It was foolishness.
Madness at its most lethal. But as he looked from Bastian to Rikar, searching for a reason to say no to B’s insane suggestion, he couldn’t find a single objection. Wanting her felt right. Being with her felt right. She felt right, more true than anything he’d ever known and . . . shite. He was caving, considering, hoping to have a chance to win Hope’s heart.
Snow flurries drifting in his wake, Rikar hopped from the boulder. His paws thumped down. The ground shook, raising the scent of wet dirt and old leaves. “The challenge lies in making her want to stay with you.”
“How do I do that? How did you convince Angela and Myst tae stay?” he asked, curiosity running rampant. His brothers-in-arms held the key. Each one knew the secret. Could answer the question most on his mind: how to not only claim Hope, but keep her happy for a lifetime as well. Some males would scoff at the idea. Forge found himself enthralled by it. He wanted what the mated Nightfury warriors had found—love, connection, acceptance from their chosen females. “Hope has a life beyond our pack. An important one. She helps people heal, guides them past extreme trauma into healthier lives. The world needs more like her, not less.”
Bastian raised a brow. “Who’s to say she can’t continue to do that?”
Surprise rolled through him before the idea caught fire. As the blaze grew in the center of his chest, understanding added to the inferno, giving him hope, providing him with an incentive that might entice his female. “You mean, keep her practice?”
“It’s not ideal, but . . .” Rikar paused as though wrestling with his own demons. “Angela leaves the lair during the day several times a week. She’s a born investigator with an inquisitive mind. Keeping her from what she loves would be wrong. Cruel even. I would never do that to my mate.”
“It’s dangerous,” Forge said, turning Rikar’s arrangement over in his mind.
“It is, but necessary too,” Bastian murmured. “And Ange is not alone. Myst and the other females go to the movies all the time. And Daimler takes them shopping at least twice a week.”
“Fucking Numbai. The male loves that shit.” Lips twitching, Rikar shook his head. “Point is, Forge—I don’t like it when Angela leaves the lair without me. It drives me crazy. I worry when she’s gone, but I also trust her to follow the rules. As long as she stays inside the lines and is home before nightfall, she gets all the freedom she needs.”
“Then I have a chance.”
“Buddy,” Rikar said. “You’ve got more than just a chance. You’ve got nature working in your favor, ’cause—”
“If you’ve bonded with her, Hope’s sure as hell bonded with you.” Pushing out of his crouch, Bastian straightened and, sitting like a cat, wrapped his spiked tail around his front paws. “Energy-fuse is a marvelous thing, my brother. Use it. Talk to her, touch and please her, strengthen the connection until—”
“She yearns for you,” Rikar said, a predatory gleam in his eyes.
Liking the plan, Forge smiled. “In other words—play dirty.”
“All’s fair in love and war,” Venom said, breaking into the conversation.
Forge cursed under his breath. Wonderful. Just terrific. All his dirty laundry aired in front of the entire pack. Freaking Venom, nosy little prick. “You wanker—you’ve been eavesdropping.”
“Well, duh,” Venom said, an eye roll in his voice. “Now, if you lovebirds are finished with the Dr. Strangelove routine, we’ve got incoming.”
Gage laughed.
Wick growled.
Haider sighed. “Focus, guys. The enemy is seven miles out.”
“All right,” Forge said, half grumble, half snarl. “But I’m beating the shite out of Venom when we get home.”
“Perfect,” Gage said. “I’ll watch. Haider—you bring popcorn.”
Venom snorted in amusement. “You can try, but . . . Mac’s been teaching me kung fu.”
Mac’s name sobered everyone in a hurry.
Silence fell as Forge refocused.
“Bastian—is Hamersveld among them?” Nian asked, interrupting the mental shuffle, wanting his theory confirmed.
Firing up his magic, Bastian put his talent to use, reading the enemies’ strengths and weaknesses from a distance. “Four rogues in the group. Two fire dragons, one acid breather, and . . . bingo. Water dragon flying point. Armor-up, boys. We’re good to go.”
A zap sizzled through mind-speak as Wick and Gage powered up the Tasers.
“I’m on point, lads. Donnae break cover until I do.”
A round of agreement came through mind-speak.
Forcing Hope from his mind, Forge leapt over the cliff and unfurled his wings. Winter wind blasted over his scales. The beach rose to greet him. His webbing caught air, lifting his bulk as B and Rikar took flight behind him. As the rattle and shake got going, he banked hard and flew for the tip of the island. He needed to reach the rim of the outer harbor and circle around without being detected before the rogue pack broke through the three-mile marker. The second he reached the target zone, Nian would add to his cloaking spell and throw up an illusion shield, blocking the unique energy signal Forge emitted in dragon form. The extra camouflage served one purpose—to hide him from the enemy long enough to bring Hamersveld to ground.
Great strategy.
The perfect game plan.
Now all he needed was precise execution and a shitload of luck.
On point, Bastian and Rikar at his back, Forge wheeled over the north end of Elliott Bay. Whitecaps kicked up, misting the underside of his belly. Frost snaked over his scales. His fire dragon annihilated the chill, melting the ice before the fury of his flight blew it off his skin. Focus cranked to maximum, he fine-tuned his radar. Eyes aglow, his night vision sparked, throwing purple wash out in front of him as the cityscape jumped into sharp relief. Urban lights winked in the distance. Waves rolled into the Seattle shoreline, washing under piers and into concrete breakers, making ocean vessels rock on deep keels.
With a quick flick, he adjusted his sonar and sent out an exploratory ping. Magic warped the air around him. Raindrops ceased falling. The wind stopped blowing. Surrounded by silence, Forge flung his net wide, hunting for his quarry in the distance. The magical rush spilled over the terrain beyond the Sound, coating everything in its path: waterfront and skyscrapers, suburban homes and parklands . . . the forest beyond the city limits. Nothing remained untouched as he gathered the spellbound threads in a mental fist and pulled.
The slow draw made his senses tingle.
The information he needed arrived on the forefront of his brain.
He hummed in satisfaction. Almost in range. Less than four miles away. So close to breaking through the three-mile limit and into his circle.
Impatience poked at him.
His heart thumped faster, knocking against his rib cage.
Wheeling wide, gaze locked on the perfect spot to intercept his prey, Forge shook his head. Time to slow it down. Wait-and-see was the name of the game. Hamersveld wasn’t an idiot. A warrior in his own right, the male understood tactics and knew how to fight. Which gave him one shot at the bastard. The second he realized his peril, Hamersveld would turn tail and run. So . . . one chance to get it right, a thread-the-needle kind of mission.
Not optimal given the stakes.
Screwing up—missing his opening—wasn’t an option. Answers to the illness killing Mac couldn’t wait. He needed to bring the big bastard to ground . . . fast. Time the attack. Cut off all avenues of escape. Force the warrior to fight instead of flee. Keep him in the pipe long enough for Gage and Wick to arrive and unleash the nasty-ass Tasers.
Smart plan, if it worked.
Forge clenched his teeth on a curse. He despised lopsided odds. Hated gambling even more. And this shite? Hell, it had casino written all over it.
Taking a calming breath, Forge pocketed his aggression and forced himself to wait. Nothing to it. Tight and tactical. Patience and perfection. All four would get him what he needed—
the enemy pack inside the kill zone. Each Razorback must cross the three-mile marker before he made his move. The instant the final rogue flew inside the Nightfury net, he’d close ranks and unleash hell.
Sensing his unease, Bastian knocked on his mental door. “Steady.”
“Put a leash on it, Forge.” Flying off his right wing tip, Rikar glanced at him sideways. “Wait until Nian—”
“Shield up. The illusion is stable,” Nian said, voice quiet in the wind rush. “Stay in the seam, Forge. He won’t be able to detect you there.”
He nodded even though Nian couldn’t see him, searching for the magical break in the cloud cover. He spotted the narrow opening within seconds. His mouth curved. God love Nian. The male was a veritable genius. And as the seam grew, descending from the heavens like a tear in the fabric of time, Forge sensed the shift in perception. An envelope formed, creating a narrow crease in the sky where reality warped into illusion.
A nifty trick. Clever sleight of hand. Duplicity at its best.
Nian excelled at the art, fooling males into believing nothing existed where danger stood firm. Only Haider, a silver dragon—a Metallic and master at detecting deception—could see through the seam and what lay hidden inside it when the Archguard prince stepped into full illusion. A circumstance which rubbed Nian the wrong way. Forge huffed. Completely understandable. No Dragonkind male enjoyed having the veil stripped away and his magic exposed. Some secrets needed to stay where they belonged—cloaked in shadows.
“Forge, what the hell are you—”
“Hang on tae your knickers, lads. I’m going dark,” he said, cutting Venom off mid-scold. “Thirty seconds. Gage, Wick—get ready.”
Both males growled.
Forge went wings vertical, rocketing into the seam at full velocity. Tall and narrow, the crease tunneled into space, creating a new dimension, a place between here and there. Blue swirls undulated on the walls, breaking into patterns as he flew past. The structure expanded and contracted, reacting to his speed. Lightning cracked. Electricity sizzled. He ignored the light show and scanned the sky beyond his hidey-hole. His senses narrowed. He expanded the cosmic net, hunting for Hamersveld north of the city.
His sonar pinged again.
The spikes ridging his spine rattled and—
Flying in formation, four dragons rose over treetops.
Shark-gray scales flashed in the gloom.
Forge bared his fangs. Fantastic. Better than he hoped. Hamersveld, leading the pack in all his water dragon glory. In no hurry, the male rolled into a wide turn and headed toward the Sound. Forge’s muscles tightened. His talons flexed, readying for the fight and . . . bloody hell. Could it be any more perfect? Unaware of his presence, the enemy had turned toward him instead of away, putting the enemy pack on a collision course with the illusion he hid behind.
Wings spread wide, jagged spine swaying, Hamersveld slid into a low glide, coming up over building tops toward Puget Sound. Forge started the countdown. Not yet. Almost in the sweet spot. Wanting to go, knowing he couldn’t, he hauled on his reins, waiting for the window of attack to open and . . .
Three. Two. One—
Liftoff!
With a growl, Forge turned hard. He wheeled into the wall. The seam split, shattering the illusion. The air sizzled. Blue swirl exploded across the night sky. As the boom went supersonic, rattling windows in apartment buildings, his brothers-in-arms took flight.
Nightfuries roared.
Enemy dragons screamed.
The Razorbacks surrounding Hamersveld put on the brakes. Ahead of the pack, Hamersveld shrieked in fury. The snarl ripped through the air as a wall of water blew sky-high. With a quick shift, Forge banked around the barricade. His wing tip cut through the waterfall as he moved to intercept. On the other side of the cascade, Hamersveld wing flapped, trying to compensate, struggling to adjust, determined to alter his flight path.
Too little, too late.
Divide and conquer. Split Hamersveld from the group. The plan was already in full swing as Bastian and Rikar ambushed the other rogues, cutting Hamersveld off, leaving him alone and unprotected.
“Go!” The snap of bone came through mind-speak. A male screamed in pain as Bastian yelled, “Wick . . . Gage—move it. Forge—bring him down.”
Forge growled. Like he wasn’t trying? But . . . shite, the male was fast. Parrying his thrust. Using water to keep him at bay. Baring his fangs, Forge twisted into a quick flip. He feigned left and broke right, smashing through another water barrier. Hamersveld backpedaled. Talons spread, Forge lashed out with his paw. His claws caught smooth gray scales. Muscles along his side pulled. Warm blood splashed up him forearm. Hamersveld howled. Forge hissed in pleasure. Fuck, that felt good. Just right. Perfect in every way as, spiked tail flying, he whirled around. His razor-sharp tail followed in a vicious arc and . . .
Wham!
Bone cracked. Dragon blood flew, disintegrating into ash as Hamersveld’s head whiplashed. The brutal crunch echoed. He nailed the big male again. And again. Talons slashing. Claws deployed. Spiked tail flying. Showing no mercy as he pushed him out of the city, back toward the forest, and away from the water. Hamersveld countered, spun fast, and lashed out with his jagged tail.
Forge ducked.
Razor-sharp spikes clipped one of his horns. Agony pulsed through him. Blood gushed over his forehead. Forge ignored the running stream and whirled right. The move put him behind the enemy. In prime takedown position. Not wasting a second, he grabbed the male’s hind leg. His claws dug in, cleaving through muscle to reach bone. Hamersveld screamed. Forge yanked and, wings pulling hard, hauled him backward through the air.
Bringing his tail around, he slashed the bastard’s wing. Thick webbing ripped. His prey grunted in pain and lost altitude. Still locked onto the enemy, the added weight wrenched his arm. Muscles stretched, threatening to rip his shoulder from its socket. A water club slammed into his face. His teeth rattled. Hamersveld clawed at him, leaving wide, bloody tracks on his scales.
Battling to stay in the air, Forge scanned the sky. Where the hell was his backup? He needed some—right now. No way he could hold Hamersveld much longer. Even with his wing torn, the big male was strong. He might make it to the Sound if Forge let go. Once in the water, he’d never be able to catch him and . . . goddamn it. Where the hell was—
Hamersveld stabbed him with a water spear.
A gash opened on his ribs. “Fucking hell!”
“Hold on to him, Forge!” Bronze scales flashing, Gage rocketed into view. He pointed the Taser, aiming for Hamersveld’s flank. “I’ve got the bastard lined up.”
Seeing reinforcements arrive, Hamersveld shrieked in alarm. “Fen!”
The cry for help reverberated.
The tattoo bracketing Hamersveld’s spine shimmered. The glimmer turned to red glow. Gray smoke misted the air in front of Forge’s face. Yellow eyes peered out from the strange fog. Vertical pupils narrowed on him. Dual-clawed forepaws struck, slashing at him from inside the brume. Forge reared, trying to get out of range and—
Small fangs flashed in the gloom. An earsplitting shriek tore the night wide open.
The devastating sound blasted through his head. A boom detonated inside his skull, hammering his temples, blurring his vision, shaking him like an earthquake. The wren screamed again, using his death cry to debilitating effect. His body seized. Forge jerked as his grip loosened. His claws slipped, releasing his hold on Hamersveld as the wren emerged, fully formed, from the tattoo.
Turning tail, the water dragon fled, flying fast toward Puget Sound.
“Nay!”
His scream of denial blasted through the forest. Treetops rocked in reaction. Head and ears ringing, muscles still seizing, Forge refused to cry defeat. Reaching out, he grabbed hold of Fen’s tail. The miniature dragon whipped around. Raptor-like claws slammed into his shoulder. More blood rolled over his scales. Forge didn’t care. No way was he letting Fen go. He tightened his grip instead, relishing the
burn as spikes cut into his palm.
He yanked Fen sideways.
The wren screamed again, hammering him with sound waves.
The barrage slammed into him. His eyes crossed. “You little bastard.”
Fear bloomed on Fen’s face. He called for his master. Hamersveld roared. Magic slithered on the night breeze and—
Fen disintegrated in his hand.
Smoke drifting between his fingers, Forge froze, hanging in mid-air. What the hell had just happened? Nothing natural was his guess. But as he watched the wren shoot toward Hamersveld in a messy scramble, rocketing through the sky in a tumble of wispy black smoke, he frowned, struggling to understand. Eyes glowing from inside the fog, the miniature dragon looked back at him. The little freak hissed once more, then disappeared, merging with the male’s tattoo, becoming one with his master as Hamersveld escaped into the water.
Time slowed.
The other Nightfuries cursed, flying in to surround him.
Sloan thumped him with his tail. “What the hell happened? We had him. We—”
“Shut up,” Forge murmured without an ounce of ire. “Let me think.”
The pack paused, growing silent, circling him like vultures around a fresh kill.
Forge didn’t notice. Brow furrowed, he hovered in place and stared at the spot where Hamersveld had disappeared, letting the effect of the wren’s death cry dissipate. A headache took its place, hammering his temples as he assembled the facts. Understanding arrived in a hurry. Water dragon, wren, magical tattoo. The three were connected, an intricately woven story no one had ever bothered to tell and . . . bloody hell. He should’ve realized earlier. Nothing happened in a vacuum, and as realization struck, the way forward hit him like a clawed fist. All of a sudden, he knew how to help his best friend.
Fury of Surrender (Dragonfury Series Book 6) Page 28