The bastard wasn’t fast enough.
Mac slimed him, coating his left side. As the deadly splatter went to work eating a hole in the Razorback’s wing, the male screamed and plummeted toward the ground. Mac rocketed between two high-rises. Windowpanes rattled as he zeroed in, timed it just right, sliced his enemy on a flyby. The sharp blade of his tail sank deep, cutting through hard scales to reach the beating heart beneath soft flesh. With a sudden implosion, the rogue ashed, turning to dust in the midnight breeze.
“Good boy,” Rikar said.
“Fuck off.” Frickin’ guy…he could stick his praise up his ass. And rotate.
His XO laughed and, white scales flashing, attacked another Razorback.
Mac swung around and searched the skyline. One down. One to go. His eyes narrowed, but…nothing. No flash of yellow scales. No fireball hurtling through the air. Scanning the alleys between buildings, Mac sped over rooftops, flying fast, looking for the enemy dragon.
“Come on, Jackass,” he murmured. “Come out and play.”
Seconds ticked by, slipping into more. Something flashed in his periphery, and Mac spotted him. Stupid Razorback. Jackass was the same color inside and out. Yellow. The coward was in full retreat, flitting between buildings, using the rooftops for cover as he slunk away from the firefight.
Mac growled. Uh-uh. No way. He refused to let the rogue escape. Not after taking hit after hit from the bastard. The Razorback would pay for each bruise, every cut, all the stitches Mac would need once the fighting was over.
Wings spread wide, Mac streaked over an apartment complex, hoping all the balconies were empty. The last thing he needed was to come face-to-fang with a stargazer. If he did, the guy would get a load of something he really didn’t want to see, but without Rikar, he was hopeless in the cloaking department. Didn’t know how to go dark and silent like the other Nightfury warriors.
Man, he really needed to read that handbook. The one entitled Fangs and Claws: A Rudimentary Guide to All Things Dragon.
But oh, no. Not him. He didn’t do anything the easy way. Ass-backward was more his style. So when it came to the Razorback up ahead, he planned to do it the hard way. The strategy went something like…
Hit hard. Hit fast. And hope for the best.
Cranking his kill-o-meter all the way to lethal, Mac rolled in hot. Thirty feet out, the yellow dragon’s head snapped around as though the male sensed his approach. Jackass hissed and changed course, wheeling toward him instead of away. Ah, wasn’t that sweet? The rogue wanted to play, and Mac knew the perfect game to teach him. One called kick ass.
As he came within range, Mac lashed out, aiming for the Razorback’s throat. The rogue pulled a roll-and-dive. Fuck. He missed by an inch, catching nothing but air. Not wasting a second, Mac flipped up and over. He struck again. Jackass tucked his wings, but not fast enough. Muscles pulled along Mac’s side as his claws raked yellow scales. Blood sprayed, splashing up his forearm. The rogue shrieked. Mac twisted in midair and hammered the back of Jackass’s skull. His talon cracked against bone. The brutal sound pinged off the steel and glass, reverberated between buildings.
Winging out, the echo reached the ocean.
Mac blinked. Jesus. The ocean.
The perfect plan. A midnight swim and a dead rogue. Oh, goody. Two for the price of one.
The Razorback flipped into a tight turn. His speed supersonic, the dragon came at him like a shark, attacking from below. Mac banked hard. Wind whistled in his ears. The smell of saltwater infused him as he flew toward the water.
Thirty seconds away, the bay sparkled beneath the clear sky, choppy waves illuminated by city lights and the full moon. White streaks streamed from Mac’s wing tips, then curled behind him in the cold air. Right on his tail, the wisps blew into the rogue’s face. He caught a flash of fangs from his periphery as Jackass snapped at him.
Mac changed trajectory. Flew hard for Seattle’s shoreline, leading the Razorback where he wanted him to go.
Come on, you little shit. Come on.
Wings vertical, Mac flew between two warehouses. Industrial cranes soared up ahead, dark sticklike silhouettes jutting skyward from a concrete pier. He flew between them. Over stacked shipping containers and a bobbing ocean freighter and…
Eureka. Elliott Bay, dead ahead.
Straightening out, Mac increased his wing speed and glanced over his shoulder. The rogue was still there. Beautiful. Jackass had taken the bait, was staying right on his tail.
Dipping low, Mac came in like a viper over the bay. Fine mist washed over his scales. He breathed deep, loving the scent of ocean brine. With a quick shift, Mac wheeled toward the rogue. Jackass wing-flapped, surprise flaring in his shimmering eyes. Trying to compensate, the Razorback sucked in a breath. An orange ball of flame gathered at the back of his throat. Before he could release it, Mac struck, hitting the rogue head-on.
Timed to perfection, he grabbed the rogue’s tail. Sharp spikes ripping at his talon, Mac yanked hard. The Razorback squawked, clawing at thin air as he got dragged down and—
Splash!
Saltwater rushed over Mac’s scales, filled his nose, his mouth, his lungs, and…
Oh, yeah. That was wicked good. Nothing better than deep blue waves, a whole lot of cold, dark, and wet. Not that the rogue appreciated it. The male was too busy squawking, splashing, flailing around. And as the rogue struggled to lift himself clear of the water, Mac took over.
Baring his fangs, he grabbed the SOB by the scruff of the neck and pushed his head under. A second later, he allowed him to surface. Watched his enemy sputter and heave, beg in the moonlight for his life. But mercy wasn’t part of the plan.
Dunk. Hold under. Let the bastard surface. Listen to him beg.
Mac repeated the roll over and over. When Jackass went limp and begged for death instead of life, he took pity and dove, dragging the rogue deep under the surface of the water.
Jackass had wanted to play. It wasn’t Mac’s fault that he was now in over his head.
The last rogue turned tail and ran, streaking across the night sky like a long-tailed comet. Rikar watched the Razorback bug out, wanting to go after him. Hunt the enemy down. Make ’em pay. That was his motto. But not tonight, apparently. He had bigger fish to fry.
One that Bastian kept insisting was his responsibility—lucky him—but the addition to his to-do list was the least of his problems at the moment.
He couldn’t see Mac anywhere. Had lost sight of the male in the cityscape while slashing the turquoise dragon’s throat. Hmm, such a nice memory. Too bad the here-and-now wasn’t as pleasant. Where the hell had their new boy gone?
Rikar scanned the dark horizon where land met water. Worry twisted his gut up tight. It didn’t make any sense. He should be able to track the cop. Feel him from anywhere.
He’d connected to Mac’s core energy while getting him through the change. Now he recognized the guy’s vibe as well as he did his Nightfury brothers’. Unique to the individual, each male possessed a signature, a signal they sent into the world like radio waves. Once a male linked to another, he could track a fellow dragon for hundreds, sometimes thousands of miles.
Made it hard to disappear. Get good and ghost if a male close to you didn’t like the endgame. Shit. He should know. B had come after him a time or two. Of course, the opposite was also true.
So, yeah. Getting a lock on Mac should’ve been easy. But easy wasn’t in the mix. The male’s signal was muffled by something, a thick barrier that distorted the beacon. But at least Rikar could feel him now, and that meant their boy wasn’t dead. Yet.
That might change, though, when he got his hands on him.
The male had disobeyed a direct order. Refusing to retreat when he told him to. Rikar frowned. Freaking cop. Mac had balls made of steel. And although he respected him for it, an equal and opposite reaction had him by the throat. One that wanted him to rearrange Mac’s face for scaring the hell out of him.
Rikar shook his head and kep
t searching, mining Mac’s energy vibe. God, he’d almost lost the male tonight. One false move and Mac would’ve been nothing but ash. Another urn on a shelf. Another name carved into the wall inside Black Diamond’s Hall of Memories.
Reveling in the night chill, Rikar exhaled long and smooth. Frost rolled between his fangs. The icy mist washed out in front of him, then blew back to coat his scales as he increased his wing speed. Wood smoke and the smell of furnace oil drifted on the autumn air, held high by the north wind drifting in over the city. In another month winter would come, settling over Seattle like a frosty blanket of mmm, mmm good.
Man, he could hardly wait.
As he circled over apartment buildings, Rikar scanned the alleys below. His night vision sharp, he cast a wide visual net, sonar pinging, sending out calls he hoped Mac would answer. But maybe the male was down. Or hurt. Unable to link in through mind-speak.
Bastian flew by, thumping him with the side of his tail.
The love tap brushed one of his bruised ribs. Rikar flinched. “Ow! Shit, B…that hurt.”
“Suck it up. There are worse things.”
“Like what?”
“The fact you’re about to get wet.”
Rikar blew out a long breath. The exhale started off smooth but ended on a growl. He should’ve guessed. The water. No way could Mac resist its allure for long. “Elliott Bay?”
“Smack dab in the middle of it.”
“Fuck.” Dawn was only three hours away. If he couldn’t talk Mac into coming out by then, he’d be forced to go in and pull a grab-and-go. With Mac fighting him every step of the way. “I hate my job.”
Bastian laughed. “You got him through the change, my man. He’s one hundred percent yours.”
Fantastic. Most males got a fire dragon as a sidekick. But oh, no. Not him. He landed a water dragon. Just his freaking luck.
He only hoped Mac went the reasonable route. Otherwise Elliott Bay would end up as one big ice bath. Not something the human authorities would understand. Or get over quickly.
“He’s got a rogue down there with him.”
He threw Bastian an incredulous look. “You’re shitting me.”
“Nope,” B said. “The yellow fucker…the male that kept attacking him.”
Rikar’s heart picked up a beat, thumping hard. A Razorback. Mac had gotten a hold of a rogue, one that might have valuable intel. Holy shit. Maybe the night didn’t have screwed up plastered all over it. Maybe he could salvage something from the snafu. Bring Angela home the information she wanted and—
He needed to reach his boy…fast.
Putting his wings to good use, Rikar streaked over the Port of Seattle. Still a mess from their showdown with Ivar, the shipyard lay in shambles. Busted-up steel containers, cracked concrete, a beat-to-shit industrial crane, and an ocean freighter with a huge dent in its hull were only part of the tally. Nothing but dark dots on shadowed pavement, the humans scurried around. In clean-up mode, men drove forklifts and front-end loaders in the hopes of returning everything to the status quo.
Rikar snorted. Good luck with that. The second Wick—the brother that liked to toss heavy machinery around for kicks and giggles—flew by, the place would only get fucked up again.
Reaching the middle of the bay, Rikar circled once, searching the water beneath the spray of four-foot waves. A pinpoint glow caught his attention just below the waterline. Bingo. He had a lock on Mac. Aquamarine eyes aglow, the male surfaced with the yellow dragon. Bladed tail swishing, webbed claws out in full force, Mac controlled the Razorback completely, playing with him, letting him take a breath before dragging him back under.
Rikar’s mouth curved. He couldn’t help it. Mac was vicious, beyond the pale of good behavior. And shit, that just make him proud. Too bad he didn’t have time to let the cop explore the good, the bad, or the ugly side of his nature. He needed the enemy male alive. Conscious enough to spill his secrets.
“Mac.”
The male growled in answer.
“Bring the Razorback up.”
“No.” Holding the rogue’s head under, the nine-inch-high blade running down the center of Mac’s spine broke the surface of the water. Rikar stared at it for a second, watching it knife through the choppy spray. Christ, a shark’s fin didn’t have a thing on the male. The sight freaked Rikar out a little. It would be next to impossible to haul Mac out of the ocean if the cop didn’t want to come. Mac was in his natural habitat. Even a frost dragon couldn’t compete with that. “He’s mine.”
“Come on, man. I need him.” White scales flashing in the moonlight, Rikar made another pass, watching the distorted shadows beneath the waves. “Stop fucking around.”
Mac hissed.
Rikar snarled in return, the sound aggressive and sure. All about being an XO, not a buddy.
Air bubbles popped like blisters, breaking the surface of the water. Afraid the rogue was already dead, Rikar snapped, “Mac! Get your ass up here! Or I swear to fucking God, I’m gonna turn you into an ice cube.”
“Miiine.”
Terrific. Threatening the idiot wouldn’t get Rikar what he wanted. Mac was too far gone. It was a case of instinct over intellect. For a fledgling, it was normal. For a warrior, it could prove deadly.
Rikar changed tack, using the one thing he knew Mac would respond to…even with the mind-fuck the male had going on. “Angela needs him, Mac. He’s got intel that your partner needs. Without it, I can’t keep her safe.”
“Fuck.” A pause then, “Your word. I get to kill him after…my way.”
Circling in behind him, Bastian joined the party. “Deal.”
In an instant, Elliott Bay’s choppy surf went smooth. No waves. No ripples. Absolute stillness, like a pane of blue-white glass. Freaky. And really fucking cool. Especially when the water shifted, began to turn and dip, getting sucked toward the bottom of the harbor. As a whirlpool opened beneath Rikar, the wind came up, howling as it whipped the smell of brine into the air.
“Incoming,” Mac said. “Catch.”
Yellow scales flashed in the swirling depths of the funnel. A second later, Mac launched the rogue out of the water and into midair, turning the enemy dragon into a torpedo.
Chapter Seventeen
In his usual spot, flat on his back in the middle of the concrete floor, Forge cracked an eye open as steel clicked against steel. It sounded like a gun being cocked at close range. But nay, it was just the door to his prison getting put to good use. The soft hiss of hinges slithered through the silence. Quiet footfalls followed, ping-ponging off the walls and down the wide open space in front of the cellblock to reach him. The whispers came next. Held high by the rush of air from the ventilation system, the murmurs drifted, sounding as loud as a shout to his sharply keen senses.
Forge hummed. Visitors. How nice.
Even better? They came with a plan and clear purpose. Came to play a deadly game of mental chess. One he excelled at, too bad for them.
Allowing his eyes to drift closed again, he listened to the voices. Studied the tone and nuance of each. Picked up the tenor. Read the determination that hinted of desperation. He added a dab of well-meaning manipulation to the pot, and…boom! He had a recipe for disaster in the making.
With a sigh, he folded his arms behind his head, waiting for…ah, and there it was. Right on time. Her scent reached him. Myst was back. And she’d brought a friend. Another female along with his son.
Forge’s mouth curved. God love her. Aye, she might be planning an ambush, one with him as the main meal, but at least she wasn’t cruel. And as he listened to his bairn’s happy coo echo down the corridor, he thanked his lucky stars. A male would’ve used his lad as leverage. Taunted him with the promise of seeing him if Forge traded information, but not Myst. She believed a father had a right to his son. And that a son needed his father.
A shortcoming on the strategy front?
Maybe. But Forge didn’t think so. He was more inclined to talk to her—help and give her what she w
anted because of her kindness.
Which made him a first-class fool.
He should be using her soft heart against her. Not admiring her for it. But it was what it was. No changing that. So he went with it instead, ears attuned to their every move, picking up the faint noises like a stray dog did table scraps.
It was sad, really. How much he wanted to see Myst and her guest, to hear their voices up close and talk to them in return. He’d been alone for a while with nothing but silence and his own thoughts to keep him company. Well, that, and the sound of his own heartbeat. He took the fact it was still thumping as a good sign. Especially with Frosty beating a death drum with his name on it.
So, aye. The females were welcome. Even though he knew it wasn’t a courtesy call.
Myst was too single-minded for that. She needed information. Intel she believed he possessed, so coming to him was a logical choice. Too bad he couldn’t give her what she wanted. Not yet. Not until Bastian caved.
Such a shame. He really didn’t want to hurt her.
His ears tuned, he listened to his visitors’ approach. Flip-flip-flop. Flip-flip-flop. Bloody hell, he loved that sound. It was such a feminine one, so lovely and familiar he smiled. Which was a bad idea. Especially if he didn’t wipe it off his puss before Myst saw it. No sense handing her that kind of tactical advantage. The second she thought he was glad to see her, she’d use it against him.
Oh so unwise.
Forge wanted her to believe he was a brute, capable of anything, unworthy of her concern and attention. Maybe then she’d realize he was a lost cause. Stop trying to save him. Win him over. Make him believe second chances existed for a male like him.
Dangerous. The game she played was so bloody dangerous.
And one he’d bet his eyeteeth Bastian didn’t know about yet. He snorted. Jesus, the male would lose it when he found out. But for now, Forge would enjoy her visits. And hope for more.
Without opening his eyes, he knew the exact moment she cleared the corner of his cell. “My lady Munroe…to what do I owe the pleasure?”
Fury of Ice Page 19