Fury of Desire (Dragonfury Series #4)

by Coreene Callahan

  He inserted the needle into the mouth of the tube.

  “Oh my God… stop. Stop it!” Horror punched through, mixing with terror. Slow on the uptake, she reached for his arm. “What are you doing?”

  He depressed the plunger, pushing God only knew what into her IV, then glanced at her sideways. A strange shimmer gathered in his gaze. “Giving you more juice.”

  “Don’t!” She fought the handcuffs. Steel banged against metal. The clang reverberated, sounding hellish in the quiet. “You’ll—”

  “I’m not gonna kill you.”

  Sure. Right. Like she trusted him to tell the truth? A murderer, after all, never warned his intended victim. Oh God. Scream. She needed to scream for help… right now. Before psycho Goth Guy put her six feet under.

  A knowing glint entered his eyes. “Don’t bother. Save your energy. No one can hear you.”

  Bullshit. The guards stood fifteen feet away. They’d hear her—so would Ashford if she yelled loud enough—and come running. Opening her mouth, J. J. filled her lungs. Her rib cage expanded. Agony drove a spike into her side.

  Ignoring the pain, she let loose. “Help! Somebody… help me!”

  Nothing happened. No sudden flap of movement. No shift or glance in her direction. Nothing but business as usual as Griggs laughed at something the other guard said.

  A chill snaked across the back of her hand. Oh no… the drug was on the move, headed straight into her vein. Frantic now, she moved her left arm toward her right. Her hand might be cuffed, but that didn’t mean she was powerless. She must pull the shunt out. Get rid of the IV before—

  “Stubborn female.” With a quickness that defied description, Goth Guy reached out. He shackled her free hand, preventing her from ripping the needle out. “Relax. You need the extra hit. It’s not safe for you here, so I need to move you. The Demerol will keep you comfortable for the duration.”

  Fighting his grip, she screamed again. He held firm, watching her panic with an impassive expression. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, making his face waver into a blur.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his tone soothing. “It’s the only way. Had you not sent that text message…” A muscle jumped along his jaw as he trailed off. A second later he sighed and shook his head. “But clever girl that you are, you found a way. Now, I have no choice. Change of plan, sunshine.”

  “Let me go,” she rasped, tugging against his hold. A weak attempt, but it was the best she could manage. Goth Guy knew what he was doing. He’d played it just right, shooting her full of enough Demerol to sap her strength. Now she felt the effects, and as tense muscles relaxed, her mind derailed, plunging her into helplessness. “You bastard.”

  “For sure,” he said, his voice coming through the fog. “Go with it anyway, female. Let the drug take effect. You’ll thank me later.”

  Mind gone heavy, body gone light, she started to float inside her own skull. Fighting the pull, she whispered, “Who are you?”

  “Azrad.”

  “Weird name.”

  “Not for my kind.”

  The cool rush of relaxation took hold. Her eyelids dipped. Open. Closed. Up. Down. J. J. forced herself to stick with it. Concentrating hard, she forced her eyes back open. “Your kind?”

  “Nothing to worry about now. You’ll learn of Dragonkind soon enough.”

  Buoyant on soft clouds, J. J. clung to the sound of his voice, using it to ground her in reality. The handcuffs clicked. Steel slid from around her wrist. She blinked, seeing her hand without feeling it. Huh, that was weird. He’d opened the cuff without a key. Had simply brushed his thumb against the lock and…

  She frowned at the open cuff. “How did you do that?”

  “Magic,” he whispered.

  And J. J. agreed, ’cause… wow. The drugs were magic, helping her float, holding her high, taking the rest of the pain away. “Oh my… this is good stuff.”

  He snorted. The red spider inked on his neck winked at her. J. J. smiled back. Azrad shook his head, and with a flick, released the bed rail. Folding it down and away, he slid his arms around her and lifted, turning toward the nearby wheelchair. He put her down with care, using gentle hands to adjust her uncooperative limbs. As she settled with a sigh, he straightened one of the footrests, locked it in place, and set her injured foot in the cradle. The plaster cast bumped down. He transferred the IV bag, hanging it on a pole welded to the side of the chair.

  J. J. didn’t care. She couldn’t feel a darned thing, including the tip of her nose. Everything had gone numb.

  Grabbing the blanket off the foot of her bed, he knelt in front of her.

  Squinting hard, she stared at his face. “Hey, Azrad?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “Where we going?”

  “To a party.” Finished tucking the blanket around her legs, he stood and stepped around the wheelchair. Hands gripping the handles, he pushed her toward the exit. “A mixer, of sorts.”

  Oh, a party. How lovely. Wonderful. Simply terrific… J. J. frowned… Wasn’t it? She hadn’t been invited to a get-together in years. Well, unless the prison yard counted, so… yeah. A mixer sounded fun.

  She tipped her head back. The back of her skull thumped against Azrad. Tongue gone numb, she tried to make it work, even though talking seemed really difficult all of a sudden. “Do I get a glasssh of wine?”

  He chuckled. “No more mind-altering substances for you tonight.”

  “Killjoy.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “Hey, Azsh-rad?” she whispered, his name more slur than actual word.

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re my friend.” She blinked, the movement a slow up and down. “Right?”

  He hesitated. Blue eyes roamed her face. “For the moment, sunshine.”

  Good news. Although, upon reflection not very inspiring. What the heck did “for the moment” mean?

  J. J. hummed. For the moment… for the moment…

  The phrase circled, tapping on her frontal lobe. She shook her head. Something about that was all wrong. A bad sign or something, but for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out what. Then again, was it really such a big deal? Did it require an all-points bulletin? J. J. frowned. She couldn’t tell. Her brain was gone, buoyant in a sea of stupidity as the drug tightened its grip, numbing her mind, taking the pain, making her decide to worry about the conundrum Azrad presented tomorrow.

  With a sigh, she slumped in the wheelchair.

  It felt better to float and forget… if only for a little while. To ignore the warning signs and sink beneath the wave. But as Azrad wheeled her into the corridor—past guards who didn’t react and nurses who never looked up—instinct whispered, and J. J. wondered about her for the moment friend. Maybe allowing him to steal her away wasn’t the best idea after all.

  With a quick flip, Wick went wings vertical, slicing between two stone-clad high-rises, throwing up dust in a frostbitten swirl. Right on his tail, the other Nightfuries rattled windowpanes. Eyes on the prize, Wick rocketed past another apartment complex. Rotating up and over, green scales glinting in the gloom, Venom settled above his spine. Nothing but a brown blur, snow-white talons and scorpion-like tail at the ready, Sloan flew in below him. Settling in the flank position, Mac and Forge rolled in on his wingtips, becoming wingmen as Wick picked up the pace.

  Speed supersonic. Night vision pinpoint sharp. Focus set on a single building rising from the network of city streets below. Check… check… and triple-check.

  Swedish Medical. Dead ahead.

  Focus absolute, Wick pulled Jamison’s prison jacket to the forefront of his mind. A quick shuffle brought her mug shot front and center. Long dark hair. Pretty oval-shaped face. Full lips on an unsmiling mouth. Arresting sky-blue eyes. He pinned each detail to his mental bulletin board. No sense fucking around. He needed to find her fast. Get in. Get her out. A quick trip home, an even speedier hand-off to her sister and…

  Jackpot. One female rescued.
Mission accomplished. His debt paid in full.

  Flying in on a fast glide, Wick lined up his approach. Spread over one corner of the roof, a white cross sat in the center of the dark helipad. He scanned the area again. Nothing but empty space. No helicopter taking up the valuable real estate, and no humans on guard duty.

  Perfect. So far, so good.

  Above the LZ now, he tucked his wings. Gravity took hold, yanking him out of the sky. He thumped down dead center, hitting the white X that marked the spot. The steel support structure groaned. His claws clicked, scraping the hard surface of the LZ a second before he shifted into human form. Magic shimmered, warping the air as he conjured his clothes.

  As his shitkickers settled on his feet, he went over the plan. “Forge and Mac, you’re on transpo.”

  “SUV?” Blue-gray scales glinting, Mac circled overhead.

  Right on his buddy’s six, Forge asked, “Or a cargo van?”

  “Take your pick. Just steal something big enough to transport her comfortably.” Already moving across the helipad, Wick mind-spoke to their resident computer genius. “Sloan—”

  “Hack the system. Steal, then wipe all record of her medical file.” The markings on his scales more rattlesnake than dragon, Sloan landed on the roof. The lights planted around the LZ washed his white paws with blue tint. “I’m on it.”

  “Venom…”

  “On your ass.” Folding his wings, his best friend touched down. Dark-green claws bit, gouging the surface of the tiled asphalt as Venom slid to a stop behind him. “Lead on.”

  With a nod, Wick grabbed the handrail and, throwing his legs over, leapt to the concrete lane below used to transport patients on gurneys. His eyes on the door at the end of the ramp, he strode down a slight incline. With nothing but a thought, he flipped the lock, swung the door wide, and crossed the threshold into the large foyer beyond. A bank of elevators waited along the far wall. Wick punched the button with his mind. Magic tingled, zipping along his spine as machinery went to work, propelling the cage up from a lower floor.

  Venom joined him in front of the double doors. His gaze narrowed on the numbers above the Otis. The red digits blinked, telling them to get ready.

  Wick glanced over his shoulder. “Room number?”

  “Fifth floor.” Dark eyes intent, Sloan met his gaze as he stopped behind him. “Room 573.”

  Purpose roared through Wick, lighting the fuse on his anticipation. Almost there. Five minutes tops, and he’d see Jamison in person. Look into those sky-blue eyes while he made sure she was all right. Ensured her safety. Moved her out of harm’s way and into whatever vehicle Forge and Mac (a.k.a. the wonder twins) procured for their getaway. Eyes narrowed, he recalled the mental map he’d made of Swedish Medical. He went over the plan again, charting the fastest route to her room, and nodded in satisfaction.

  Good odds. Solid game plan. Success lay just a few floors down and inches away.

  The elevator opened with a soft ping.

  Thirty seconds and a smooth ride later, Wick stepped out into the fifth-floor hallway. A whole lot of nothing special greeted him. To be expected. Hospitals were designed using strict building codes, where form followed function. Boring and utilitarian? Both fit the bill. So did all the closed doors. Like soldiers walking a military line, the steel frames interspaced an ocean of pale walls. At an intersection, Wick made the first turn. The narrow corridor dumped him into a much wider one. Excellent. It wouldn’t be long now. Another right, two more lefts, and he’d find what he was looking for…

  The fifth-floor hub.

  A processing area, the large circular-shaped space sat at the center of each floor. Its purpose? Traffic control. The hub kept people moving from points A to B in a sprawling complex that felt more like a small city than a single building. The population inside the facility confirmed it. Even at midnight, the halls were busy, nurses scurrying to and fro, doctors making their rounds, patients being shuttled in wheelchairs and gurneys to their next destination.

  And speak of the devil. A horde of humans at one o’clock.

  Wick paused on the lip of the T-shaped intersection. Rubber wheels on a rolling hospital bed squeaked. Oblivious to the sound, a team of medical professionals surrounded the gurney, voices raised, terms like intubate and chest compressions fogging the air around them. As the group rushed toward him, a gap between human shoulders opened, and he got a look at the patient. A young girl. Maybe five years old. Wick assessed the situation in under a second flat. The human’s biological grid, compete with vital signs, went up on his mental light board.

  Wick clenched his teeth. A defect… the youngster’s heart was failing.

  His gaze on her small face, he hesitated a moment and—

  Ah, fuck it. He was here anyway. Aiding the child wouldn’t cost him a thing. While doing nothing would cost the girl her life. Given those facts, it seemed a shame not to interfere.

  With a murmur, he gathered his magic. Heat blazed, swirling like magma-infused whirlpools in the center of his palms. He waited until the girl-child came even with him, then let it roll, enveloping the kid in a healing swirl. She gasped as her heart kicked over. A full breath came next, tiny chest rising and falling beneath a doctor’s hands. The medical team paused, hovering above her. One shouted “I got a pulse!” and they were off, galloping down the hallway at breakneck speed.

  Venom slapped the back of his shoulder. “Such a do-gooder.”

  Sloan snorted.

  Wick brushed off the comment and stayed silent. What could he say? That he had a soft spot for kids? That seeing one suffer bothered him? That childhood should be full of ice cream, lollipops, and cartwheels? His chest went tight. Shit. Like that would go over well. None of his brothers would understand. Not that it mattered. He did what he wanted. Always had… no need to explain further.

  Shrugging Venom’s big mitt off his shoulder, Wick got back with the program. A speaker crackled overhead, paging Dr. Somebody-or-other to cardiology. His mouth curved. Good. The humans were on the ball. Not that the girl-child needed the attention anymore. His magic had done its job, sewing up the hole in her left ventricle.

  Footfalls silent on the industrial-grade floor, he made the last turn and…

  Strode straight into hell.

  He grimaced, registering all the activity. Nurses in scrubs. Doctors in white coats. Visitors and patients sitting in chairs waiting their turn.

  “Goddamn,” Venom muttered behind him.

  No kidding. The place was a logistical nightmare. “Far corridor on the other side of the hub.”

  “The one next to the nurses’ station?”

  Wick nodded and, scanning the space, moved toward his target. The sooner he entered the hallway, the quicker he’d find Jamison’s room.

  “Later, boys.” Leather bag slung over his shoulder, Sloan peeled off, heading in the opposite direction. Skirting a man on crutches and a child playing hopscotch on different-colored floor tiles, he crossed the threshold. Disappearing inside the belly of the beast, he mind-spoke, “I’ll holler when I’m done at the com-center.”

  Venom answered in the affirmative.

  Wick didn’t say a word. No need. Sloan required no encouragement. The male would do what he did best: crack the database and take what he wanted without leaving a trace. No worries on that front. “Meet us street level afterward.”

  “Uh-huh,” Sloan said, mind already on his mission.

  Stepping around a row of chairs and the human occupants, Wick moved toward his destination. As he bypassed the high counter of the nurses’ station, a prickle ghosted over the nape of his neck. His pace slowed to a stop. Combat boots planted, dragon half rising, Wick sank deep inside his senses, hunting for the signal. Another round of snap, crackle ’n pop. The muscles bracketing his spine tightened, putting him on high alert.

  Shit. Trouble. Not the good kind either.

  With a growl, Wick glanced over his shoulder.

  “I feel it. We’ve got company.” Red eyes shi
mmering, Venom scanned the hub, searching for an enemy. When he came up empty, he glanced Wick’s way. “Rogue?”

  Wick shook his head. “Maybe. Can’t tell. There’s too much electrical interference here.”

  His friend cursed.

  Wick seconded the motion and put himself in gear. No sense standing around with his thumb up his ass. Hanging back—waiting for something to happen—wasn’t his style. The role of game changer suited him better. Natural born killer worked too, and as Wick closed the distance, the predator inside him rose, answering the call of duty. Moving with intent, he crossed into the mouth of the corridor. Static hissed inside his head. He mined the signal, adjusting the dial on his sonar, pinpointing the precise location.

  Close. So very close. The unknown male was on the move, but—

  Jesus fucking Christ. He spotted the bastard.

  Pushing a wheelchair and dressed like an orderly, the male paused, slowing to a stop in the middle of the hallway. Wick stopped walking and widened his stance, blocking the end of the corridor as he sized up the stranger. Tall. Strong, but on the lean side. A Dragonkind male who carried himself with the confidence of a warrior. But odder still, the male sported a spider tattoo on the side of his neck and burgundy streaks in his hair.

  Dark-blue eyes met his.

  Wick snarled.

  The warrior’s mouth curved. The stud piercing his eyebrow winked as he dipped his chin and stared at him beneath the curve of his brows. The look was pure challenge, a primal “fuck you” that spoke volumes.

  “Heads-up, sunshine.” His gaze fixed on Wick, the asshole bent his head, bringing attention to the person seated in the wheelchair. “The party’s getting started.”

  Shifting in her seat, his passenger blinked.

  Wick’s focus flipped to her and—

  “Fucking hell,” he growled, recognition instantaneous. “Jamison.”

  The fucker smirked. “Pretty, isn’t she, Nightfury?”

  Right, on both counts. Though how the male knew he was a member of the Nightfury pack was a puzzle. One best left for another time as Wick turned his attention to the first declaration. Which was… Jesus… a total understatement. The female was more than just pretty. She was beautiful. Incredible. So powerful her connection to the Meridian pulsed in the air around her.