Fury of Ice (Dragonfury Series #2) Page 5

But not today.

  He understood the Nightfury’s pain: could see the devastation, felt it as keenly as he did his own. That kind of anguish ate at a male and didn’t go away. Ever.

  Which was the reason he’d opened his flippin’ mouth.

  Big mistake. Frosty wouldn’t give him any brownie points for honesty. Neither would Bastian. Hope, though—nasty beast that it was—sprang eternal. It whispered in his ear, made him believe volunteering a little information would create goodwill. Get him what he needed while setting the Nightfuries back a step.

  Wishful thinking? Probably.

  But what other choice did he have? The bastards had his newborn son.

  So, what did that make him? A first class fool? A real dumb-dumb imprisoned in, well…shite. He didn’t know where they’d brought him. After getting zapped with electricity in the shipyard, he’d been unconscious most of the flight. And joy of joys, he’d woken up here, surrounded by a formidable energy field, strapped into a fancy new necklace. The steel collar was brilliant. Diabolical in a way Forge could appreciate…if it weren’t around his own neck.

  But then, he hadn’t expected any less.

  The Nightfuries were a smart bunch, skilled with an extra dash of cunning. Proof positive? The three males staring at him from across the cell with varying degrees of pissed off. Rikar was the most dangerous, though. Too angry to care how much damage he inflicted, the male would tear him apart to obtain the information he wanted.

  Forge didn’t blame him. It was a sound strategy, and had his female been—

  Bloody hell. Caroline.

  As her name whispered through his mind for the thousandth time, Forge curled his hands into fists, looking for an internal escape hatch. None appeared. The door to his grief was sealed tight. He couldn’t get out. Couldn’t get away or forget. The female he’d promised to protect was dead. And it was his fault. His need for acceptance—the naive belief he deserved a new start—had killed her.

  The truth sank deep and the hurt expanded, becoming a physical pain in the center of his chest. Breathing around it, he lifted his head and met Rikar’s gaze. “If I could spare your female the pain, I would. I dinnae hurt females, warrior. And I’ve never been a Razorback.”

  “Bullshit.” His front teeth bared on a snarl, Rikar stepped toward him. “You live with them. Break bread with them. Believe what they believe.”

  “I wulnae lie,” Forge said, telling the truth even though it killed him to admit it. He’d flirted with the rogues, trying to decide whether he belonged in their midst…yearning for a place to call home. In the end, he’d turned away, unable to stomach the Razorbacks’ endgame. “I’ve gone a round or two with Ivar, but—”

  “Where is he?” The Nightfury commander’s quiet tone raised the fine hairs on Forge’s nape. Green eyes shimmering in the low light, Bastian stepped forward, putting himself front and center. Bloody hell. Wasn’t that something to respect? A male with brass balls and the skills to back them up. “I want to know everything…the fucker’s plan…all the details along with a map to their—”

  “And I want my bairn.” The demand came out low, harsh, the vocal equivalent of opening a can of whup-ass. The truth, though, was far more dangerous. He was riding a fine line. If he walked too much one way, Bastian would blow the collar, and he’d never get to hold his son. “You want tae know more? Bring him tae me…along with your female, Nightfury. I have questions only Myst can answer.”

  Bastian’s eyes went from glimmer to glow in a heartbeat.

  “No…fucking…way,” Rikar said, answering for his commander, the words far more lethal for their softness.

  “You want answers, Frosty? Give me what I want, and we’ll all get what we need. You…your female. Bastian…the information he needs tae protect his mate. And me? My bairn.” Walking the line, Forge twisted the noose, using every bit of leverage he held. “Not too much tae ask, is it now, Bastian?”

  “B?” The biggest male shifted. Ruby-red eyes trained on him, Venom circled in behind his comrades, protecting them while being shielded in return. “How about you let me rearrange his face?”

  Silence rose in the wake of the male’s offer, and Forge got ready. As he waited, time slowed. He counted off the seconds, each one cranking him tighter.

  “Rikar’s got first dibs, Ven.”

  “Outstanding,” Rikar growled, shitkickers already in motion.

  Forge dropped into a fighting stance.

  Bastian stepped in between them and pressed his palm to Rikar’s chest. As he held his warrior in check, the glow in his eyes faded, and all of a sudden he was looking far too thoughtful and not nearly pissed off enough. Forge saw the wheels turning. Shite. The bastard was a quick study, far too savvy to be fooled by sleight of hand.

  “What’s your game, Forge? The takedown in the shipyard…your imprisonment? Way too easy.” Giving his warrior’s shoulder a squeeze, Bastian put his feet in gear, coming within striking distance, daring him to lash out. “You want to know what I think?”

  “Dazzle me,” he said, feigning a nonchalance he didn’t feel, wanting to hit the Nightfury so badly his knuckles ached.

  “You wanted inside our lair.” One corner of Bastian’s mouth curved up. “All that pain…the loss of your freedom. For what? An infant? One who is being well cared for…one my mate loves and has accepted as her own?”

  Forge’s heart clenched. Loves and has accepted. Fuck him, but that was the best news he’d ever heard. Myst Munroe loved his son, which meant she’d protect him from all comers. Nightfury warriors included.

  Relief hit him like a sledgehammer, sent him sideways so fast he hung his head. Bad move. Forge knew it the instant his chin touched his chest. The position left him vulnerable, unable to see his enemy, never mind defend himself. But…God. He couldn’t help it, and as he struggled to hold back the tears, he murmured in Dragonese, grateful for the gift of a mother for his wee son.

  “Good to know, isn’t it, warrior?”

  Jesus Christ. Again with the soft tone. The melodic son of a bitch didn’t know when to quit.

  “Aye, it is.” Raising his head, Forge got back with the program, plugging the Nightfuries with a don’t-screw-with-me glare. “Doesn’t mean I’ll tell you anything, though, does it? Not until I see him…hold him in my arms and make sure for myself. So get your—”

  Steel clanged against steel. As sound exploded, reverberating against concrete, a male yelled, “Rikar!”

  Heads swiveled, including Forge’s, as a dark-skinned male skidded to a halt in front of the magical barrier guarding his cell. Doubling over, he planted his hands on his knees, breath sawing in and out of his chest. “Jesus, you guys…I couldn’t reach you through mind-speak down here. Not with the energy field in place and…shit, but we got problems.”

  The Nightfury commander cursed and headed for his warrior. “When don’t we, Sloan?”

  “Always…but not this kind.” Pushing himself upright, Sloan glanced at him for a split second, then refocused on his commander. “You know the male cop?”

  “Angela’s partner?”

  The new addition to the party nodded. “The hospital did a bunch of blood tests. The results just came in. He’s gone active.”

  His brow furrowed, Rikar stared at his comrade. “What the—he’s one of us?”

  “Yeah…and changing fast,” Sloan said. “If he gets anywhere near a female—”

  Venom growled. “How much time before sunup?”

  Sloan checked his watch. “Forty-nine minutes.”

  “Twenty minutes to reach him. At least that to find safe shelter for the day.” Bastian glanced at his XO. “Doable?”

  “It’ll be close.” Rikar tipped his chin, pale eyes glowing, room temperature dropping as he ran for the exit. “But I’m on it.”

  Forge didn’t doubt it. Frosty had fast and deadly written all over him. Add that to the heft of male muscle hauling ass out of his cell? Shite. The Nightfuries knew what they were about. Good thing, too.
No one—himself included—wanted a fledgling Dragonkind male wandering around the streets of Seattle.

  Chapter Six

  Warm steel brushed the sides of her shoulders as the walls pressed in, narrowing as the ventilation duct headed up another incline. The cramped quarters made Angela’s breath come fast and the air feel thin. She couldn’t get enough oxygen. Her imagination? The truth? She wasn’t sure. All she knew was a raging case of hyperventilating hovered seconds away.

  Her lungs contracted, pushing her toward panic. Belly down, Angela hit the pause button on her forward shuffle. Closing her eyes, she forced her rib cage to expand and plastered a sign on her frontal lobe. One that said…

  No freaking out allowed.

  Later. She kept telling herself that, using the word as a catalyst…as a reward for pushing forward. ’Cause, yeah. Once she made it out of here, was safely home with a gun in her hand and the deadbolts flipped, she’d let herself go, indulge in a full-blown breakdown. But not right now.

  Later.

  It was hard to keep going, though. To hold it together, ignore the scrapes and bruises, the nausea and fatigue. Ravished by the drug, her blood was delivering the medicine with each pump, pushing it deeper into her muscles until it tingled along her spine. Rat-bastard Razorbacks. Whatever they’d pumped her full of was doing its job and, as exhaustion crept closer, the pain got worse, making her want to slow down, rest for just a moment. No harm, no foul. Right?

  Wrong. The second she gave in—laid her cheek down on the warm metal—she was dead with a capital D. No passing go. No collecting two hundred dollars. No way out.

  And wasn’t that a lovely thought? Uh-huh, a real barrel full of laughs.

  But no matter how much she hurt, she needed to keep moving. Anger became her ally in the dark, handing her a lifeline, helping her embrace the idea of payback. Vengeance. Her get-even gene cranked over, giving her strength where her body had none.

  Different scenarios rose in her mind as she dragged herself another few feet. Coming back with a grenade launcher. Blowing the underground bunker to kingdom come. Or maybe she could use C4, make sure the boom-boom factor hit record levels. Hmm, definitely C4. Mac was good with the stuff. He’d make sure the fireworks went off better than the Fourth of July.

  Yup. No doubt about it.

  She’d stepped up her game, moved past dating, and was now married to the idea of premeditated murder. She’d never understood it before, the kind of rage that brought a man to the brink. What sent him over the edge into unrelenting violence. Well, she knew now. Twelve hours ago she would’ve toed the company line and said “vigilante justice” should never be condoned. Now?

  Everything had changed. And not for the better.

  She was army-crawling through an endless shit hole, for God’s sake, a hot, dark place full of creepy-crawlies and cobwebs. Angela wiped another one from her face, hoping the spider that built it wasn’t stuck in her hair. Pausing, she did a quick tousle-and-swipe through her pixie cut. The last thing she needed was a pissed-off spider without a home.

  What she wouldn’t give for a pair of infrared goggles. Or a flashlight. Hell, a candle. She didn’t care what kind of light source came her way just as long as she saw what was coming. Eight-legged freaks included.

  Stupid. Her. Them. The situation. All of it was beyond sick.

  “Stinking Razorbacks,” she murmured, holding onto her voice to keep the panic at bay.

  Feeling her way through the dark, Angela elbow-walked up the ventilation duct’s incline. Sweat made her skin slick, and she cursed as she slid, losing ground on the metal. Gritting her teeth, she slapped her palms against the vent’s side walls. Her nails raked against steel, screeching as she dung in. The eerie sound echoed, raising the fine hair on her nape, but she didn’t stop. No way could she give up. If she tumbled back down, she wouldn’t have the strength to make it out alive.

  Bending her knees, she planted her feet, bracing one against the side wall and the other against the floor of the shaft. Her toes cramped, protesting the pressure. Angela ignored the pain and, with a crablike shuffle, crawled inch by excruciating inch to the top. At its mouth, she felt around, getting her bearings. The shaft ninety-degreed into a T. She grabbed for the corner, felt sharp metal cut into her palm and blood flow, and still she pulled, heaving herself into a wider ventilation corridor.

  Jackpot. She’d found the main duct. Decision time. Which way should she go…left or right?

  Crouched with her knees pressed to her chest, Angela looked both ways. The darkness was absolute. She couldn’t see a—

  Holy hell. What was that? It was lighter at one end of the tunnel. Not by much, but enough for her to see the blackness morph into fuzzy gray. Angela stared at it a second, disbelief warring with hope. Yeah, definitely. Light was coming from somewhere down there.

  Uncurling her limbs, she slid onto her belly. Pinpoint focus and the push-pull combo of her hands and feet propelled her forward. Reaching the right spot, she glanced up.

  A vertical shaft.

  With a twist, she played the contortionist. Her muscles squawked, protesting the pull. Angela ignored the sting and, exhaling a shaky breath, looked up the duct, searching for the…

  Bingo.

  There it was. Proof positive. The darkness faded near the top, becoming lighter by the second. Her heart skipped a beat, then settled into a slamming rhythm, hammering her breastbone. Was this it? Had she found her way out? Would it bring her to ground level and freedom? Avoiding sharp metal corners, Angela examined the trajectory again. Looked good. Seemed solid. So…

  Only one thing left to do.

  Her hands flat against the side walls, Angela stood, pushing her body through the mouth of the vertical vent shaft. She took a moment, sent a quick prayer heavenward, asking for strength and luck, then started to climb.

  Pulling his wings in fast, Rikar set down hard. His talons slid, gouging parallel tracks in the asphalt inside the shipyard. Ignoring friction burns on the pads of his paws, he scanned the area. Not a soul in sight. Perfect. He didn’t need any witnesses, human or otherwise. Not if he wanted to get MacCord out in one piece.

  Cloaked by magic, invisible to the naked eye, he swept the scene again, waiting for his comrades to land. Industrial. Quiet. Nothing but steel-clad warehouses and chain-link fencing. The shipyard’s security screamed “stay out,” the setup complete with bright lights, barbed wire, and bad attitude. Well, all right. A whole lot of pissed off he could handle. The sound of ocean waves crashing into the breakwater, sending spray twenty feet in the air as docks bobbed and wood creaked? Rikar rolled his shoulders to loosen the tension. Yeah, not his favorite thing.

  Christ, he hoped Sloan’s intel was good. The last thing they needed was a wild goose chase. Not with dawn twenty minutes away. But…shit. A boat? The male lived on a fucking boat? Rikar grimaced. What kind of dragon did that?

  The soft snick of claws sounded behind him.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Rikar nodded as Bastian tucked his midnight-blue wings and shifted, moving from dragon to human form. As the leather trench coat settled across B’s back, covering him from shoulder to knee, he stomped his foot into one of his shitkickers. The thud-thud echoed, bouncing off boats, skimming the choppy surface of the water as Venom landed on the closest warehouse.

  Perched like the angel of death, the big male leaned over the steel edge. Ruby eyes flashing, horned head swiveling left to right, his green scales glinted as he mind-spoke, “Go to it, boys. I’m the lookout.”

  “There aren’t any Razorbacks in the area, Ven.”

  “A pity.” Folding his wings against his sides, Venom kept his eyes on the sky. “Would’ve been fun to kick some more tail tonight.”

  Rikar snorted.

  B shook his head, then glanced at him. “So, what are we looking at here?”

  “My guess?” Following his commander’s lead, Rikar transformed and conjured his clothes. “A water dragon.”

  “Thought they we
re a myth.”

  “I’ve never met one either, but it makes sense, B.” Giving the area another visual sweep, his eyes narrowed on the fourth finger dock. The Chris-Craft didn’t fit…was out of place in a shipyard full of tugboats. “If what Sloan dug up is right, the male likes water…was with the SEAL teams for seven years.”

  “Sloan’s never wrong,” B said, an unhappy look on his puss. “And there isn’t a dragon alive…prechange or not…that likes water.”

  No kidding. Just standing next to the ocean gave Rikar the creeps.

  Which, naturally, pissed him off.

  Fear wasn’t in his bag of tricks. He rarely felt it, but right now…knowing he was not only headed toward it, but about to climb on board a freaking motor yacht? Rikar grimaced. The memory was so not going in his photo album under the “happiest moment” of his life.

  Rikar put his feet in gear anyway and jogged toward the Chris-Craft. Had he been into boats, he would’ve said she was beautiful, all curved lines and sleek body. But he wasn’t, so he scowled at the bitch instead, silently cursing the male who’d brought him to the shipyard.

  The urge to turn around and walk away thrummed through him. The problem? He couldn’t leave the male vulnerable, prey to something he didn’t understand. Supposition? Maybe, but Rikar didn’t think so. MacCord had been raised outside the safety of a pack, without any knowledge of his Dragonkind sire. But had his father known about him, the male would never have left his son alone in the human world.

  It simply wasn’t done. Ever.

  Add that to the fact Angela cared about him, and yeah, Rikar was on the hook. No way could he leave MacCord to suffer and expect his female to trust him.

  Ammunition. He needed ammunition—proof of his worth—when he got Angela back. Something to hold up and say, “See? Look at what an upstanding male I am.” If he walked away from the male cop now, she’d shoot him down without giving him a chance. Not something he wanted to think about, never mind experience firsthand.

  Reaching dock number four, he ignored the ocean sway and leapt over the gangplank. His feet landed with a thud on the dock. An instant later he slid to a stop alongside the Chris-Craft. “MacCord!”