Fury of Ice (Dragonfury Series #2) Read online

  His voice carried across the water, ricocheting off boat hulls. Nothing came back. No answer from the male, just the groan of ropes and the soft creak of wood.

  “I’ll look inside.” Grabbing the handrail, Bastian vaulted through the unzipped canvas and onto the boat. “You search the tail end.”

  “Asshole,” he said, growling at his friend as he drew the short end of the stick.

  He didn’t want to go anywhere near the stern. There was no doubt a swim platform back there. One he’d have to step on, get closer to the water in order to—

  Rikar sucked in a quick breath. Fucking hell. What did MacCord think he was doing?

  More in the water than out, the male clung to his boat: eyes closed, hands gripping teak trim, cheek flat against the swim platform. Terrific. The situation was beyond FUBARed. Trust a water dragon to actually immerse himself in water.

  Gritting his teeth, Rikar made the leap. He landed on the platform, boot treads slipping on wet wood, a “fuck me” locked in his throat. Off balance, he grabbed for the metal ladder bolted to the boat’s stern. His fingertips caught and held, saving him before he took a nosedive into the ocean.

  Good thing too. Otherwise, there would’ve been a skating rink around the Chris-Craft, not choppy, blue water.

  A death grip on the ladder, he hit his haunches and cupped the back of MacCord’s head. The male flinched, groaning as Rikar connected with his life force. Energy glazed his palm, telling him how much time they had. Christ, the cop was close to the change. So close, they needed to move him now. And get him a female fast.

  “B!”

  Like an apparition, Bastian appeared at the railing. “You got him?”

  “Yeah, and we gotta go.”

  MacCord stirred. The male raised his head, nailing him with shimmering aquamarine eyes. “Fuck…off.”

  Despite the urgency, Rikar’s lips twitched. He couldn’t help it. Freaking MacCord…giving him attitude while weak as a newborn. “Give over, big guy. We’re here to help.”

  The cop shook his head, trying to dislodge his hand.

  Rikar ignored him and, releasing the ladder, grabbed him under both arms. With a snarl, the cop reared, fighting the grab-and-pull. Water flew, splashing all over the place, throwing the smell of salt in the air, making Rikar want to kill something. MacCord was his first choice. He thought of Angela instead, reminding himself how important the male was to her.

  Bastian leapt from the boat onto the pier. Waiting for the handoff, he crouched at the dock edge as Rikar dragged the cop down the swim platform.

  “D-don’t. Get the f-fuck off.” Half in the water, half out, MacCord struggled, legs kicking up spray, shivering so hard his teeth chattered. “The w-water…I n-need it.”

  “We’ll get you more,” Rikar murmured, hoping to soothe him. The change was never fun. It hurt like hell, and there were no guarantees. Some males didn’t live through it even when they knew what was coming. But MacCord didn’t have a clue, which made guiding him through it all the more dangerous. “I’ll get you want you need, okay? Right now, we need to move.”

  At the end of the platform, Rikar pulled a heave-ho, transferring the male to Bastian. “Ven…you’re up.”

  Claws scraped against steel as Venom took flight. “Where we headed? Myst’s?”

  “Her loft’s our best bet. It’s closest.” With a grunt, B secured his grip and hauled MacCord out of the water.

  “Windows?” Venom asked, circling overhead.

  “Not secured,” Rikar said, watching the horizon start to glow as he jumped dockside. Grabbing the cop’s feet, he helped Bastian muscle the male to the gangplank, then onto shore. The sooner Venom pulled the grab-and-go, the better. Ten—fifteen—minutes tops before the sun made an appearance. No time like the present to get the hell out of Dodge. “We’ll blanket spell the glass to block the UV rays when we get there.”

  “Roger that.” Wings spread wide, Venom dipped low, came in fast and…

  He and Bastian got ready, legs braced, feet planted as they lifted the cop skyward. MacCord groaned, thrashing like a fish on dry land. And what do you know? Venom treated him like one. Front talons extended, he plucked the male out of thin air, the same way an eagle took a salmon from beneath the surface of the water.

  Not wasting a second, Rikar shifted and launched himself skyward. Midnight-blue scales flashed as Bastian followed suit, taking to the sky behind him. Flying fast, soaring over skyscrapers and rooftops, Rikar kept one eye on the cop, the other on the horizon. A pinky-orange line formed, heralding the rising sun. Not that MacCord cared. Oh, no. The male was too busy swearing and…yeah. Now he was hammering Venom’s talon with his fists.

  Not the brightest move. Considering Venom’s temper.

  “Hey, Ven.” Increasing his wing speed, Rikar flew alongside his comrade. “Wanna play hot potato?”

  “No time…we’re almost there,” Venom growled, shaking his talon, and the shit out of MacCord. “Otherwise, I’d toss the blockhead over to you.”

  Banking right, Rikar followed his buddy, coming down through wispy clouds and cold air. Myst’s building lay dead ahead. A five-story walk-up, the brick glowed pink with the coming dawn, tall, arching windows nothing but black holes in its face.

  “Around back,” B said, bringing up the rear. “Fifth-floor balcony.”

  Extending his wings to full capacity, Rikar caught air, using the webbing to slow his flight. As he rounded the corner of the building, he mind-spoke to Bastian, “Sloan got something waiting for us?”

  “He called an escort service.”

  Venom huffed. “A hooker?”

  “MacCord needs a female.” Waiting for Venom to clear out of the way, Rikar circled left into a holding pattern. “A professional…one we can pay to service him and mind-scrub after.”

  Shifting to human form in midair, Venom dropped to the balcony below. As his combat boots connected with concrete, he ignored the cop’s curse, tossed him over his shoulder, and headed toward the patio doors. “Good plan.”

  “I hope so,” B said, the grumble in his voice coming through mind-speak loud and clear. “Myst’s not gonna be happy when she finds out I let MacCord use her bed.”

  Rikar’s snort turned into a laugh—the idea B was afraid of a female hitting his funny bone—as he transformed, boots touching down on the balcony.

  Landing beside him, Bastian threw him a perturbed look. “Just wait until you have a female of your own to keep happy. You won’t laugh then.”

  The thought sobered Rikar fast. Despite the teasing, he respected the hell out of Bastian for risking it all: for loving Myst without reservation, for being brave enough to trust that he could save her life when she went into labor with his son. Until recently, none of them had thought it possible.

  Females always died birthing Dragonkind, without exception.

  At least that’s what they’d believed before learning more about energy-fuse. The bond allowed a male to feed his female healing energy. The divine connection was rare—a magical, emotional, physical force of nature—a pairing so powerful it joined a male’s life force to his female’s. Which was good news, except for one thing. Energy-fuse couldn’t be forced. It wasn’t enough to love a female, or for her to love a male in return. The link was a mystical one, and acceptance was required from the magic in a dragon male’s DNA.

  No easy feat. Their dragon halves were notoriously finicky. Like a master lock, the beast required the right key—or rather, the right female—for energy-fuse to take shape and form.

  And as he stood staring at his best friend beneath an awakening sky, the truth struck with the force of a hammer. He’d give anything to possess what B had found. Acceptance. A shared life with a female he revered enough to think of always and, well…yeah. Even be a little afraid of on the reaction front.

  Hell. He was envious. When had that happened? Black and white wasn’t so black-n-white anymore. Somewhere along the line, he’d shuffled the crayons in his box, coloring his
world ho-hum, pansy-ass gray.

  And Angela? She was the bright yellow in a pencil case full of shadows, and as he walked toward the loft door—prepared to guide the cop through his change—Rikar knew what his life would be without her.

  Cold. Dark. Nothing but gray.

  He snorted. Just his luck. Trust a female to screw up a—

  “Ah…Rikar?”

  “Yeah, buddy?”

  “Gonna need some help with Boy Wonder here,” Venom said, sounding out of breath. A crack ricocheted as though an elbow had just met the side of someone’s skull. With a grunt, Venom rasped, “Jesus, he’s already—”

  A growl rolled out onto the balcony. Someone shrieked. With a “fuck,” Rikar dodged right, shoving B out of the way as a kitchen chair sailed through the open patio door. It smashed into the balcony wall, crumpling against concrete. Another crash was followed by a couple of thuds and the scrape of boots on wooden floorboards.

  “Oh, my God!”

  The female yelp of alarm put Rikar in gear.

  As he sprinted over the threshold, Venom said, “Ah, hell…we have liftoff.”

  Oh, Christ. Did they ever…in the form of MacCord wrapped around a dark-haired female. Halfway across the loft, the male pinned her to the wall: hands skimming beneath her sweatshirt, mouth against the side of her throat. Score one for the cop. Nothing wrong with his instincts. His dragon DNA was roaring, searching for the energy every female possessed. And wonder of wonders, the pretty brunette was responding, relaxing for MacCord instead of pushing him away.

  Rikar exhaled, relief replacing the air in his chest. He couldn’t have asked for better. High-energy and willing—a rare combo for a male in transition—the Meridian pulsed in her aura, lighting her up from the inside out, giving MacCord the connection he needed to jump-start the change.

  “Fuck.” Bastian growled, sounding more disgusted than pissed off. With another curse, he slid the glass door closed behind him and unleashed a spell, blanketing the interior of the loft as the sun crested the horizon. “Myst is going to skin me alive.”

  Rikar added his magic to B’s. The windows went dark, blocking the UV rays. “What for?”

  Pivoting, his best friend reached out and pulled a framed photo from the wall beside the door. Eyes bright, two females smiled from behind the glass. The blonde Rikar recognized. B pointed to the brunette in the picture, the one MacCord was now kissing. Ah, make that undressing. “Rikar…meet Tania Solares. My mate’s best friend.”

  Shit on a swizzle stick. Had he said FUBARed earlier? Well, not even close. They’d officially crossed into goat-fuck territory because when Myst found out they’d used her BFF as MacCord’s main course, none of them would get out unscathed.

  Chapter Seven

  Downed by a scrawny female. How fucking embarrassing.

  Lothair rolled his shoulders, his pride stinging more than the gash on his cheek as he imagined his sire’s reaction; the laughter as it echoed in the high court of his home. The shame brought him low, slowed his pace in the deserted corridor until he stood unmoving, staring at cinder-block walls, seething inside.

  Derrˋmo, he wanted to kill the female for that alone. For bringing the memory back. Making him recall cold winter nights in a frozen Great Hall where his brother played the golden boy. His sire’s right hand always and forevermore.

  Favoritism at its finest. Hurt at its most lethal.

  It shouldn’t matter. Not now when his father was half a world away, and Lothair was full-grown. A warrior with purpose. Well-respected. Feared for his skills. A valued member of the Razorback pack and his commander’s XO. Still, the old wound made him ache in ways he didn’t want to think about, much less acknowledge.

  Good thing family was easily discarded and simple to replace.

  Ivar was his family now. His brother in every way that mattered. Thank God. Any more time spent in Russia with those bastards, and he would’ve gone postal, wiping out an entire branch of the Archguard. Not a good idea, considering where Ivar’s funding came from and his boss’s political aspirations.

  So, sure. He’d toe the line and bury the past. For now.

  And job number one? The breeding center and finding Angela Keen. Stupid she-cop and her box cutter.

  He couldn’t wait to get his hands on her. To give her what she deserved…a slow, agonizing death. Except he couldn’t put her six feet under. The female was high-energy, too valuable an asset to their breeding program. To Ivar’s clinical study, the chromosomal DNA mapping, and drug testing. Lothair didn’t understand the complexities of the science, but man, the endgame was sweet. All the high-energy humans he could stand…a fuck-fest for him and his fellow warriors in a quest to breed the first Dragonkind female.

  But first? He needed to find and cage them. Not an easy proposition. High-energy females were rare, and Ivar wanted six guinea pigs to start. Which meant none could be wasted. So, yeah. Angela-of-the-box-cutter would stay alive. Didn’t mean he couldn’t beat the snot out of her, though. Drain her energy to the point of death. Make her suffer so badly she begged him to end her life.

  And hmm, coming from the she-cop? Begging would be good. Very, very good.

  Upping his pace, his footfalls echoed, bouncing off stained cement and bare lightbulbs, each boot thud quiet, familiar, nothing but ordinary. Now if only his body would get with the program. But the blood just kept coming. Rolling from the gash on the side of his face. Soaking through his waistband, running warm and wet from the wound on his rib cage. He wiped more from beneath his broken nose and silently cursed the pain.

  Punching through a set of double doors, he crossed the medical suite, heading for the supply cabinet and the mirror above it. Tarnished by time, age spots ate at the polish, spoiling the reflective quality, impeding his view as he stopped at the counter and tilted his head. Jesus Christ. He’d been sliced wide open. Blood dripped down his jaw, then let go, free-falling into a dingy sink basin well past its expiration date.

  Drip-drip…splat. Drip-drip…splat.

  The bitch had nailed him so good his dragon half was struggling to keep up. The steady pump of his heart pushing plasma out faster than his rapid-fire DNA could repair the damage. The drip-fest made his mouth curve up at the corners. The female was skilled, possessed a whole lot of kick-ass he hadn’t expected.

  Well…bully for her. Score one for the she-cop. Prisoner Number Three was now on the scoreboard. Too bad she was playing a game no female could win. Even at her best, she was no match for him. Add that to the fact he never made the same mistake twice, and the she-cop was plumb out of luck.

  He flipped open an upper cabinet, looking for butterfly bandages. Grabbing the box, he dumped the entire load on the chipped countertop, then cracked open a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and picked up some gauze. As he cleaned the wound, the sound of heavy footfalls echoed, coming closer to the medical suite by the second.

  Lothair snorted. Suite. Right. The name didn’t come close to describing the place. The old clinic was just that…old. An ancient relic too long in use: yellowed, full of aging equipment, peeling paint, and worn concrete floors. Nothing like the space in their new lair.

  Still under construction, the state-of-the-art facility was modern, efficient, and best of all, comfortable. It had everything the warriors under his command needed: bedroom suites, a myriad of living spaces, the computer center, a kitted-out laboratory for Ivar and his science experiments…and the cherry on top of the Razorbacks’ sundae—the new, but as-yet unfinished, cellblock A.

  Which explained why he was here, didn’t it? In a rundown rats’ nest. In the middle of nowhere instead of home, kicking back with a glass of vodka in his hand.

  Stupid humans. Slow-ass, inefficient insects. Ivar’s worker bees had screwed up. Dug in the wrong direction, delaying construction by weeks if not months. Now he was stuck guarding female prisoners in the old cellblock until he could transfer them to the new. Not a big deal under normal circumstances, but Angela—super cop, Wonder fricki
ng Woman—wasn’t normal. The fact he needed stitches, and she wasn’t in her cage, was all the proof he required.

  The nasty little viper.

  A skidding sound rose from the corridor outside the clinic. An instant later Denzeil pushed into the examination room. The twin doors flapped closed behind him. With a quick inhale, the male stopped short, his focus on the side of his face. “Schizer…are you all right?”

  “Never better.” Done with the gauze, Lothair looked away from his warrior, returning his attention to the mirror. Picking up a small Band-Aid, he started at the top of his cheekbone, closing the slice one butterfly at a time.

  Denzeil’s reflection appeared over his shoulder. His brows cinched tight, D watched him apply the white strips for a second and then reached out. Lothair tensed as his comrade grabbed his T-shirt and yanked it up to examine the cut along his rib cage. “Man, she really did a number on you. Need some help?”

  “Nyet, I’m good,” he murmured, ignoring the mother-hen routine along with the warrior’s interest. He wasn’t into males, unless a female was involved. A threesome with Ivar was one thing. Like him, the boss only swung one way, which made taking turns with a female all about her. Not about either of them. With Denzeil, though, sex wasn’t so cut and dried. “What did you find, D?”

  Taking the hands-off cue to heart, Denzeil dropped his shirttail and took a step back. With a sigh, he crossed his arms and leaned back against the examination table. “Nothing. There’s no sign of her. It’s like she poofed her way out of the lair. The others are still searching, but—”

  “Call ’em off.” Yup…wicked skilled. Lothair’s lips twitched. The redhead impressed the hell out of him. “She’s already aboveground.”

  “Not good,” his warrior said, a growl rolling in his thick accent. “The boss isn’t gonna be happy.”

  Probably not. But the situation would be rectified, cleaned up before Ivar ever got wind of it. No cause for alarm. No need to give the boss man a heads-up, either. At least not right now. Injured fighting the Nightfuries at the Port of Seattle, Ivar didn’t need any more bad news. Especially on the female front. They’d already lost one high-energy female to Bastian and his band of bastards tonight. No sense stirring the pot or the Razorback leader’s temper. The she-cop wouldn’t be on the loose for long.