Fury of Ice (Dragonfury Series #2) Read online

“Excuse me?” A whisper—ultra fine, barely there at all—ghosted through her mind. A warning, maybe? She couldn’t tell.

  “Oh, sorry, miss. Didn’t mean to alarm you,” the man said, no doubt reacting to her frosty tone. “It’s Nick…Mr. Cannon’s assistant?”

  Oh, right. The superintendent’s assistant. Tania relaxed. Mr. Cannon was a gem. A potbellied, tacky-mustache-wearing, all-around good guy. Although the fact he had an assistant surprised her. Then again, her building was older. A real charmer with its 1920s throwback vibe, but one that needed the kind of upkeep that ran the super ragged most of the time. So, good for Mr. Cannon for getting help.

  “What can I do for you, Nick?”

  “The tenant two floors below you just reported a leak,” Nick said. “We need to check your apartment to see where the water is coming from. We’ve turned off the water, and the plumber is on his way. Can you let him in when he gets there?”

  Ah, crap. She didn’t want to wait around for some repair guy. “Yeah, sure. When will he be here?”

  “Shortly.”

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll be here.”

  Hanging up, Tania grabbed the latest Cosmo off her bedside table and plopped belly down on the silk coverlet. Looked like she had some time to kill.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Lying belly down in the damp dirt, Angela adjusted her grip on the M25. The butt of the rifle nestled against her shoulder fit just right as she sighted her target through the scope. The smell of fall swirled on a rising breeze, tousling the tops of huge oaks above her head, sending colorful leaves pirouetting toward the ground. It was a slow dance. Colorful. Grace-filled. A yearly event in which the trees got a haircut and lost their abundant foliage.

  She measured the distance to her target. Checking her windage, she zeroed in on the yellow flag that waved from a steel pole planted at the edge of Black Diamond’s compound.

  Nope. Not good enough. Time for a readjust.

  Without lifting her head—or losing sight of the pumpkin sitting on the stone wall—Angela uncurled her finger from the trigger and fine-tuned her long-range optic scope with a click. Seven hundred and fifty feet sat between her and the target. Two and a half football fields. Big, big distance without any room for error. She needed to be bang-on accurate. The slightest miscalculation and the bullet wouldn’t reach its intended target.

  Another click and…

  Jackpot. Oh, so much better.

  Resighting her mark, she listened to the treetops rustle as a north wind blustered, bringing a glorious chill with it. She loved it when fall turned cold, dipping closer to winter, moving into the beginning of her favorite season. The days got shorter. The nights grew longer. Soon, she’d enjoy the nip of frosty air while skating outside.

  There wasn’t much better.

  Although some things topped a triple salchow jump. And one came to mind right away. Rikar. A close second to her man was the rifle in her hands. She tested its weight, loving the M25’s smooth contours and elegant lines.

  God, what a gift.

  She appreciated it even more than the 9 mm armor-piercing ammo, and considering how much she loved the Glock strapped to her thigh, that was saying something. So yeah, as much as she enjoyed skating, the activity came in a distant fourth on her best of list, ’cause…duh. Gourmet coffee always landed in the top three. No matter what.

  Addicted to Rikar. Addicted to guns. Addicted to caffeine.

  In that order.

  Her mouth tipped up at the corners. She was really going for addict of the year here. Not that she cared. Rikar made her happy. She laughed with him. Loved with him. Missed him when he was away from her. Wanted to be with him the second he came home, and despite the unfamiliar tether of dependence, felt more like herself than she had in years.

  Gag…just shoot her now, please.

  With a snort, Angela shook her head even as she accepted the inevitable. She was good and caught. Too far down the rabbit hole to ever get out.

  Not that she wanted to. No way. She was locked and loaded, sights set on him. So screw the hardcore independence. Rikar was worth the adjustment. Her job. The few friends she possessed and the life she knew. She was all in, 100 percent AWOL…out of the human world and now a part of his.

  Not that it was perfect. Oh, no, nothing quite so humdrum.

  Perfection had its perks, she supposed, but she didn’t want it. Not with Rikar. She wanted what they’d had this afternoon. A wicked good argument that ended in a spectacular round of lovemaking. Angela hummed, remembering his touch, reliving his taste, wanting another romp with him oh, say…five minutes ago.

  Giving her head a shake, she gave herself a mental jolt. Freaking guy. He’d turned her into a nymphomaniac. Not a bad thing if only he were around to take care of the problem.

  “Concentrate, you idiot,” she said, hoping the sound of her voice would KO her sex fixation. No such luck. Rikar stayed with her, but at least she managed to see straight enough to sight the target. “One more bull’s-eye, then it’s homeward bound.”

  Or rather, kitchen bound.

  Daimler was cooking up a storm, trying to keep Mac’s stomach full. Angela grinned against the M25’s stock. She’d never seen her partner eat that much. Then again, he’d been through a huge change, so she guessed they were in for a new normal. Fine by her. She didn’t mind. Although the whole sun allergy Dragonkind had going on bothered her. Especially since she was outside shooting alone.

  She didn’t like it. Not because it frightened her. She was okay flying solo for a few hours and safe inside Black Diamond’s energy shield. Angela just missed his company…and her spotter. Mac always came with her to the gun range. Always coached her through each shot, gauging the windage, the distance to target, giving her pointers on grip and trigger-finger speed.

  Thank God tonight would be different.

  She wouldn’t be laid out on the ridge waiting for Lothair to show all by herself. Mac and Forge would be with her every step of the way while Rikar and the other Nightfuries drew the rat-bastard into the trap. They’d been over the plan a million times. Or at least it seemed like it. Every time Rikar got anywhere near her, he drilled her, making her repeat each detail until her head ached and she wanted to hit him.

  Or shag him again.

  Both strategies worked really, really well. But the second option was her favorite and usually the go-to plan. He never said no to making love to her. Which always made him forget about the plan and shut his yap.

  Hallelujah. She needed the peace and quiet from time to time.

  Which was the reason she’d come out to the shooting range and was currently KOing members of the squash family. Setting the scope’s crosshairs on the fruit, Angela drew in a steady breath, exhaled slow, and squeezed the trigger. One potato. Two pota—

  Splat!

  Bingo. Mission accomplished. Pumpkin annihilated.

  Angela pushed the bolt up, then forward, and emptied the rifle’s chamber. The casing ejected, the chick-chick sounding brutal amid nature’s charm, the creak of tree branches, and the soft twitter of birdcalls above her head.

  Policing her brass, she picked up the 308 shell casing and, rolling to her feet, slipped it into her side pocket of her army pants. Angela’s lips twitched. The BDUs (aka battle dress uniform) were another gift. One Rikar insisted she wear when she stepped outside the lair. She didn’t need to be camouflaged while on Black Diamond grounds. No way the Razorbacks could find her here, but…

  Whatever.

  If wearing the camo gear made Rikar feel better, she’d do it without hesitation or complaint. She understood the concern—his need to shelter and protect her—because she worried just as much about him. Maybe more.

  She wasn’t the one going out night after night to fight the rogue idiots mucking up the planet. Rikar was, and although Angela knew he was more than capable of taking care of himself, she worried anyway. Had paced around the lair, drunk way too much coffee, praying he returned home safely a
t dawn for the past week.

  And that wouldn’t change any time soon. At least not if she stayed at Black Diamond. But who knew, right? Circumstances changed. Relationships tanked all the time. Particularly when things went unsaid between couples.

  Cradling the gun, Angela headed for the lair, trying not to worry about that too. She didn’t want to doubt Rikar, but uncertainty was circling. Not on her end. She wanted him, but other than saying he wouldn’t let her go—and making love to her every chance he got—he’d gone silent on the commitment front. Hadn’t told her he loved her. Hadn’t asked her to marry him. Hadn’t mentioned the future at all. Well, except to plan how to take down the rat-bastard, and well…crap. That just wasn’t good enough.

  She needed him to love her as much as she did him. Craved the words. Needed the ceremony. The whole kit and caboodle.

  Calling herself an idiot, Angela trotted up a set of flagstone steps. As her boots met the patio, a gust of wind came up, rattling the windowpanes of the French doors. The dining room lay on the other side of the glass—her office for the last week. She’d started out in the computer lab, but Sloan liked his privacy, and Angela understood. The high-tech com-center was the guy’s baby, and even though he tried to hide it Sloan didn’t want anyone else in there.

  So she’d packed up the boxes—all the missing persons reports—and moved upstairs. Which, of course, delighted Mac. It put him a hop, skip, and a jump away from the kitchen and his new best friend…Daimler, the culinary wizard.

  With a snort, she closed the distance to the house. A soft click. A hard yank. The door swung wide and she stepped inside, out from beneath the setting sun. Night wasn’t far off. An hour, maybe two, and the Nightfuries would be itching to set the trap and line up a bunch of Razorbacks to kill.

  Angela couldn’t wait. She needed to feel powerful again. To sight down the barrel of her M25 and put a hole in the rat-bastard’s forehead.

  Her gaze on the neat stacks of folders piled on the glossy tabletop, she kicked the door closed behind her and approached the table. Two new files sat in the center of her work space, yellow Post-it notes with Sloan’s messy scrawl front and center on the cover of each one. Crap. More missing women. Angela swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat.

  There were so many. Young girls. Teenagers. But it was the ones in their late teens to midtwenties she concentrated on.

  According to Rikar, a female didn’t come into her energy until then, so no use wasting time on those the Razorbacks wouldn’t go after. Or try to enslave. Angela grimaced. Nasty rogue bastards. They’d imprisoned two she knew about and tried to do the same to her. How many more had they kidnapped in the last week and a half?

  Lifting the M25, she set the rifle down on the end of the tabletop—gently…Daimler would kick her ass if she scratched the glossy surface—and reached for the twin folders. Just as her hand closed around them, movement flashed in her periphery.

  She glanced toward the archway into the kitchen. Daimler came roaring into the dining room, a plate piled high with cookies, eyes sparkling, a big grin on his face. Mac was right on his heels, trying to reach over the Numbai’s shoulder. The butler dodged the attempt, holding the plate out of reach.

  “Hey, man…come on,” her partner said, the whine in his voice unmistakable. “Gimme some of those.”

  “These are for my lady,” Daimler said, thwarting another of Mac’s sneak attack attempts. Angela bit down on a smile as she watched the pair, trying to wrap her brain around the my lady. Jeez, talk about prim and proper. The Numbai needed to move into the twenty-first century. “You may have some after she has taken her fill.”

  Mac looked at her over the butler’s head, and she got hit with big puppy-dog eyes, the please-please-please unmistakable. She huffed, amusement spreading like a disease. Torture by way of cookie. How fun.

  “Thanks, Daimler,” she said, denying him her treat.

  Mac grumbled, giving her a dirty look.

  She grinned at her partner. “You help me with the MP reports, and I’ll give you some of my cookies.”

  “Extortionist.”

  “You know it.”

  “My lady!” Daimler’s high squeak brought her head around. Oh, crap. He’d noticed the M25. Pursing his lips, he gave her a stern look. “No guns on the dining room table.”

  “Sorry.” Ditching the folders on the table, Angela scrambled for her rifle. She heard Mac chuckle as she scooped it off the tabletop. She glared at her partner, then turned apologetic eyes on Daimler. “Won’t happen again.”

  His brows raised, the Numbai gave her a pointed look.

  She crossed her heart. “Promise.”

  The butler stared a second longer, then nodded, and set the plate down next to her stack of reports. His eyes back to twinkling, he tipped his head in Mac’s direction. “Don’t let him eat them all, my lady. They’re your favorite, after all.”

  Yes, they were. Peanut butter chocolate chip, heavy on the chocolate. And oh, boy, did they smell good—like Saturday afternoons and snacks at the skating rink.

  With a murmured “okay,” Angela set her gun in the black case beside the door and returned to the table. She grabbed a cookie, dug in, and…oh, wow. That was unbelievable. So good she hummed and took another bite. The second mouthful was even better than the first. She moaned in delight, playing it up for Mac.

  He growled.

  Her lips twitched, and mouth full, asked, “Anything new?”

  “Other than the torture factor in here?” Almost drooling, he watched her chew. “Nothing’s come up yet.”

  Angela waved her hand at the plate. Mac jumped at the invitation, swiping three PB and chocolates off the plate. As he shoved them into his piehole, her attention strayed back to the folders Sloan had brought her. Brushing the crumbs off her fingers, she flipped the first one open and scanned the contents. Name. Personal info—height, weight, eye and hair color. Address. Phone number and—

  Angela frowned. Wait a second. Back up a step. She recognized that address. She’d seen it in another file.

  “Hey, Mac?”

  “Whatcha got?”

  She shook her head and reached for the stack filed under possibles. “Don’t know…I’m just…”

  Bingo. The one she was looking for. Tagged with a red sticker, the folder contained two MP reports. Roommates at Seattle U, the pair of twenty-year-olds had gone missing the same night. She flipped the report open and—

  “Holy shit.” Her gaze bounced back and forth, confirming what she already knew.

  “Tell me.”

  “These two girls went missing sixteen days ago.” Holding up the two-week-old report, she bounced it in her hand. The newer file grasped in the other, she said, “This one? Two days ago. All three are roommates…they lived together. And they fit the profile…same victimology.”

  “Jesus. It isn’t random.”

  “Not even a little.” Open on the folds, she set the two folders aside and cracked the other one Sloan had brought. “Bingo. Proof positive.”

  Mac glanced over her shoulder. “Motherfuck…twins.”

  “The rat-bastard’s cherry-picking,” she said. “Hunting females that are related or are good friends.”

  “Not a coincidence.”

  “Nope. Are high-energy females attracted to one another?”

  Mac raised a brow, his expression full of speculated interest. The kind that had nothing to do with being a cop and everything to do with being a guy.

  She whacked him with the folder. “Not that kind of attracted, you big dope.”

  “A guy can dream.”

  “Oh, shut up,” she said. “I need to talk to Rikar. See what he knows about this.”

  Mac might have murmured, but Angela didn’t hear him. Folders tucked under one arm, she was already moving, her focus absolute. Rikar. She needed to see him. If what she suspected was true—that the Meridian drew high-energy females together—the investigation into the missing women had just gone from shaky to roc
k-solid. With that information, Angela knew she could track them. Make connections. Find other women that might be targeted by the Razorbacks and thrown into their awful breeding center.

  Wicked good intel. The kind that cracked a case wide open.

  Although, to be honest, the break in the investigation wasn’t the only reason she pointed her boots toward the underground lair. Angela wanted to share more with Rikar than just information. Tonight was a muck-hole in the making. A potential mess that had death written all over it, and Angela refused to waste a second. She needed to make love to him again before night fell. Before the Nightfuries weaponed up and headed out to set the trap. It might be her last chance to hold him.

  Angela picked up the pace. The work of minutes, and she stepped inside the Otis. She suppressed a full-body shiver. Elevators weren’t her favorite things anymore, not after taking a trip in one at the Razorback lair.

  She hit the down button anyway. The doors closed, and she was on her way, headed into the depths of Black Diamond. Huge with a network of interconnected tunnels beneath the main house, the underground lair was pretty darned cool, fascinating in every way but one. The sucker was difficult to navigate. Especially when you didn’t know the layout. Not a problem for her, though. With her Rikar radar up and running, she knew exactly where to find him.

  The gym.

  Impatient to reach him, she shuffled her feet, scuffing the elevator floor with her boots, waiting for the stupid thing to open. Thirty seconds later, and instant freedom as doors slid to the side, dumping her onto the corridor. To the right lay the clinic. To the left? Her man. She could hear him now, his voice bouncing down the hallway as he yakked it up with another guy.

  She jogged the last few feet, making a beeline for the gym. She crossed the threshold, getting an eyeful of high-tech cardio equipment, weight machines, and—

  Holy crap.

  Dragons.

  Three of them. Horned heads nearly touching the high ceiling.

  Angela stopped short, felt her eyes go wide as she got a load of the kick-ass trifecta. Rikar, she recognized. Almost pure white with gold-and-blue-tipped scales, his razor-sharp talons were curled around a vertical post in the shape of a cross. With a steady stroke, he drew one claw across the horizontal part of the contraption—a sharpening blade maybe? A horrendous sound echoed, like nails on a chalkboard.