Disgust settled deep. Frustration followed, tightening his chest.
He banished both and, eyes on the treetops, dove toward the forest below. Seconds before he collided with the canopy, Nian dodged, slicing between two enormous tree trunks. Increasing his velocity, he swooped beneath the outstretched arms of ancient beeches, navigating tight turns in the towering Eastwood. Snowflakes drifted like glitter only to fall away as he rushed the cliff face. Rising like a pale wraith in the dark, the mountain wall rose, calling him home, calming his mind, helping him decide the way forward.
Time to face the facts. The entire Archguard must be executed. Right alongside Rodin.
Necessity and honor—the health of his race—dictated the path. He must do what needed to be done. No doubt. No room for hesitation. No leaving it to someone else either. Just sure knowledge coupled with the wherewithal to deal the final death blows. Nian shook his horned head. Christ. What a waste. All the violence. All the death. All the destruction to come. If only he could convince the Archguard to listen. If only the council would abandon the old ways and send Dragonkind down a new road… a safer one, a better one for future generations, one without the threat of war.
War. On a global scale.
Nian knew it was coming. He smelled it in the air. Felt it in the wind. Saw it in the tension and mistrust between Dragonkind packs the world over. All eyes turned to Seattle and the feud raging between Nightfury and Razorback. Members of his race were picking sides—supporting one pack over the other—and soon… very, very soon… each commander would decide. Make their allegiances known. Draw the battle lines. Allow the fighting to spread from its epicenter—Washington State—to other areas of the globe.
A state that would put all of Dragonkind in jeopardy.
Stretching his wings to capacity, Nian came up over the last rise. A quick flip. An elegant twist. A whisper of sound. Nothing more, and he hung, suspended in midair, his eyes fixed on the manor house nestled into the curve of the mountainside. Built by a duke centuries earlier, his home perched on a wide-faced ledge, its foothold on the rocky outcropping more certain than a mountain goat’s. Neither the mountain nor the howling winds challenged its dominion. The house simply belonged, growing out of jagged stone like a tree from the ground. And as Nian set down on the balcony overlooking the valley below, he blew out a long-drawn breath.
His razor-sharp claws clicked as his paws touched down on worn stone. Without thought, he shifted, moving from dragon to human form, and conjured his clothes. As the baggy workout pants and long-sleeved T settled against his skin, a shadow passed behind the bank of French doors along the far side of the balcony. His mouth curved. A dead-bolt clicked. The doorknob turned, and his trusted servant stepped out into the winter chill.
Dressed in his usual fair, tuxedo and tails, the Numbai bowed his head. “Welcome home, my lord.”
“Lapier.”
“What news?”
“None,” he said, moving toward the only male he considered family. The Numbai served him well, caring for him as he had every male of his line for generations. Thank God. Nian didn’t know what he would do without him. Friend. Confidant. Caretaker. Lapier did it all, more than his fair share most nights. “The council is blind to Rodin’s ways. They remain loyal to the bastard. I can find no crack to slip through.”
“Then it is as we feared.”
Worse, actually. But Nian refused to argue the point. “Any word from our other pursuits?”
“Not yet.”
“Christ.”
His hands curled into twin fists, Nian scowled at the awakening sky. It shouldn’t be this hard. He was trying to do the right thing, but as was her habit, fate intervened, turning her tiresome wheel. Getting in his way. Mucking up an excellent strategy. And as he raged at the setbacks, mind churning to see all the angles, to adjust and forge a new way forward, to somehow salvage—
“My lord.” Concern in his eyes, the framework of glass and stone archways rising behind him, Lapier paused, and Nian knew what he was thinking. The “look”—the one Lapier reserved for when he misbehaved—said it all. The Numbai didn’t agree with his plan… or the ambition that drove it. Nian sighed. Lapier clasped his hands together, making the rings he wore wink in the low light. “Perhaps, it’s for the best, Nian. A sign to leave well enough alone.”
The best? Not a chance.
Leaving Rodin to his own devices wasn’t a good idea. The bastard corroded everything he touched. Not that Lapier gave a damn about the big picture. The Numbai’s duties extended to him… and him alone. He didn’t care about the greater health of Dragonkind, just that Nian lived to see a new night.
Biting down on a curse, he padded across the balcony on bare feet. “I’ll be in my study.”
“Would you like a bourbon?”
“Bring me the bottle.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
Nian huffed. As you wish. Right. As if. If only… what a load of BS. So only one thing left to do. Get roaring drunk. Find some oblivion and stay there for a while. At least, throughout the day. Maybe blunting his thoughts, forgetting his troubles, would help jump-start a new strategy. Frustration and fixation weren’t a good pair. Both made males act in unpredictable ways. Not something a warrior in his position could afford, so… why not? Hitting the bottle for a few hours was as good a plan as any.
Exhaling long and slow, Nian reached for his magic. The mental flick swung one of the double doors wide. Cold stone chilling the soles of his bare feet, he strode over the threshold and into the central corridor. Pale walls slid into Arab archways, then reached up to touch the fluted ceiling overhead. Lush with tradition, Turkish rugs streamed the length of the hallway to cover colorful mosaic floor tiles underfoot. Simple yet beautiful. He loved the house, appreciated its isolation, enjoyed the flawless symmetry along with the craftsmanship that spoke of another culture in another time.
Home sweet home. Warm. Inviting. Safe.
Crossing into his study, he gave the windows dominating one side of the room a quick once-over. Enchanted by a spell, the clear glass rippled, darkening by the second, protecting him from the awakening sun. His focus on the magical metamorphosis, Nian reached into the pocket of his pants. The lighter he carried slid into his palm.
Instant relaxation. Perfection in solace.
With a flick, he thumbed the gold top. The lighter snapped open. Nian stared at the wick a moment, then snapped the lid closed. The sharp sound echoed like a question. What should he do? Force the issue? Disappear for a few days and make a secret trip to Seattle to corner Bastian himself? Rolling his shoulders, Nian stared at the fresco on the domed ceiling. Wood nymphs in full frolic. He frowned at the half-naked females. No answers there. He flipped the lighter again. Click-click-snap. Click-click—
Ding-ding… ping.
Nian blinked. What the hell was that?
Frowning, he scanned his study. The noise came again. His attention snapped toward his desk. Ding-ding… ping. His gaze narrowed on the computer he’d set up a month ago. Not his favorite thing. Technology belonged to humans, not Dragonkind. But he couldn’t argue with progress. Or his inability to connect to his contact through mind-speak. The male was too far away for him to link in and use the cosmic connection his kind favored, which made the computer a necessary evil.
One he really needed to learn how to use.
Oriental rug soft beneath his feet, he rounded the corner of his desk and glanced at the monitor. Black from disuse, a small red icon blinked in the center of the screen. Nian drew in a quick breath. Oh, thank Christ. A message. He had a—
Ding-ding… ping.
Focused on the icon, he tossed his lighter on his desk blotter and reached for the mouse. The second he touched it, the screen went active. A box with the words “video conference” flashed in the middle. Hope hit hard, banding around his chest, making his heart thump and throat go tight. He swallowed past the knot and, repositioning the cursor, clicked on the link. A circular whirligig
spun center screen a moment, then…
Movement flashed as a male looked away from the book he held. Dark-blue eyes narrowed on him. “Where the hell have you been?”
The tone should’ve pissed him off. Nian’s lips curved, instead. He couldn’t help it. Was so glad to see the warrior, relief superseded the usual respect he demanded. “Around. It’s good to see you, Azrad.”
“Wish I could say the same.” Raptor flat, Azrad’s gaze ate across time and space, threatening to devour him. The metal-stud piercing in his eyebrow winked, drawing attention to the burgundy highlights in his hair. A rough look. All Goth, no sophistication in sight. Not that it mattered. Nian didn’t care how the warrior looked. Lethal with loads of cunning, the male wielded know-how like a razor-toothed club… without mercy or an ounce of hesitation. The perfect instrument in the game Nian played. “The Nightfuries are a pain in the ass. There’s some really strange shit going on over here.”
Hope lit Nian up. “But you’re in?”
“Set up and on a roll,” Azrad said, looking more like a kingpin than a former slave kicking back in the office chair. “Haven’t met Bastian yet, but that’ll come.”
“And the rest of the Nightfuries?”
“Nearly got clipped by two of them tonight.”
“But you—”
“Yeah. First contact’s been made. Meeting’s set for tomorrow at midnight… Seattle time. Bastian’ll be there.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.” The chair squeaked as Azrad cupped the back of his head with both hands. Elbows folded out, he leaned into the backrest. “I put on a good show… got their attention in a big way. He won’t be able to resist meeting me. Will wanna know what I’m up to… and why I’m in his territory.”
“Well done.”
The warrior snorted. “Was there any doubt?”
Some. Nian didn’t voice the opinion, though. Azrad, for all his skill, wasn’t the most trustworthy. He was too strong-willed. Far too smart. Forget the fact he’d been little more than a slave less than two months ago, the warrior did as he pleased. Nian had known it the moment he secured Azrad’s release. He’d done it in secret. Made a deal with the devil right under the Archguard’s nose and offered the one thing the warrior wanted most in the world…
Freedom. Payback too, a chance to right the wrongs Rodin had done him.
Nian tipped his chin. “I’ll be at my computer, waiting for your call.”
“Uh-huh.” Staring at him from half a world away, Azrad lowered his arms and reached forward. His finger poised above the keyboard, the warrior winked at him. “Later.”
Hell, he hoped so. One never knew with Azrad.
All he could do was cross his fingers and pray Azrad kept his word.
Faith and honor. Two very big words he hoped played in his favor. ’Cause sure as he lived in Prague, Azrad possessed an agenda of his own. The warrior had craved more than just his freedom. He’d wanted to travel to Seattle. And now, for the first time, Nian wondered why.
Venom took the flight of stairs at a dead run. Three treads at a time. His chest heaved, burning from lack of oxygen. Clenching his teeth, his gaze riveted to the next landing, he pushed the pain away and pumped his arms, turning his legs into pistons.
Up. Up. Up.
He needed to reach the roof. Shift into dragon form and get airborne.
Knees acting like shock absorbers, the slam of his combat boots echoed the urgency, banging out a harsh rhythm. Sound reverberated in the enclosed space, taking up all the room inside his head. Grabbing the steel railing, Venom pulled, propelling himself into another tight turn and up another set of stairs. Muscles along his arm screamed in protest. He ignored the pain. Only one thing mattered… reaching his brothers-in-arms before the Razorbacks zeroed in and took out the SUV.
Zip. Bang. Gone.
That’s how it would go down. The Razorbacks would blow the vehicle sky-high the second they spotted it. And realized who sat inside. Unless, of course, he did something…
Like, oh, say, reach Swedish Medical’s frigging rooftop. Become rogue bait and his brothers’ shield. Buy enough time for everyone to find cover.
Cover. Right. Wishful thinking much? Probably. The Razorbacks might not be rocket scientists, but once locked on, the pack became efficient. Proof positive lay in the fact the bastards had nearly killed him two weeks ago. Venom wanted to say it had been a lucky shot but knew the truth. The enemy had used superior numbers to effect, cutting him off from the other Nightfuries in order to pick him apart in the swarm.
Pretty good strategy, all things considered. One-on-one, none could beat him. Hell, strike that. Three against one still came out in his favor, ’cause… yeah. He was just that strong, a powerhouse in a physical fight. The biggest, strongest, most—
All right, maybe not the most vicious.
Wick topped him in that department, but not by much. So, no question. He needed to get the hell out there. Right now. Before the extraction plan went from dicey to deadly.
Though, how that had happened, he didn’t know. Wick’s plan had been solid. Well thought out and executed to perfection. His eyes narrowed, Venom rounded the second to last stair landing. Something had tipped the rogues off. Or maybe someone. Venom growled. Azrad. Frigging male. Had to be him. Nothing else explained the warrior’s presence inside the hospital, never mind his interest in the female.
Well, other than angling for the “meeting” with Bastian.
A setup. The entire scenario smacked of an ambush. A way to draw the Nightfury commander into a trap in order to kill him. Sneaky. Smart. Well executed too. Especially since Azrad didn’t smell like a Razorback. But then, Ivar the psycho was just that cunning. Plant the seed, let curiosity fester, and wait for it to play out.
The perfect plan.
“Goddamn it,” he said, half-snarl, half exhale. “The bastard.”
One that wouldn’t last long. Why? Tomorrow night, at the meet and greet, Venom planned to rip Azrad’s balls off. Make him squeal like a stuck pig, crank the pain level to apocalyptic before he tore his head off, leaving nothing but a pile of dragon ash.
Red light flashed up ahead, bleeding onto the stair treads in front of him.
With a growl, Venom unleashed magic. Power unfurled, cracking like a whip. Pressure expanded in the narrow space, warping the air. Bolts popped, exploding from their holes like bullets. Metal pinged against metal. Venom ducked, avoiding the barrage, and hammered the emergency exit. Reinforced steel buckled. The door ripped off its hinges, blowing outward into the night sky. As the panel cartwheeled, then slammed into the helipad, Venom cleared the threshold.
Stone dust crunched beneath his boots. Within seconds, he planted his foot on the lip of the building and—
He was up and over, diving toward the pavement below.
Street lights flared below him. His night vision sparked, and winter wind blew his heavy trench coat wide open. Leather streaming behind him, Venom sighted the ground, tucked into a somersault, and… oh yeah. The switch-up felt good. Like a gift, hands and feet turning into talons as the tips of his razor-sharp claws clicked together. Dark-green scales accompanied the shift, wrapping him in interlocking dragon skin, snaking around the venomous barbs of his tail. Armored up and buttoned down, Venom unfurled his wings. Frigid air slid over his horned head, then moved on, rattling the spikes along his spine.
Spiraling into a side flip, he banked hard. The trajectory swung him around hospital smoke stacks. As his wing tip grazed a chimney, his eyes glowed. Blood-red gaze staining the air in front of him, he scanned the street below.
Nothing and nobody. No squeal of tires against the asphalt. No cherry-red SUV in sight either.
Relief hit Venom chest level. Wick and the others must be gone. Were hopefully hauling ass, taking the most direct route across the city, heading toward the bridge and I-90.
Intent on covering their retreat, Venom circled around again. Flying east seemed like the best option. If he play
ed his cards right, he could not only cover their retreat, but stay in between his boys and any inbound rogues.
“Ven… I’m airborne.” A dark-brown blur streaking through the gloom, Sloan flew in. Snow-white talons flashed as his buddy rotated into a flip, taking the wingman position on Venom’s right side. “You feel that?”
Goddamn, did he ever. No male worth his salt could ignore the static. The buzz hammered his temples, feeding him information. His sonar pinged, marrying instinct with experience. No mistaking the signs. Razorbacks. A shitload of them, rolling in hot.
Venom cursed under his breath. “No way we’ll outfly the bastards.”
“So what? You wanna play bait and switch?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Not a very good one, but… hell. Talk about a nasty twist.
Venom ground his fangs together. So much for getting away free and clear. He didn’t have much time. A minute—maybe two—before the rogues intercepted him. Wanting to be sure of the time frame, he mined the signal. Magic sparked and sensation spiraled, confirming his suspicions. The rogues had just broken through the three-mile barrier, allowing him to pinpoint their location. And if he could feel them? The bastards could track the magical trace he left in his wake too.
Sloan threw him a sideways glance.
He ignored the warning. Acknowledging it wouldn’t change anything. Neither would failing to make a plan.
Wheeling around a tall high-rise, Venom fired up mind-speak. “Wick… give me a grid.”
“Heading east on Jefferson. We’ll make a left on 23rd and head for the bridge.”
“No good. The rogues are locked in now.” Following his trajectory, Sloan sliced between two apartment buildings. A quick flip took him up and over Venom’s spine. “Find a hole and disappear until we clear the sky.”
“Motherfuck.”
Ignoring Mac’s curse, Sloan inhaled, drawing deep to scent the air. “I count ten.”
Venom shook his head. “Fourteen… minimum.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” Sloan said. “We need B and Rikar.”
No kidding. But that wouldn’t happen. Not in a hurry anyway.
Fury of Desire (Dragonfury Series #4) Page 13