Hamersveld hummed in understanding. “You’re impatient.”
“Always have been.”
“Give it time, zi kamir,” Hamersveld said, calling him brother in Dragonese, acting like a real friend, giving Ivar hope. “The superbug you cooked up is lethal. It’ll kick in.”
“I know.”
Ivar stifled a snort. So much for honesty. The false bravado in his tone said it all—he wasn’t sure. Didn’t know a damned thing.
Not for certain anyway.
“If it doesn’t take, though, we’re dead in the water.” Raising his hand, Ivar took a pull from the bottle. Cool and crisp, the Heineken teased his taste buds, then rolled, blazing a chilly trail down the back of his throat. “We’ll have to start from scratch.”
“Hasn’t happened yet.” Peeling the label off his bottle, Hamersveld crumpled it into a ball. A quick flick sent it flying into the open top of the six pack. “Stop dwelling on it.”
“Fuck you,” Ivar said, a growl in his voice. “It isn’t your baby out there—not doing its job.”
Hamersveld huffed. “You want a distraction while we wait for it to kill someone?”
“Please,” he said, taking another sip. “Whatcha got?”
“An idea.”
“About what?”
“The high-energy females you’ve got locked inside cellblock A.”
Oh, yeah. Nice segue. An excellent turn in the conversation.
The only topic guaranteed to help him forget Granite Falls. At least, for the moment. The human females imprisoned inside his underground lair focused his attention like nothing else could. A rare breed, the HEs were the cornerstone of his breeding program. He’d hunted for months to locate each one. Now, he agonized over their well-being. Fed them gourmet meals full of protein and vitamins. Made sure each got what she needed—exercise, sunlight, as many books as she could read. Measured fertility rates too—testing for every genetic deficiency under the sun—before injecting his pretty little test subjects with the serum he’d developed in his lab.
All he could do now was wait for the Meridian to realign at the spring equinox. One of only two times during the year Dragonkind became fertile. The realignment of the electrostatic bands triggered primal drive, forcing males of his kind into the hungering. A frenzied sort of mating . . . a state that ensured the continuation of his species. Which meant he needed to be ready.
He had a single shot. Just one to get it right.
The serum was designed to alter dragon DNA. Replace the reproductive XY chromosomal pairing with an XX, breed the first Dragonkind female in over six hundred years, and break the curse plaguing his kind. A lofty goal. Incredibly difficult to achieve. He’d spent years experimenting, looking for the right sequence, the precise combination that would free him from the yoke of human dependence.
As it stood now, Dragonkind males relied on human females to propagate the continuation of his species. In less than three months, that could all change when the Meridian realigned. But only if his serum worked and he succeeded in reprogramming dragon DNA. His captives held the potential inside their wombs.
Infinite possibility. So much hope. Liberty for all of Dragonkind.
Draining his bottle, Ivar set his empty beer on the windowsill and reached for another. “What are you thinking, Sveld?”
“We should make it a competition.” His mouth curved, Hamersveld tossed the beer cap like a coin. Metal spun end over end, flashing in the low light. Picking it out of mid-air, the male threw it toward the garbage can. “Don’t handpick the males. Make them compete for the privilege of breeding one of the females.”
“What—like some kind of Dragonkind Olympics?”
“Dragonkind Olympics . . . I like that.” Hamersveld grinned. “Top five win a night with an HE female when the Meridian realigns.”
“The champion gets first pick?”
The male tipped his Heineken in salute. “A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
Ivar’s lips twitched. “You entering?”
“Hristos, no.” With a grimace, Hamersveld threw him a disgusted look. “I don’t want any offspring. I’m still trying to kill my last mistake.”
“The Nightfury water-rat,” Ivar said, amused by his friend’s lack of paternal instinct. Talk about bizarre. Most males relished the idea of a family. Hamersveld couldn’t stand the thought. He liked his one-of-a-kind water dragon status. Didn’t want any competition, even if it came from his own son. “You sure you can eliminate him?”
“No question. But we’re not talking about that bastard right now.” Pushing away from the window, Hamersveld rolled his shoulders. Excitement sparked in his eyes, making the blue rims around his black irises shimmer. “I’ll organize everything, Ivar. Set up the parameters. Find the right location for the games . . . somewhere rural with rough terrain. Lay the groundwork and invite Razorbacks to sign up for the competition. All you have to do is judge it.”
Eyes narrowed, Ivar examined the possibility. The idea possessed an infinite amount of promise. Was a real no-brainer when fit into the greater scheme. The competition would drive two important outcomes. The first—ensure the strongest warriors bred his females. And second—the games would allow Ivar to assess the abilities of each Razorback. There had been an influx of new blood lately, some males arriving from Europe, others from a fractured pack in South America. Venezuela, maybe. Or Peru.
Ivar frowned. He couldn’t remember. Never a good sign. Particularly since the Nightfury assholes picked his soldiers off faster than he could figure out who’d arrived from where. Now, he didn’t know half the new members’ names. A circumstance in need of change. He couldn’t lead, after all, if he didn’t know who the hell formed his pack. He wanted names. He wanted skill levels. He wanted to look each warrior in the eye and decide whether he belonged in the Razorback pack.
Which was why he’d scheduled another round of dragon combat training.
Not the most popular decision.
The lockdown meant his warriors must stay out of the city. No female company or feeding until they completed the qualifying round. No tangling with Nightfuries either. A great idea given the recent death toll. Excellent upside . . . no dead Razorbacks. The downside of his objective, however, let Bastian off the hook for the foreseeable future. The prospect didn’t sit well with Ivar. But despite the disappointment, he refused to lift the lockdown. Sequestering the Razorbacks—keeping the males in training mode and off Nightfury radar—was the smartest play.
At least, for now.
He had bigger plans. Ones that didn’t include his soldiers getting KO’d by a bunch of bastards with huge chips on their shoulders. His eyes narrowed, Ivar took another drink. Fucking Nightfuries. Such a major pain in his ass. He really needed to do something about the warriors . . . like locate the Nightfury lair. Hit hard and fast. Massacre them all before Bastian knew what hit him.
Floorboards creaked beside him. “Come on, Ivar. Give it the green light.”
Ivar blinked and glanced at Hamersveld.
The male’s gaze bore into his. “It’s a solid plan.”
“A fun one too.”
“Endless amounts of entertainment.” Hamersveld’s mouth curved. “A total win-win.”
Anticipation thrummed through him. Dragonkind Olympics. A crazy concept with an excellent upside. “Set it up, Sveld. Let’s see where it leads us, but . . .”
Hamersveld raised a brow. “But what?”
“Make sure no one dies. We can’t afford to lose any more fighters.”
“Not a problem.” A gleam in his eyes, the Norwegian nodded. “I can work with—”
The hum of gears rattled through the quiet.
A second later, the elevator pinged. The sound of double doors opening followed, the faint hiss reaching him from the other side of the firehouse.
Ivar pushed away fro
m the wall. “Denzeil?”
“Ja,” the male called from the back of the house. Footfalls echoed as his second in command trotted around the wall separating the future kitchen from the soon-to-be living room. Dark eyes alive with excitement, Denzeil wagged the tablet he held. “Got some news. Action in Granite Falls.”
Thank God. Some results. It was about time.
“What kind?” he asked.
“A cluster of nine-one-one calls,” Denzeil said. “Five humans have been admitted to Cascade Valley Hospital so far . . . symptoms vary, but the notes in each file indicate the humans don’t have a clue what kind of infection is causing the problem.”
Hamersveld hummed. “Looks like your baby’s on the move, Ivar.”
Meeting Denzeil halfway across the room, Ivar accepted the tablet. He tapped the screen. The first nine-one-one call became audible. He listened to the message. Total panic in the human’s voice. Complete chaos in the background. A terrified husband calling on behalf of his wife.
Relief hit Ivar like a closed fist. He sucked in a quick breath. “It’s working.”
“Tip of the iceberg, boss man,” Denzeil said, grinning at him. “It’s just begun.”
“Wanna go take a look-see?” Palming Ivar’s shoulders from behind, Hamersveld gave him a congratulatory squeeze. “We’ve got a couple of hours before sunrise to—”
“Not yet. Let’s give the virus more time to incubate.” Twelve hours should do it. Would be long enough to monitor the activity and see how many humans became infected. Returning Denzeil’s grin, Ivar listened to the next call and thumped Hamersveld with the side of his fist. The love tap connected just above the warrior’s heart, making the Norwegian smile. “We leave at sundown tomorrow.”
“Fantastic,” Hamersveld murmured.
No kidding. Fantastic barely scratched the surface.
Fisting the front of Hamersveld’s shirt, Ivar jostled his new friend again. God. The sweet, sweet taste of victory. His science hadn’t failed. Wasn’t flawed, after all. Which meant phase two needed to be kicked into gear. He hummed in anticipation, ’cause . . . to hell with dragon combat training. His warriors and the training op in the Cascade Mountain Range would have to wait. Tomorrow night promised excitement of another sort. He had somewhere else to be—smack-dab in the middle of a hospital, collecting samples from the infected humans who called Granite Falls home.
Chapter Eight
Head bowed, still strapped to the rack, Gage tried to be patient. Fine mist fell, mixing with his blood, trickling down his chest, toying with his willpower. Fuck. He wanted to move so badly. To unleash hell and unload on the male tormenting him. He gritted his teeth instead. Waiting it out was the better option. The second he moved, so much as twitched, Ferland would grow a brain and get a clue. And tipping his hand? Not a great idea, but . . . God. It was hard to stay still while the prick took his time unlocking the cuffs holding him against the steel grill.
Metal flashed in his periphery.
Keys jangled on the large ring.
Anticipation made his heart pound harder. The chaotic thump pushed adrenaline through his veins. Now he couldn’t hear a thing, just the blood rush of cerebral burn and the threat of sensory overload. His dragon senses flexed. The magical warp skewed perception, upping the intensity. His focus narrowed. Pain gouged at his temples. Gage pushed the agony aside, refusing to feel anything, and listened to Ferland flip through the assortment of keys.
He was so close. Almost there. One shackle already open. Three more keys, two ankles, and one wrist away from complete freedom.
Long odds in a dicey game.
Gage didn’t care. Unworkable situations were his specialty. He never avoided difficult assignments. Or shied away from the near impossible. Easy bored him. So did inactivity. Intrigue coupled with a healthy dose of challenge added more flavor. Like a hit of hot sauce, the promise of action jazzed him like nothing else could. The Nightfury warriors understood his propensity for violence, accepting his maniacal lean toward lethal without question. But the prick about to uncuff him? Gage cracked his uninjured eye open. He smothered a smile. Excellent. The jerkoff still didn’t have a clue.
Finding the right key, the brainless wonder fit it to the lock next to his right hand and . . . umm, baby. One step closer to liberation. His quick reflexes coupled with the enemy’s distraction. The perfect storm. An epic shift in circumstance. A beautiful gift in a dark place—thank God. Despite the lockdown, Ferland’s ineptitude gave Gage the upper hand. Which meant he must stay still and act weak. The instant the male realized he wasn’t half-dead, he’d be finished. Done. Game over. No way off the vertical rack bolted to the wall. No chance of shattering the shackles. No prospect of getting out—or helping Haider—at all.
The thought rooted him in purpose.
The threat of failure made him play the game.
With a groan, Gage sagged in the shackles, acting like a pansy too weak to hold himself upright. The move left a bad taste in his mouth but, well . . . screw it. Who the hell cared? Playing possum was a necessary evil. It would make his enemy’s task more difficult. Gage’s attempt at theater more convincing too, so—
Ferland cursed under his breath.
Gage swallowed a growl of satisfaction. Perfect. Right on time. His plan was working. And Ferland was officially screwed. So distracted by his weight on the rack, the prick had yet to notice his alertness. Or the fact he’d cracked his eyes open—to watch and wait. Lids at half-mast, his gaze slid to the other male in the room. Osgard stood to one side—hands folded, head bowed, shoulders hunched instead of squared—looking petrified.
Without so much as a twitch, Gage sized the kid up. Tall and gangly with too-big hands and feet, Osgard had yet to grow into his body. Sixteen—maybe seventeen—years old . . . at least three years from his change and first shift into dragon form, he wore vulnerability like a scent. An awful one soaked in fear, hopelessness, and . . .
Ah, hell.
The fledgling was out of his league. Completely boxed in too. Particularly since his body language indicated more than just uncertainty. It screamed abuse. The kind of beaten down and broken most males didn’t come back from, never mind survive.
Regret punched through, hammering Gage like a closed fist.
Talk about unfortunate. So unlucky. For Osgard, sure, but for him too. He wasn’t in the habit of killing Dragonkind infants. But then, life-threatening circumstances called for brute force driven by unerring fury. He couldn’t spare Osgard and hope to get out of the death squad’s underground lair alive. Everyone he encountered in the subterranean labyrinth would die. Pure and simple. Safer for him. Better for Haider. The sooner he found his friend, the more distance he’d put between them and the Archguard. The quicker he’d get word to Bastian too. A couple of hours at most before Zidane came back from the morning meal. Which meant he didn’t have time for bullshit. Not an instant for mercy or the rise of a rusty conscience either, so—
A loud click echoed, bouncing off scarred stone walls.
The shackle swung open, liberating his right ankle. Both feet free, one wrist cuff to go. Gage sagged a little more, allowing his knees to dip. Ferland turned toward the last shackle. Metal scraped metal as he fit key to padlock. Another snick sounded. The Mastercraft released with a pop. The lock scraped against the steel bracket holding his arm over his head.
Gage tensed, getting ready to move.
He forced strength into his limbs. Muscles tightened over his bone. His fingertips twitched. The involuntary action signaled eagerness. Gage shut it down. He couldn’t afford a single mistake. Not now, just moments away from freedom. Seconds ticked past, sliding into more. Boots rasping against the floor. Ferland shifted next to him. Gage started the countdown. Three. Two . . .
With a flick, Ferland swung the last shackle wide.
One and—
Go!
&nbs
p; His bare feet landed on the concrete floor with a thump. Gage exploded off the rack. His skin peeled off hot steel, making pain receptors squawk along his spine. Anguish clawed around his rib cage. He ignored the sharp jab to focus on his prey. Ferland’s head snapped up. Eyes widening in alarm, the male cursed.
Gage cranked his hands into twin fists.
The prick backpedaled in a hurry. With a panicked spin, he vaulted toward the wall full of torture tools. Gage snarled and lunged after him. No way. Not going to happen. A fair fight wasn’t part of the plan. Neither was giving Ferland a chance to reach any of the blades laid out on the tabletop.
Rage murmured his name.
He attacked. Ferland squawked as Gage caught hold of his shirt. Cotton ripped, shredding in his hand. With a snarl, he tightened his grip, raised his fist and—
Bam!
His knuckles slammed into the side of the asshole’s skull. Ferland’s chin snapped to one side. The smell of blood infused the air. In a panic, the male lashed out, trying to land a punch. Gage countered and, with a yank, dragged the enemy full circle. His eyes narrowed on the torture rack. An idea sparked, hammering his temples, obliterating restraint. The fucking bastard. He’d kept him pinned for hours. Helpless in the face of pain. Locked down by electrical current. And enjoyed every second of it.
One step. A quick shift to his right, and—
Gage rammed Ferland’s head into the rack.
Bone met steel. Once. Twice. A third time and . . . crack! The prick’s skull split wide open. Blood gushed, splattering across the grill. Gage hammered him again. Ferland sagged in his grip. A death gurgle spilled from the male’s mouth. Chest pumping, Gage loosened his hold. Matted with blood, the male’s hair slid between his fingers. With a snarl, Gage twisted. Another pop echoed, reverberating against stone walls as he snapped his enemy’s neck.
Fury of Obsession (Dragonfury Series Book 5) Page 11