Which left him with two choices.
Option one—approach her here, in a deserted cemetery, and hope for the best. Option two—wait for her to finish, follow her home, find out everything about her before engineering a chance meeting between them. Tydrin nodded. Aye. Definitely. A perfectly reasonable way to go. But even as he cemented his plan of attack, temptation urged him to drop the invisibility spell, step up behind her, and grab hold. Wrapped her up. Take her home. Love her well.
His dragon half snarled, liking the approach. He shut it down. The compulsion smacked of stupidity. Was witless in every way, and yet—
He ran his gaze over her again.
A twig snapped.
The sharp sound brought his head around.
The female didn’t hear it. Busy with the clean-up, she soldiered on. No change in her posture. No spike of alarm in her bio-energy. Just the scent of sorrow and a need to make something right. Dragging his focus from her, he scanned the shadowed forest edging the graveyard. His night vision narrowed, then sharpened. A moment passed before he spotted the threat.
Two males. Both human. Dressed in dark clothing.
Eyes narrowed, Tydrin watched the lead man unholster his sidearm. Raising the gun, the asshole leveled it at the female. Aggression swelled. Catastrophic. Urgent. Lethal. The need to defend her detonated deep inside him. His dragon answered the call, begging to be set free. With a mental flick, he opened the cage, allowing the killer inside him to step out an instant before he moved.
Fuck option two.
Forget restraint. Table the safe and sound approach too.
Reasonable would have to wait. God knew, he couldn’t. Not with a female to protect and a couple of idiot humans to turf.
BUY NOW - Fury of a Highland Dragon
Excerpt from Fury of Shadows
Dragonfury Scotland Book 2
ONE
Fury of Shadows
Edinburgh, Scotland – present day
The scent of blood thickened the night air, mixing with soupy fog along rain-soaked streets, carrying the stink along the cobbled length of the Royal Mile. Hidden inside a cloaking spell, Cyprus scanned the deserted avenue from his roof top perch. No dead bodies littering refuse-lined alleyways. Nary an unconscious human in slight. Or even a hint of a blood trail to follow.
At least, not yet.
There would be, though. The stench said all that needed saying. It was only a matter of time before he found the crime scene…and got a bird’s-eye view of the carnage.
With a shrug, he resettled his wings and, shuffling left, peered over the parapet. His night vision sparked. His eyes started to glow. A pale purple wash rolled out in front of him, coating all it touched, allowing him to see in the dark as he searched dense shadows. Dragon senses dialed to maximum, he fine-tuned his sonar. A pedestrian turned onto High Street. The thud of footfalls rang through the quiet. One eye on the male, the other on the city skyline, Cyprus watched the unsuspecting human jog up a set of shallow steps and, keys jingling, let himself in to a flat fronting one of the busiest thoroughfares in Edinburgh.
A total tourist trap.
People from all over the world came to walk the Royal Mile and visit the Castle on the cliff. View the magnificence. Touch a piece of history. And be regaled by bloody battles and the brave Scots warriors who’d fought in each.
Cyprus glanced south. Pretty place, Edinburgh Castle. Lit by bright lights, thick stone walls glowed like a beacon in the dark, inciting creative imaginings, setting the stage for yet another long night. He shook his head and, dragging his focus from the fortress, stifled a growl of frustration. What a fucking mess. His mission should’ve been easier than this—than being forced to cool his heels while the rogue male he hunted played hide and seek in a busy human city.
Clenching his teeth, he shifted sideways and rounded another corner, his eyes trained on the ground below. The tips of his claws scraped the low wall as he moved. Nothing. Still no sign of the bastard…or the dead bodies.
Annoyance made his muscles tense. Combating his impatience, he rolled his shoulders. Iridescent black scales reacted to the shift, ruffling into a cascade of clickety-click-click. The jagged spikes along his spine joined the parade, clattering in the quiet. A whisper of disquiet rattled through him. The situation stank of a set-up. A well-devised trap with one purpose in mind—to draw him away from Aberdeen, into a city he didn’t know well and liked even less.
“And so, the hunter becomes the hunted.” Winter chill fogged his exhale, making white puffs rise in rings above his nostrils. “Clever.”
Or so the bastard believed.
The rogue, though, had failed to take crucial point into account. Cyprus never engaged in anything random. He plotted and planned instead. Which explained why he’d made the trip south now, didn’t it? The instant he sensed the strange male fly into his territory, he’d chosen to do what his enemy wanted—played the fool, allowed himself to be lead and followed the breadcrumbs. To what end? His mouth curved. For the hell of it. For the need to avoid layering one boring night atop another. For the sheer want of a good, claw-ripping fight.
Crouched like a cat, he leapt to the adjacent building top. The yawn of an alley flashed beneath him. His bladed tail whiplashed. The click of his scales sliced through the cold as the wind picked up, rustling the trees standing sentry over vacant sidewalks. He landed with a thump and walked along the edge, attention on the street below, the rasp of his paws against tarred roof tiles loud in the stillness.
The cacophony of sound didn’t matter. Nor did it travel. He made sure of it with a murmured command, strengthening the shield of invisibility that concealed his presence from human and Dragonkind alike. Eyes narrowed, irritation rising, he looked over the raised roof edge and scanned intersecting alleyways. For what seemed like the thousandth time.
“Come out, come out wherever you are.” His upper lip curled, exposing the twin rows his serrated teeth. “I want tae play.”
His voice hissed through his fangs, the invitation hanging in frosty air. The acceptance he craved didn’t come back. Silence reigned instead. Cyprus flexed one of his front talons. Bloody hell. The bastard was smart. Or scared shitless. One or the other, but…no way to tell until he set eyes on the warrior who’d invaded his territory. The bold move worried him. All of Dragonkind knew to stay clear of Scotland. The land, sky, mountains and lakes—shite, all of it, every nook and cranny, down to the last blade of grass—belonged to his pack, and no one crossed his border without suffering the consequences.
Immediate death by dragon claw.
He liked the sound of it. Wanted to follow through on the promise, but with the rogue using city streets to hide, he couldn’t smoke him out without doing serious damage. The thought didn’t bother him—much. Humans, after all, thrived on misery. For whatever reason, their race enjoyed demolition and reconstruction, so…aye. He could level an entire city block, turn it to rubble, create new jobs, fuel their economy with one tiny fireball. Inhale. Exhale. Crash, bang, slam. Simple. Nothing to it as long as he didn’t take human lives in the process. Big satisfaction. No guilt. The perfect crime.
Cyprus snorted at the thought. Fire-acid sparked from his nostrils, heating the air as he jumped to another rooftop and—
“Anything?”
The inquiry thumped on his mental door. Cyprus linked in, accepting the connection with his first in command. “Not yet.”
Wallaig growled. “Is the wanker really going to make us hunt all night?”
“Looks like it.”
“Christ,” Wallaig said, pure annoyance in the soft curse. “Of all the nights to be away from the lair, this isnae one of them.”
The comment made him pause mid-stride. Cyprus’s brows snapped together. “Why?”
“Rannock’s making Haggis for breakfast. I want to be home when—”
A gagging sound came through mind-speak. “Fucking disgusting. I hate Haggis.”
“Shut yer yap, Levin,” Wallaig s
napped, his irritation redirected from the hunt to his pack-mate. “Donnae you dare insult his cooking. If you hurt his feelings, he’ll stop making—”
“One can only hope,” Levin said. “That shite smells like vomit and—”
“Tastes even worse,” Kruger murmured, finishing his best friend’s sentence.
“Aye, well, think what you like, but…” Wallaig trailed off, waited a few seconds, the threat of violence shimmering in the silence. “If you ruin the best meal I’ve had in weeks, I’ll make sure you suck yer next one through a straw.”
“You’d have to catch me first, old man.”
“Whelp,” Wallaig said, his voice so deep he sounded past homicidal and well into satanic. Cyprus knew better. Could detect his first in command’s enjoyment in every vicious syllable. Wallaig might be the eldest of their pack, but he loved a good fight—verbal or otherwise. “I’m going to rip yer claws out and nail yer scrawny arse to the ground with them.”
Levin snorted.
Cyprus grinned. The threat wasn’t a new one. Wallaig promised to de-claw one of them at least once a week. Hell, the pledge of violence was practically the male’s way of saying “I love you”. Shaking his head, he ignored the continued banter of his warriors—and Wallaig’s vow to gut Levin like a toad and feed him is own entrails—and refocused his search. Over by the church, mayhap. The scent of blood grew stronger the closer he came to St. Giles Cathedral—to sacred ground held by priests and forgotten prophets.
His attention shifted to the crown-shaped spire atop the church. Surrounded by golden light, the High Kirk of Edinburgh glowed, pouring light onto cobblestone streets and the square butted against its front entrance. With a growl, Cyprus leapt from one building to the next, his gaze fixed on the stone walls of the cathedral. Blown by a brisk wind, the acrid smell of spilled blood spiked. He snarled, the savage sound shredding the air in front of him. Bloody hell. Could the bastard really be that depraved? Had he taken the fight to humans on holy ground?
The question circled less than a second before—
Shock made him freeze where he’d landed.
Gaze riveted to the square, Cyprus sucked a horrified breath. One second ticked into two before the true extent of the carnage registered. Goddess help him. Dead humans lay everywhere. Decapitated and de-limbed, body parts strewn from the base of the statue in the middle of the quad to the church’s front steps. Like a sick kind of bread trail. Or the beginnings of a grotesque human puzzle with too many pieces to fathom. He didn’t want to count, but…shite. There had to be at least five—mayhap six—different humans in the mess.
“Mother of God,” he whispered. “The bastard.”
Wallaig paused mid-insult. “Cyprus?”
“What’s going on?” Kruger asked, the intensity of his focus so keen Cyprus registered it from three miles away. “What do you see?”
“Dead humans…everywhere,” he said, voice gone hoarse. “Or at least, what’s left of them.”
“What the fuck?” Levin growled.
The click of scales echoed inside his head.
“We’re on our way.”
“Nay, Wallaig. Stay put.”
His first in command cursed.
Cyprus growled a warning and, gaze glued to the human casualties, leapt over the roof edge. The rush of cold air curled over his horns. Six feet from the ground, he transformed, shifting from dragon to human form. Dropping fast, he conjured his clothes. Jeans, a T-shirt and his favorite leather jacket wrapped him in warm comfort as his booted feet landed on stone. Rising from his crouch, he looked both ways, searching the empty street for humans. Nothing so far. Only one conclusion to draw—no one had stumbled upon the massacre yet. Which meant he needed to move…and it had to be now. Before someone came along and called the police, forcing him to leave.
“Hold your positions, but be ready tae move.” He didn’t want to spook his enemy. The second his warriors took flight the rogue would sense the power of his pack and run for his life. Cowards always did when faced with superior strength, so…nay. Better to keep things under wraps until he got his claws on the male. Stepping off the sidewalk, Cyprus crossed the street. “I’m going tae take a closer look.”
“Jesus Christ,” Wallaig grumbled, not liking his plan. Or the fact he waited outside the three-mile maker—distance enough to avoid being detected by the enemy, too far away to be of any help if the situation devolved and shite hit the proverbial fan. “Watch yer arse, laddie.”
“Is the rogue gone?” Kruger cracked his knuckles, the sharp snap echoing through mind-speak.
Cyprus shook his head even though no one could see him. “He’s still here…somewhere. I smell him. I think he may be in the church.”
In fact, he was sure of it.
He scented the bastard now. Plain as day. No need to question his dragon half. The scent trail grew more intense with every step he took. And as he stepped into the square and strode past the statue of a long-dead Duke—stepping over amputated arms and legs, skirting heads with jagged neck wounds and mutilated human torsos, boot soles splashing through puddles of human blood—the senselessness of it slammed through him. Rage burned a hole in his heart, waking the vicious urge to annihilate everything his path.
His dragon half seethed, wanting out of its cage.
Cyprus obliged, letting the killer inside him out to play as he reached the front steps of St. Giles Cathedral. He took the stairs three at a time. How dare the bastard murder innocent people in his territory. He might not like the human race, but those who lived inside his borders did so under his protection…whether they knew it or not. So aye. Retribution now belonged to him. Their deaths must be avenged and a clear message sent. No one infringed on his land. The rogue had just signed his own death warrant. All he needed to do now was find the male and complete the kill.
Excerpt from Fury of Surrender
Dragonfury Series Book 6
One
Fury of Surrender
The buzz of halogens breathed life into the absence of sound. The silence should’ve bothered him. Sounded internal alarm bells. Put him on high alert. Something. Anything. The smallest response to the eerie fog of quiet descending over Black Diamond would be good. Forge glared at the precise seams of the chair rail instead, searching for flaws as he strode down the double-wide corridor.
Perfect fucking corners. Smooth, curving surfaces. Nary a chip in an ocean of glossy-white paint covering the wood. Colorful paintings joined the parade, holding court, sending him deeper into the lair, pointing him toward the last place he wanted to go.
His gaze jumped from pale walls to the trio of Kandinskys hanging to his left. He scowled at the collection, the sight of even brushstrokes on priceless masterpieces irritating the hell of out him…for no good reason. His reaction to the sight qualified as over the top. He saw the flash-’n-glamor every day. Lived in the lap the luxury inside the home he shared with the other Nightfury dragon warriors. Was accustomed to seeing the tidy show of wealth, so no need to be pissed off by it. Not today, or ever, except…
He didn’t know how else to stem the growing tide of unease.
Like a tidal wave, worry washed in. The force of it rolled over him, slowing his pace, clogging his throat, making him yearn for the safety of his bedroom. It wouldn’t take much. A quick pivot. A minute or two of walking. A solid door between him and what he’d learned to fear over the last week and a half.
Forge shook his head. Nay. No way. Not now. He wasn’t a coward and refused to run. Not after forcing himself to step over the threshold and close the door behind him. The thud of the wooden edge against the jamb had seemed final. He wanted it to be final. Needed it to be. No more hiding. No more avoiding. No more holding it in until he thought he might burst at the seams.
Onward. Upward. To his own death if necessary.
Gaze glued to the framed Matisse hanging at end of the hall, Forge struggled to keep his legs moving. But it was hard. His feet felt heavy, each stride taking real
effort. Bend knee. Lift foot. Move forward. His boot sole said hello to the floor. A second later, the other landed.
One step, two step, three step, four.
The counting didn’t help.
He muttered each number aloud anyway, walking toward the elevator that would take him into the underground lair. A few more bedroom doors to pass, and he’d be there, facing off with a steel cage he didn’t want to enter. Not that he’d been given much choice, but as his footfalls echoed in the deserted corridor, a hollow spot opened behind his breastbone. The usual ache settled in and built a home, making him wonder if Myst—the Nightfury commander’s mate—was right.
Forge frowned. Maybe she was onto something. Maybe he was pushing too hard. Maybe all he needed was time. A little R&R. A slice of respite, the chance to catch his breath, open his mind wider, and remember.
He fisted his hands. His knuckles cracked under the strain. The snap’n-pop broke through the quiet and—Christ help him. He hated that word: remember. It sounded so simple. Reach in, grab hold, and pull the information out of his mind. Easy-peasy. Nothing complicated about it. But no matter how many times he tried to retrieve the memory, he came away empty-handed. Zero information. Few visual clues, a dark hole where recollection should live.
A huge problem.
Catastrophic given Bastian needed what lay buried in a forgotten place inside his mind.
The thought landed like a bomb inside him. Mental debris scattered. Forge cleared it away, acknowledging what up until now he’d refused to admit. God forgive him, but he didn’t want to do it. Didn’t want to sit in that god-awful chair and allow B inside his head. Again. For the fifth bloody time, but running—leaving the lair and disappearing—wouldn’t solve anything.
Fury of Denial: Dragonfury Series SCOTLAND Book 3 Page 12