Fury of Fire (Dragonfury Series #1)

by Coreene Callahan

  “Thank you,” she whispered in return, her terminal politeness coming to the fore. And why not? She wasn’t angry with Daimler. It wasn’t his fault that she found herself here, in a strange place with a half-dragon jerk.

  “I will leave you to dress in privacy. When you are ready, the kitchen is just down the corridor…to the right.”

  When she nodded, Daimler did a quick one-eighty and headed for the door. As the latch closed with a soft click behind him, Myst reached for the clothes. She needed to get to the kitchen ASAP. Not that she wanted to see Bastian again. Not a chance. Her angel was there…and if the lair was anything like a human home? The kitchen would be at its heart. A prime place to engage in a little reconnaissance…and find an escape route.

  Myst nodded. Good plan.

  Time to take the bull by the horns and find a way out of the nightmare.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Rikar sat at the kitchen island, amazed he was still alive. He should be ashed out, nothing but a messy pile on the clinic floor. He deserved it a hundred times over for touching his friend’s female. Okay, so he hadn’t actually been the one doing the touching. Didn’t matter. He’d crossed into uncharted territory, an abyss not many came back from.

  The fact he’d woken up at all this evening was a testament to Bastian’s control. Or love. Either way, he still couldn’t believe…

  Yeah, it was a mind fuck to the nth degree. Especially when he met B’s gaze—across a stack of waffles and ocean of maple syrup—and got nailed with a don’t-you-ever-do-that-again glare. If there’d been any doubt, that look sewed it up. Myst and her unbelievable energy were off limits. To him and every other male in the universe.

  Bag it and tag it, CSI Willows. Case closed.

  One with a slap-happy ending, too.

  Or was it?

  Try as he might, Rikar couldn’t find any happiness in the situation. Sure, B had found a high-energy female that appealed to him: goal accomplished, a totally high-five worthy moment. But, palm slapping aside, the suck factor was there, too. His best friend was headed for a whole lot of hurt. Rikar knew it like he was sitting there, ass glued to the stool, ignoring the others chowing down on Daimler’s homemade waffles as he stared at Bastian, hoping for the best while fearing the worst.

  Rikar guessed it was a question of degrees, of taking the good with the bad. God knew he wanted what Bastian wanted—a healthy race moving forward into the future. Warriors with strong backs and even greater determination, bringers of death to the Razorback rogues. But an equal part of him didn’t want to hurt a female—or to see one hurt—to accomplish the goal.

  The whole plan seemed back-assward to him.

  After all, his kind needed females like Myst. Ones with high energy to keep them well fed and healthy. What would it serve to take one to mate, only to see her die in childbirth?

  And the question was redundant. He already knew the answer, had gone round after round with Bastian so many times that he could hear the other male’s voice inside his head. Females with strong energy produced more powerful offspring. Stronger sons guaranteed a lethal force, males like him and Bastian. Warriors who were gifted beyond the physical with genetically enhanced firepower.

  The perfect examples? His ice. B’s crazy-ass exhale.

  Man, that lightning strike, psychochemical combo was some freaky shit. And that was before he got into the whole mind-meld thing his friend was packing. To have the ability to read and dissect the enemy’s strengths and weaknesses from a distance was one hell of an advantage. Christ, that kind of up-front info came in handy in a firefight.

  Playing with his fork, Rikar flicked a strawberry across his plate. He watched it somersault through the syrup with little enthusiasm. His hunger wasn’t about food. He needed to log some personal time with a female, draw some energy to flush out the last of the poison.

  Not that he was hurting anymore.

  Nah, the anti-venom had done its job, and the gash on his arm? Nothing but a thin pink line on his skin, one that would disappear completely before the night ended. Still, a faint ache stayed with him, giving him a headache that jammed up his ability to concentrate. A little sip from the right female and he’d be good to go.

  That was if B didn’t ground him for the night.

  Christ, he hoped not, even though protocol called for it. Warrior or not, an injury like he’d suffered wasn’t taken lightly. Had it been any one of his comrades, Rikar would’ve been on board with a night off the fighting rotation. But no way he could stay home. Not tonight. He needed to stretch his wings or he’d go rat-shit crazy…especially with Myst in the lair. He needed to stay the hell away from her. There’d be no double jeopardy on that one. He went anywhere near her again and Bastian would kill him.

  Rikar stabbed a piece of melon, wishing it was a Razorback’s head. Wishing Bastian would start the freaking meeting already.

  They were all here, in their usual spots around the kitchen island. Everyone except…

  “Where the fuck is Sloan?” With a scowl, Rikar put his fork down before he did more than mangle a fruit wedge.

  Sitting opposite him, forearms folded on the marble countertop, Venom raised a blond brow. “Temper, temper there, buddy.”

  “Sun’s going down,” he growled. Translation? Time to get out of Black Diamond and head downtown to hunt the enemy…and feed.

  Wick murmured his agreement. Which amazed the hell out of everyone. The taciturn male never talked, rarely made any sound at all. He was more phantom than male, ghosting in and among the Nightfury warriors…with them, but not really. The only one who truly knew him was Venom, his bunkmate. Yeah, those males were tight—as close as he and Bastian were—but their history remained a mystery. Ven protected the male like a cub, refusing to share the hows and whys.

  Fine by him. Rikar knew all he needed or wanted to know about Wick. The golden-eyed SOB was lethal, a sociopathic killer without conscience or reserve. The perfect male to have your back on a battlefield.

  The newborn’s cry started up like a siren on a fire engine. Soft at first, the unhappy sound gathered in strength until every male looked up from his carb overload to focus on the playpen on the other side of the kitchen. Looking like a blurry-eyed first-time father, Bastian pushed away from his stool and crossed to the floor-to-ceiling windows.

  Tinted black, the glass panels were alive with movement and magic at the moment. Soon, they would lighten on their own, go from black to crystal clear, allowing moonlight to shine into the aboveground lair. The special feature protected them from the sun, allowing them to move freely during the daylight hours.

  As he scooped up the infant and set him against his shoulder, Bastian strode back to his spot. Instead of sitting on his stool, though, he sat on the adjacent countertop, leaned back and tipped his chin in Rikar’s direction. “Any word from the others?”

  “Not yet.” Rikar shoved his plate away. Fine china slid across marble on its way to meeting the butter dish. The pair kissed with a clink as he said, “They should arrive at The Gathering soon, though.”

  A furrow between his brows, Bastian rubbed the baby’s back, his concern for the other members of the pack showing. As Nightfury commander, his friend carried a heavy burden…worried about them all. But what he hated most? Too much distance, and the fact that Haider and Gage were an entire continent away didn’t sit well. With any of them.

  “Fucking Archguard,” he murmured, disgusted with the idiots responsible for the mess about to go down in Prague.

  Venom snorted. “Arch-idiots, you mean.”

  Yeah, that sounded about right. The Archguard—the males who headed the five dynastic families and sat on the high counsel—were idiots. The good-for-nothing assholes sat on their aristocratic duffs, protecting their own interests while doing little to help the race. Christ, they had no clue what happened in the real world…the one outside the cushy, privileged society in which they existed.

  Dealing with them was like talking to someone who liv
ed in a bubble. Sound got through, sure. But it was just a whole lot of Charlie Brown…wah-wah-wah—wah-wah.

  None of that mattered, though. Not in the long run, because however much Rikar wanted to kick the whole lot of them to the curb, The Gathering couldn’t be ignored. All of Dragonkind revered the celebratory tradition. To not send a representative was akin to treason. So, Haider and Gage had made the trip. Now, all of them sat on pins and needles, praying the pair not only arrived safely, but made it back in one piece.

  The heavy clip of footfalls sounded in the corridor.

  Rikar shifted in his seat, releasing some of his tension. “About time.”

  Sloan jogged into the kitchen, red file folders tucked under his arm. The male threw him a dirty look. “Heard that, asshole.”

  “Can’t take the heat? Be on time.”

  Sloan’s dark gaze narrowed on him. “Get off my dick, Rikar.”

  Keeping his mouth closed, he bit down on a grin. Thank Christ for the dark-skinned SOB. Razzing Sloan always improved his mood. Though one look at B’s expression told him to lay off.

  “Sloan, whatcha got?” Bastian shifted the baby to his other shoulder.

  Poor little guy squawked, the sound pissed off with a dash of I-Want-My-Mommy. Which had pretty much been his MO all day…fussy with a capital F. They’d each taken a turn feeding him, walking him with the bouncing rhythm he seemed to like. Well, almost everyone had taken the baby out for a spin. Wick didn’t make the cut. No one trusted the male anywhere near an infant.

  Their resident computer genius—hacker of impenetrable databases—tossed the file folders onto the center of the island. Red card stock slid across white marble, bumping into the maple syrup pitcher. “Trouble.”

  Venom reached for one of the files. “The normal amount or the oh-my-God-hide-the-kids kind?”

  “The SPD kind.”

  “Fuck,” he and Bastian said at the same time.

  “Yeah, we got a pair of detectives up our ass.” Flipping a chair backwards, Sloan slid onto the seat, forearms folded on the rounded chair back. “Three unsolved murders…all females, dark hair, early twenties. Cause of death…catastrophic organ failure.”

  Another round of “fucks” took a turn around the kitchen.

  Sloan kept talking. “Oh and here’s the best part. Ash piles laid out next to the victims. Wanna take a guess what that means?”

  Bastian growled. The infant reacted with a startled cry. With a curse, B started pacing, up and back between the island and the bank of wall cabinets. As he patted the little guy’s bottom to soothe him, B switched up his tone and murmured, “Ivar.”

  “Yeah, that’s my guess, too,” Sloan said. “I think it’s a message.”

  “A big ‘fuck you’?” The second folder in his hand, Rikar scanned the contents, picking up the detectives names: Ian MacCord and Angela Keen. He looked at their pics and bios. Huh, both homicide veterans. And hmm. The female was gorgeous, with dark red hair and intelligent hazel eyes. “You think he’s that stupid? If he’s leaving ash, he’s taking one hell of a risk. If the humans get samples into the lab, they might find more than human DNA.”

  Venom sighed. “We’re gonna need to clean this up.”

  “I’ll do it,” Rikar said, grabbing onto his escape hatch. No way was he staying home tonight.

  “You sure?” Bastian’s eyes narrowed, drilling him with a glare as he walked past with the kid.

  Rikar nodded, smoothing his expression to hide his reaction. He hated when B gave him “the look.” It was like getting nailed in the grill by a wrecking ball. “Hit the lab, scramble the results. Find the detectives and scrub ’em. No sweat.”

  His best friend eyeballed him for a second and then switched gears. “All right. Here’s the plan. Wick, you’re going out with me tonight. Venom and Sloan…pair up. And Rikar…do what you need to do, then get your ass back here. You took a hit last night. No fighting until you’re one hundred percent.”

  Fucking hell. He’d just had his wings clipped.

  Even so, Rikar kept his yap shut. If he argued, B would ground him for sure. And while the situation was less than optimal, at least he wouldn’t be left behind. In the lair. With a female that belonged to his best friend.

  “We clear?” Bastian gave him another warning glare.

  “Got it,” he said, not willing to push his luck. “And the baby?”

  “Myst’ll take him.” With a quick inhale, Bastian glanced toward the corridor, then back to him. “You’re gonna want to put on a shirt, man. Right now.”

  He scrubbed a hand over his bare chest. Shit, he hated clothing. It made him hot and itchy, something his frosty side didn’t tolerate well. The only reason he wore shorts at all was so he didn’t freak his friends out by walking around with his equipment dangling.

  Then again, staying alive trumped being comfortable. And the status quo in the lair.

  Yeah, he had a feeling a new “normal” was about to hit Black Diamond. But that tended to happen when a female dropped into the picture and fucked up the flow.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Fine art wasn’t her forte. Myst always confused Monet with Manet, couldn’t tell Degas from Renoir, but the one she’d just walked past was a van Gogh. She paused mid-step to study the painting more closely. Yeah, definitely á la Vincent…as in painted by the master, not lifted from the rack at the local frame shop.

  God, the thing had to be worth a fortune.

  Why that surprised her, Myst wasn’t sure. She guessed she hadn’t expected quite so much from Bastian and his cohorts. In hindsight, though, she should have.

  Her bedroom alone spoke volumes. It was refinement and taste wrapped up in a beautiful package that boasted the best of everything, from the antique sled bed to the brass fittings holding the silk curtains away from the windows. The colors were spectacular, too, the palate of soft lavenders and darker grays wrapped in an envelope of creamy white.

  A feminine oasis complete with walk-in closet and matching bathroom.

  Standing in the middle of all that gorgeousness, temptation had rung her bell, urging Myst to hunker down and well…hide. The problem? She wasn’t a chicken. Somewhere along the line, the bok-bok gene had skipped a few branches in her family tree, leaving her with the chromosome pairing of stare-’em-down and make-’em-pay.

  “Fine time to find that out,” she said to herself.

  Flipping her hair over her shoulder, Myst got a whiff of ylang-ylang. She huffed. The scent was driving her crazy. Not that she didn’t like to smell good, but the ylang-ylang came with an added bonus. Damp hair. As in…she’d taken a shower recently. One she couldn’t remember.

  And wasn’t that a kicker?

  Bastian had…God. Had he really bathed her?

  An undeniable yes echoed inside her head, dragging her inch by uncomfortable inch toward humiliation. Myst dug her heels in, told herself to grow up, but embarrassment grabbed her anyway, then threw her over the edge. Feeling her cheeks heat, she hit herself with a whole lot of logic.

  So what? He’d seen her naked. Big deal, right? She wasn’t fifteen anymore and, reacting like a teenage girl when a man saw her N-A-K-E-D was just plain stupid. Not to mention unhelpful, especially since she’d decided not to hide…was, in fact, walking toward Bastian and not away.

  But the thing was…stupid or not, she couldn’t deny that it mattered to her. Bothered her on a purely feminine level. It made her feel vulnerable, at a distinct disadvantage in the silent war raging between them.

  How was she supposed to look him in the eye and not wonder if he was picturing her without a stitch on? Which, in turn, would make her think of him that way and…

  Well, it was bad all the way around.

  Myst rubbed her temples. She needed a new game plan. One in which she stood firm and told him to take her home. One that included telling him what she thought of his my-enemies-are-after-you theory. She didn’t need his protection. And honestly, the war between him and those other dragons didn�
��t have anything to with her, so why would anyone be after her?

  The easy answer? They wouldn’t. Bastian was obviously overreacting, being overprotective after overblowing the situation.

  And hallelujah. She was back on track, thinking about getting out, not being naked. With Bastian.

  Still, the whole shower incident made her want to button up and armor down. Myst checked the zipper on her hoodie. Yup, the purple Lululemon was still zipped to her chin, covering everything vital. She took a second to smooth the front of her yoga pants, then frowned at the polish on her toenails.

  Myst snorted. So much for looking tough. Yeah, because nothing said badass like bright pink nail polish and sequined flip-flops.

  As she flip-flip-flopped her way along, Myst watched painting after painting roll by. The wash of color enlivened the white walls, sitting comfortably above the chunky chair rail and gleaming hardwood floors. Even out here—in a place that did nothing more than get a person from point A to point B—everything looked expensive. The mitered corners met with meticulous crispness. Each halogen lined up with its neighbor, blending into the all-white scheme, no scuff marks in sight.

  The seamlessness made Myst uncomfortable. It was too perfect: no cracks or streaks of dust, no visible signs of weakness…anywhere.

  Having grown up in a tiny, two-bedroom house—one that put the shabby in Shabby Chic design—Myst couldn’t identify with that kind of wealth. It made her feel like a second-class citizen traveling in a foreign country without a passport. Still, she kept her feet moving, each flip-flop a steady echo against the beautiful backdrop.

  The corridor wasn’t the kind of place you sped through. It was too much like the The Met in New York City to gallop down like a runaway horse. She got the impression that if she sped up even a little, a guard—complete with museum uniform—would pop out of the woodwork and scold her.