Fury of Ice

by Callahan, Coreene

  Wait a second.

  He blinked. The beast blinked back, aquamarine eyes fixed on him. He turned his head a little to the left. Yup, the dragon followed, mirroring each movement. As a load of WTF got rolling, Mac breathed faster, air sawing in and out of his lungs. The scaled chest rose and fell with his, the clickety-click of scales sounding loud in the silence.

  Uh-uh. No way. His brows collided. That couldn’t be him. It couldn’t be, but—

  The dragon’s eyes were the same color as his, and a memory was chasing its tail inside his head. Leading the recall parade? A deep voice talking to him, echoing inside his head, helping him change into—

  Holy shit. He was a dragon.

  A sound of distress left his throat. The whimper sounded raw, on the edge of fear, but Mac didn’t care. The weak-ass reaction could go to hell. Something bad had happened, and now, he was in monster territory. Not a big problem on a normal day. He dealt with the human variety all the time, but…

  God help him.

  He scrambled backward, away from the reflection. The scrape of claws on wood floors bounced around, echoing off brick walls, making the black glass swell and ripple. The clatter made him look down. He flexed his hand. A huge talon responded, curling and releasing on command. Jesus Christ. That didn’t belong to him. It couldn’t, but as he spread his fingers and stared at the webbing between the claws, he knew denial wasn’t an option. He wasn’t dreaming. The blue-gray dragon was not only real, he was it. It was him. One and the frickin’ same.

  His breath came faster. Twin tendrils of steam rose from his nostrils, freaking him out as viselike pressure roped his rib cage. One crank at a time, the band tightened until he couldn’t breathe and the walls closed in. Claustrophobia lit him up, warning him to get the hell out before he got buried alive. His gaze swung to the patio doors on the other side of the loft. Could he make it? Would he fit through them like—

  “It’s all right, buddy.” Hushed and even, the voice came from out of the shadows. Mac latched onto it as panic spun him around the lip of insanity. The sucking whirlpool tunneled his vision, narrowing his world until he couldn’t see anything but blur. “Easy. You’re all right.”

  “Out,” he rasped, not recognizing his own voice. He sounded like a monster, all growl and hiss, nothing like his normal self. Pressed up against the back wall, he shook his head, and sensation tingled, slid across his temples, then up to surround the horns on…Jesus. The things were growing out of his skull. “I need…out.”

  “I hear ya, but not yet,” the voice said, sounding a lot closer. “Hang tight, buddy…let me explain. We’ll get you straightened out.”

  “Can’t wait.” Seeing spots now, a second away from hyperventilating, Mac clung to the only thing that mattered. Kept his sanity by focusing on Angela. As always, she helped ground him, driving the “holy shit” reaction to the back of his mind. He needed to find her…to make sure she was safe. “Ange…my partner…she’s in trouble and—”

  “Not anymore.” Shadows morphed into the outline of a man. Raising his hands, the guy turned his palms up, a gesture meant to reassure. But it was the eyes Mac focused on. The shimmering green felt like a lifeline and, as he grabbed hold, the guy said, “Rikar’s got her. She’s safe, Mac.”

  Mac’s brows collided. Rikar. He knew that name. Remembered the voice and the patience. The kindness over the hours he’d spent in hell. And God…right this minute? Big sissy or not, he needed to hear it again.

  “Where is he?”

  “With Angela. Protecting her…making sure she’s okay.”

  Relief rolled through him. Which was just plain stupid. He didn’t know this guy. Didn’t trust him, but his cop instincts were squawking again, telling him that despite the blurry eyesight and the fucked-up situation, the guy was solid—for real in a trustworthy kind of way—and Mac wanted to believe him.

  Claws clicked as he set his foot back down on the floor. “Where?”

  “At Black Diamond…our lair.” A little closer now, the voice came at him like a sidewinder through the blur. “It’s solid, Mac. Our enemies can’t track her there.”

  “Let’s go,” he said, needing more than reassurance. No way he would believe it until he saw her for himself. Add that to the bonus of getting the hell out of the loft’s confining space, and yup, it was win-win all the way around. “I want to see her…to make sure.”

  “Sun’s coming up, big guy.”

  Mac frowned, a big “so what?” rolling around inside his head.

  Like a mind reader, the guy murmured, “One thing you need to know about our kind, Mac. We don’t tolerate sunlight. You go out now? You’ll get fried.”

  “Shit.” Guess now he knew why he didn’t sleep much. He’d always been that way, staying up all night, falling into bed when morning lit to catch a few Zs. It explained a lot, actually, and as the puzzle piece clicked into place, his brain came back online. Along with the mental focus, his vision evened out. He studied the guy standing in front of him. Dark hair. Green eyes. With the intensity of a lightning strike and the muscle to back it up, he looked human enough, but…yeah, not quite. “You’re Bastian. Rikar’s commander.”

  “Good…you remember.” Dropping his hands, Bastian nodded, like he approved. “The change is an ass-kicker. Most Dragonkind males come out of it blank even when they know what’s coming…even if they’ve been trained beforehand.”

  Dragonkind males. The words gave him pause. Why? He didn’t know exactly because sure as shit, he was one of them. Frowning, he flexed his talon again, then glanced down and got a load of…good God, look at that thing. A tail, tricked out with razor-sharp edges: top, bottom, around the tip. Trying not to flip out, he curled the length around his paws, took a harder look. Wow. It looked lethal, and if it hadn’t freaked him out, he might’ve thought it was cool.

  Awe rose along with disbelief. He glanced at Bastian. “How…I mean…Jesus fucking Christ. I’m thirty-four. How could I not have known I’m not…”

  “Human?”

  His throat went tight as Mac nodded.

  “You are…half human. Born of a human female and a Dragonkind male.” Stepping up close, Bastian rapped his knuckles against his shoulder. High-pitched sound pinged, echoing as though he’d just struck steel instead of his fancy new skin. “I don’t know how you were missed, but your sire didn’t know about you. No way he would’ve left you in the human world if he’d known you existed.”

  The old hurt surfaced. It always did when he thought of his father, a man he’d never met…who’d never claimed him. Rescued him from a world where no one gave a damn what happened to him. But the idea that the man he’d dreamed of meeting hadn’t abandoned him after all? Jesus, the knowledge filled the void, the empty corner of his heart where hurt had lived for so long.

  Maybe it was bullshit. Maybe it wasn’t. Mac didn’t care. He liked the new version better than the one he’d lived with his entire life. His mother dead on a hospital operating table. No family to claim him. All the years spent at Sacred Heart Orphanage.

  Home sweet fucking home.

  “I know it doesn’t make sense to you right now, but had your sire known…” Bastian trailed off, and the pause spoke volumes. The guy understood exactly what he felt. What he relived day after day. All the pain he buried deep, trying to forget. “He would’ve come for you.”

  Tears burned the back of his throat. Goddamn it. He’d turned into a frickin’ sissy, drawing comfort from a man he didn’t know. But Bastian provided it without hesitation. No doubt about it. The guy was tight in the head, solid in the heart, and man, if he didn’t pull it together in the next three seconds, they’d break into a bawling rendition of “Kumbaya.” Sniffle-sniffle-sob-sob.

  Mac cleared his throat. “Look, I’m—”

  A tingle swept the back of his neck, rattling the razor blade along his spine. Mac tensed, his spidey sense putting him on high alert. As he watched and waited, a shadow flew in, landing on the balcony beyond the patio door.r />
  What the hell was that? He thought they were alone, but more had joined the party. Now all he sensed was anger. His eyes narrowed. Yup, definitely. A load of pissed off was coming down the pipe in his direction. Shifting right, he stepped around Bastian and into a crouch. Getting low seemed like the thing to do…the best bet when under attack.

  With a muttered “fuck,” Bastian slapped a palm to his chest. “Ease up, my man. Nothing doing.”

  Bullshit. Something was definitely “doing.”

  The patio door slid open. Light exploded through the opening, blinding Mac. With a curse, he squinted, trying to get a read on what was coming at him. A no-go. All he could see was a bright band of sunlight on the horizon. Frickin’ eyes. Stupid daylight. Like he needed an eyeful of spots right now?

  Bastian pivoted, planting himself between him and the door. “Anything?”

  A dark silhouette crossed the threshold, shook its head. “Lothair went to ground…found a wormhole or something. And we ran out of time.”

  “Fucking rogue.” With a growl, the second guy walked into the loft behind the first. The lock clicked as the glass slid closed behind him, shutting out the sun. Thank God. Now all Mac needed to do was clear the dots floating in front of his eyes. As he blinked rapid-fire, guy number two said, “We’ll find him come nightfall. Send his balls back to Ivar in a basket.”

  Surprise lit across Bastian’s face. “Good to know, Wick.”

  “Jeez, man,” the blond guy said, staring at his buddy. “More than three words strung together…what’s up with you?”

  Black hair glinting blue in the dimness, Wick flipped his friend the bird.

  “Oookkay…back to normal on the no-talking front.” The blond grinned. “I’m relieved.”

  Silence met the pronouncement. A pause followed, like everyone was readjusting, and as the quiet pounded through the loft, the vibe shifted. Mac went on high alert and got ready. For anything, because whoever had linked peace with quiet had been out of their minds.

  “Looky-looky, Wick.” Decked out in leather, the blond guy slowed his roll beside the kitchen island, red eyes narrowed on him. “Blockhead’s up.”

  The name-calling flipped a switch in Mac’s brain. Oh yeah…Dickhead (aka Venom). The one he didn’t like. Mac growled as Dickhead planted his hands on the countertop, jackknifed into a turn, and ass-planted himself on the island top. Shitkickers dangling in midair, the guy grinned at him, baring his teeth in blatant challenge. Mac snarled back, wishing for a fist instead of claws so he could pop the SOB again.

  “Venom,” Bastian said, planting a hand on Mac’s chest. He pushed against his scales, sending a clear message that said, Stay where you are, buddy, or else. “Back off. We don’t need that shit right now.”

  “What…like I need to worry?” He swung his legs, boots flashing black in the gloom. Funny thing, though? Now that the dots had cleared, Mac saw everything with perfect clarity: the individual threads of the bastard’s bootlaces, each stitch sewn into the leather, the smirk on Venom’s face as he looked him over. “Hell, I could eat the pissant fledgling for lunch in human form and not need a toothpick.”

  Bastian growled, the sound one of warning.

  Mac bared his fancy new fangs, his mind supplying more links in his memory chain. Each one rattled his cage, filling his brain like water pouring into a jar. Something about a woman. The bastard had tried to touch the one that belonged to him.

  Rage flexed its muscles and, as Venom laughed, Mac lost control and hissed. Something nasty shot from his throat. As he choked on the bad taste, Dickhead cursed, ducking as slimy liquid sprayed the wall behind him. Brick exploded. Small chunks went airborne, flying up and out with a sizzling pop. Mac blinked. Holy shit. Despite the disgusting aftertaste, that was cool. The slime was eating through the masonry and burning holes in the wooden floorboards.

  “Awesome. Did you see that, B?” Venom sat up and glanced over his shoulder. “Wick, come look at this shit.”

  A look of delight on his face, Wick jogged over as the crackle-n-pop of whatever had come out of Mac’s throat got louder. A little horrified, but mostly intrigued, Mac craned his neck to get a better view of his handiwork.

  Sliding to a stop, Wick inspected the damage. “Cool. Water-acid.”

  “Wicked lethal.”

  Leaning in, Wick smelled the slime. “I think it’s flammable, too.”

  “Gonna have to test that theory.” Hopping off the counter, Venom nudged a chunk of brick with the toe of his boot. “Take the new boy out for a spin—”

  “Or two,” Wick said, finishing his buddy’s sentence. With one last whiff, Wick glanced at Mac with golden eyes full of speculation. “That’s gonna be fun. Big damage.”

  “Huge.” Venom retracted his foot before the slime—water-acid…whatever—ate through the sole of his boot.

  Mac’s brows collided as instincts hopped on his it’ll-be-a-cold-day-in-hell bandwagon. No way he wanted to go anywhere with those two. Venom couldn’t wait to kill him. And Wick? Jesus, the guy’s eyes told the story. Flat. Cold. Hard. He possessed all the warmth of a frickin’ psychopath.

  He glanced at Bastian. “What the fuck?”

  “You’ll get used to them,” he said, thumping Mac’s chest with a closed fist. “For now…ignore them. We’ve got a lot of work to do before sunset.”

  Mac frowned, alarm bells clanging inside his head.

  Bastian grinned. “You need to learn a few things.”

  “Like what?”

  “How to shift form…from dragon to human and back again.”

  “I can do that?” His breath caught. The first glimmer of excitement ghosted down his spine. Shifting forms sounded cool. At least then he’d feel normal…more like himself, less like a monster.

  “We all can,” Venom said, ass connecting with the countertop again. “Just wait until the flying lessons begin. Big fun, then.”

  “Huge,” Wick murmured, eyes fixed on Mac as he headed across the loft. Pivoting into an about-face, he planted his shoulders flat on the wall between two high windows.

  Torn between wanting to know more and mistrust, Mac’s gaze ping-ponged, moving from Venom to Wick, then back again. Were they serious? He rolled his shoulders, glanced at the wings attached to his new body. He flapped them without unfolding the suckers. Not enough room in the loft for—

  Wow. Okay…now that was cool.

  The webbing stretched, giving him a sense of his wingspan, and…bam. It hit him. The things worked. Totally nuts, but weirder than that was the realization he might actually be able to fly.

  His heart rebounded inside his chest. All right, then. Guess they weren’t kidding, but that didn’t mean he would give the SOBs the “fun” they so obviously anticipated.

  Holding Venom’s gaze, he tossed the challenge back in his face. “Game on, dickhead.”

  “We’ll see, fledgling,” Venom said, ruby-red eyes gleaming.

  Yes, they would.

  Mac eyed Bastian. “Show me.”

  Let the games—er…lessons—begin.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Curled on her side in the center of the bed, Angela watched the second hand tick. Fifteen minutes. A whole nine hundred seconds spent awake and unmoving, feeling the steady rise and fall of Rikar’s chest against her back. And as the wall clock completed its quarter turn, and she listened to him breathe, Angela decided she was an idiot. In total mental patient territory for clinging to Rikar in the dark. A guy she barely knew. Didn’t trust. All while staring at the opposite wall, watching the stupid clock face glow above glossy white cabinets.

  Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Time’s a-wasting. And still, she couldn’t make herself move.

  It was sad, really. How much she needed him in the moment…in the quiet stillness that made her think too hard and feel too much. And as she nestled in, taking everything he unknowingly gave her while he slept, she didn’t recognize herself. Wondered when she’d disappeared and a stranger had taken her place.

&nbs
p; Needy.

  She’d never been that before. Never once thought she needed anyone, but as the second hand continued its ticking and Rikar his breathing, Angela recognized lost when she saw it. The MIA? Her. She was the POW this go-around and, for the first time in a long while, she missed her dad. Mourned his death. Felt like a little girl again, more frightened than ever. Lost. Yeah, she really was…adrift in a place she didn’t want to be or know how to navigate.

  Fighting tears, she closed her eyes. She’d been so clueless. All those victims. All the one-on-ones with them: taking their statements, telling them not to worry, that everything would be all right. What a load of crap. Total BS disguised by an empathetic wrapper. Nothing was all right and wouldn’t be for a while. The hurt simply ran too deep.

  She turned her face into Rikar’s arm. Sprawled on his back, one hand relaxed in the center of his bare chest, Rikar didn’t react to her movement. Man, he probably didn’t even know she was in bed with him. She lay in the V, the sweet spot where his arm met his body, her back up against his side, her cheek against his biceps, hugging one of his arms to her chest, fingers curled around the Glock 19. The finger grooves on the grip felt good in her hand. Felt familiar and right, and as she opened her eyes and checked the clock’s progress, she said a silent thank-you.

  She was alive. Hurt, sure…damaged inside and out, but still breathing. No small thanks to Rikar, the man-dragon sleeping like the dead against her.

  Angela sighed. The whole nonhuman thing gave her the shivers. She should get up. Get out. Beat feet before he woke up and started asking questions. No doubt he would, but…

  She didn’t want to. Comfort wanted her to stay close to him. Compulsion demanded it. Both made good arguments. After all, what could it hurt? Nothing came back at her. A big goose egg from the counter-argument department. Her brain was fried. All the intellectual reasons had flown. Her inner turncoat was alive and well, dressing up bad ideas to look like good ones.