deep into the earth, cozying up to lava flow. And Venom? Shit, that male had spent an entire week in the ozone, breathing in poisonous fumes. His own transition hadn’t been much better. He’d flown into a glacier crevice, enveloping himself with nothing but ice and subzero temperatures, and hadn’t come out for three weeks.

  So, yeah. He understood the instinct driving Mac. As a water dragon, he wanted to be deep in the ocean, surrounded by nothing but SeaWorld.

  Which was a major frickin’ problem.

  Downtown Seattle was prime hunting ground. For Nightfury and Razorback alike. If he didn’t rein Mac in soon, the enemy would detect the energy Mac threw out like a beacon and—

  “Shit,” Bastian growled, banking hard around another skyscraper. “Heads up, man.”

  Ah, hell. That didn’t sound good. “Whatcha got?”

  “Incoming. Five strong.”

  A tail length behind Mac, Rikar mirrored his commander, rocketing around the other side of the building. As he came around the corner, he flew up and over the spikes on B’s back. “Talk to me.”

  “Razorbacks…three miles out and closing fast.”

  Translation? ETA a minute and a half. Not good on any level. Except…

  Maybe that wasn’t true. Maybe he’d just been given a gift. Maybe he could end it here and give Angela the justice she wanted and the closure she needed. All without allowing his female into the mix or putting her in danger. Rikar’s heart thumped a little harder. Please, God, let the asshole rogue XO be with the pack headed their way.

  Wings spread wide, almost directly over the cop now, Rikar growled, “Is Lothair with them?”

  “No.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Rikar, man…we’ll get him. Just not tonight.”

  “Take one alive.” The plan? Beat the snot out of the asshole. Question the rogue until he gave up the goods, the longs and lats of the Razorback lair. Angela wanted the other female captives rescued. And what his female asked for, she got. Shit, he’d do anything—gift wrap and lay them at her feet—just to see her smile. “Cull the weakest from the pack. I’ll ice him up. You bring him to ground.”

  “Fucking A,” B said, Nightfury speak for “oh, goody.”

  His gaze still locked on Mac, Rikar’s sonar pinged. Sensation curled around his horns. Close. The fuckers were so close. Another minute and the rogues would engage. “Lay it out, B.”

  Pulling his gift for reading a male’s strengths and weaknesses out of his bag of tricks, his best friend said, “Four breathe fire. The fifth…toxic fumes.”

  Well, all right. A poison breather. Nothing like mixing it up a bit.

  Within takedown distance now, Bastian flew in on the cop’s right wing tip. “What about our new boy?”

  “Let him go.” Taking another tight turn, Rikar slowed his roll, letting the distance between him and Mac lengthen. “We’ll pull him out of the water after we’re through.”

  The strategy was a good one. Even outnumbered almost three to one, Rikar didn’t want the cop anywhere near the battle. An untrained dragon was more hindrance than help. Combat required tactical coaching, and aerial maneuverability—the ability to fight with claws, fangs, and tail instead of hands, feet, and AK-47s—took time to develop. So, yeah, he needed Mac in the water and out of the line of fire ASAP.

  Almost there. Thirty seconds and Mac would be—

  The cop’s head snapped to the side. His shimmering aquamarine eyes narrowed and—

  Fuck. The male was more than AWOL. He’d crossed into clusterfuck country. Wings angled, Mac wheeled away from the waterfront, turning into the rogue’s flight path. Rikar raced to intercept him.

  Too late.

  Mac was already in the mix and on enemy radar. In fighting formation, the Razorbacks came in like vipers: fast, hard, without hesitation or mercy.

  Bastian growled.

  Rikar cursed.

  Mac hissed. And water-acid flew, shooting between the cop’s fangs. Right on target, the slime hit the lead Razorback dead-on, spraying into his eyes and over the top of his horns. The rogue screamed and, clawing at his face, fell out of the sky like a lodestone.

  Flying in fast, Rikar engaged a red dragon to protect Mac’s flank. Grabbing the male’s head, he snapped the rogue’s neck while B exhaled. His best friend’s electrostatic pulse flashed across the night sky. The lightning bolt hammered another rogue in the chest as, claws deployed, Mac attacked a yellow dragon.

  Fantastic.

  Trust the cop to snap out of his water fixation and fuck up a perfectly good plan. Christ, he was in neck-deep in Holy-Shitsville. ’Cause…yeah. Angela would find some 9 mms, load the Glock he’d given her, and use Rikar for target practice if he didn’t get Mac to Black Diamond in one piece.

  Stupid fledgling. Idiot male.

  Intercepting a Razorback on a collision course with Mac, Rikar sideswiped the enemy dragon with his claws. Blood arced in a violent splash, painting Rikar’s white scales red. Mac snarled, tucked his wings, and swung around, lashing out with his bladed tail. Rikar ducked to avoid the backlash. The rogue wasn’t as lucky. His eyes went wide a second before a thin line appeared at his throat and the male’s head left his body. As the enemy dragon ashed, the remains of the dead blew into Rikar’s face. And for a split second, he thought maybe…just maybe…the cop would make it out alive.

  Man, he hoped so because after the firefight he was going to beat the shit out of Mac for insubordination.

  Mac reeled as the rogue landed another uppercut. His head snapped back. The yellow dragon came at him again, ramming his skull into his rib cage. Pain ripped through him as his body torqued and his senses exploded. A second ball-busting sideswipe. More sharp claws digging into his scales. Another gut-wrenching head butt and he was spinning, lost in the cloud of agony and whirl of night sky. His vision dimmed, blurring at the edges as city lights streaked into long-tailed comets.

  Sucking wind, Mac lost sight of the enemy as blood washed over his fangs. The metallic taste burned, slid down the back of his throat and—

  Goddamn, he was fucked. In an endless freefall. Tumbling so fast he was in for the mother of all face-plants if he didn’t pull his head out of his ass. And his body out of the nosedive.

  He thrust his wings out, using the webbing like a parachute. Air caught and held. Rushing into an updraft, he flipped in midair and made a tight turn. Thank God. He was airborne again, able to maneuver, gain speed, avoid the enemy.

  Bleeding like a sieve from innumerable places, he searched the sky and—

  Motherfuck. The yellow-scaled pissant was persistent. And as the Razorback came at him again, Mac dodged, avoiding another body shot as he flew around the curve of a water tower. Another rogue met him on the other side. Brown with a horn in the center of his forehead, the rogue swiped at him. Mac twisted, trying to compensate, his newfound dragon instincts screaming in warning.

  Too late.

  The Razorbacks were smart, working in tandem, tag-teaming him—one herding him from behind, one coming at him head-on—using his inexperience and their skill to hem him in.

  Dark eyes aglow, the brown dragon exhaled. A thick, green cloud shot from his mouth. Noxious fumes rolled out in front of him. The cityscape faded behind the toxic fog. The yellow Razorback banked hard, dodging behind Mac, splitting wide right, and…

  Bam.

  The toxin hit Mac full in the face. He gagged. His throat closed as his lungs seized. Pain squeezed around his rib cage, made his eyes water and…oh, man. The stuff smelled nasty and tasted worse, a bad mix of dead fish, Pepto-Bismol, and paint thinner.

  Racked by a fit of coughing, Mac wing-flapped, desperate to gain altitude. The rogue inhaled again. Mac flew harder, chest heaving, struggling to get out of the way. Goddamn. This wasn’t good. He had a bull’s-eye on his forehead, and he’d lost momentum. He might as well pin a frickin’ si
gn to his chest. One that said, “Hit me here. Kill me dead.”

  A second before the rogue hammered him again, movement flashed in his periphery. A white streak, more blur than actual substance, rocketed passed him. Frost rolled in its wake, blanketing the air, icing up building facades, killing the poisonous gas. The brown-scaled rogue shrieked, trying to change course.

  But Rikar was faster. With a nifty flip, his XO grabbed hold and torqued the rogue into a full-body twist. The tilt-a-whirl took both males up and over before Rikar let go, hurling the asshole like a shot-putter and—

  Clang!

  The sound warped the air as the enemy dragon collided with the water tower skull-first. The rogue’s neck whiplashed, but the hard-headed asshole didn’t fall. He bounced, rebounding off the steel. Shaking off the should’ve-been concussion, the male growled and came back for more.

  “Mac! Go!” Rikar shouted. “Get out of here!”

  Mac snarled. No way. Not in this lifetime.

  He refused to leave Rikar. So he was inexperienced. Didn’t know what he was doing. Could hardly tell his claws from his tail. Big deal. There were too many Razorbacks. B and Rikar needed him. So fuck it. Whether his XO liked it or not, Mac was sticking around. If nothing else, he was an excellent distraction. With Jackass and Fuck-Face chasing him around, the bastards wouldn’t be able to blindside his friends.

  Stupid, crazy-ass idea? Maybe. A serious case of ego? Absolutely.

  But no retreat meant no retreat. And Mac had something to prove. Even without dragon combat training, he belonged here. Among the Nightfuries in the heat of battle. He felt it keenly, knew it deep down where truth lived and honor made a home.

  “Rikar,” he said, firing up mind-speak. “Split wide right.”

  Rikar growled a warning.

  Mac didn’t care. All he wanted was—