Fury of Ice

by Callahan, Coreene

  “Oh, shut up and get over here,” she said, tone tart. “Your son wants to see you. And I want to introduce you to someone.”

  Forge grinned. He couldn’t help it. It was hard not to like Bastian’s female. “Let me guess…one of SPD’s finest.”

  He tried to sound casual, but fuck him, relief came through as his throat went tight. Rikar had gotten her out, rescued her from Razorback hell. And no matter his beef with the Nightfuries, he couldn’t help but be grateful for their cunning efficiency. No female deserved to be treated that way. Left to linger in pain and despair.

  “It’s Angela…or Ange,” she said, voice soft yet somehow strong. “Take your pick.”

  Unfolding his arms from behind his head, he planted a hand on the cold concrete and popped to his feet. As he turned toward the front of his cell, he got a load of the newcomer. Halle Berry short, her red hair shone in the low light and…shite. She was pretty with her intelligent hazel eyes and a whole lot of edge. No surprise there. Plugged into the Meridian, she was high-energy, power personified, her aura flaming bright and true. But unlike Myst’s gentle warmth, Angela’s was jewel-like: hard, cold, rooted in icy resolve and a never-say-quit attitude.

  No wonder Rikar wanted her so badly. Her chilly energy was exactly what Frosty would crave and…hmm. Had he mentioned she smelled lovely too? Like ice and evergreens, fresh as a cold winter morning. A beautiful combination that reminded Forge of his Highland home. He tipped his chin, his acknowledgement of her a silent one.

  Playing shuffleboard with the container she held, she shuttled it from one hand to the other. After a second, she mimicked his movement, greeting him without words.

  “Crap,” Myst said.

  With a frown, his focus snapped to Bastian’s female, concerned something was…

  Nay. Nothing wrong. No threat but the scowl on her face as she noticed the new decor. À la Japan, large square cushions sat on the floor. Set up a safe distance from his cell’s invisible barrier, smaller pillows flanked the whole, acting as backrests, inviting the females to sit down and get comfortable. But the best part? The minibar. Pushed against the end wall, it contained all sorts of fun stuff: fancy fruit juice, milk, bottled water, Perrier in pretty green bottles, chocolate treats wrapped in colorful packages. And he should know. He’d watched as it was stocked. Sat with his back propped against his cell wall while the whole deal went down.

  His lips twitched. “The Numbai was here.”

  “Obviously.” Cradling his son in her arms, Myst stared at the thick floor cushions and grimaced. “Oh, man, we’re totally screwed.”

  Ah, just as he suspected. “Bastian still doesnae know?”

  Chewing on her bottom lip, she shook her head. “He’s going to flip out the second he sees this. Freaking Daimler. Talk about a dead giveaway.”

  “Thought the butler loved you,” Angela said.

  “He probably does,” Forge murmured, watching the two together. He got the sense they’d just met, but…aye. They were a solid match personality-wise and would become fast friends before long. “But he cannae stand the thought of Myst being uncomfortable.”

  Angela threw him a questioning look.

  In an answering frame of mind, he said, “The Numbai are the serving class, lass…the caretakers of Dragonkind. Daimler’s sole purpose in life is tae see tae his master’s comfort.”

  “And by ‘master’…” Lifting her free hand, Myst scrunched her middle and index fingers, making quotation marks. “He means everyone under Black Diamond’s roof.”

  “A bit archaic,” Angela said.

  “I thought so, too, at first.” Stepping over the large, square cushion, his son cradled in her arms, Myst sat, folding her legs Indian-style. “Until I realized he runs this place. Because at Black Diamond? Daimler’s the boss. He’s valued for his service and loves every minute of it.”

  Angela mouthed “oookay.”

  And Forge understood. She hadn’t been with the Nightfuries long. All the differences—the idiosyncrasies—of his race were new to her. Would seem strange when looked at from human experience. That would change soon enough. Rikar’s scent was all over the female. The Nightfuries’ first-in-command had fed her, and now whether Angela knew it or not, they were connected through energy-fuse. No way the male would let her go.

  Which explained why these two were ganging up on him.

  Not that he minded. He liked their company. Craved conversation the way a child did affection, and the females were just what the doctor ordered.

  Following her friend’s lead, Angela sat down on a neighboring cushion. As she got comfortable, nestling into the makeshift seat cross-legged, she set the container down in front of her and slipped her hand behind her back. She came away with a gun. One glance at him and she set the piece down gently, muzzle pointing in his direction on the concrete floor.

  “You gonnae shoot me?”

  She shrugged. “Only if I feel like it.”

  Forge laughed. He couldn’t help it. He liked Angela Keen. He really did. She was strong, direct, with a whole lot of moxie. Rikar had chosen his female well.

  “I’ll be careful, then,” he murmured, zeroing in on the blue tin Angela set down next to the gun. Covered in small snowflakes, the container piqued his interest. Made his eyes narrow and his heart thud a little faster.

  What the hell was in it? A bomb? No, wait. Poisonous gas that would pour into his face the second he flipped the thing open. Nah, not really Myst’s style. Not Angela’s, either. Shite, that female would rather shoot him than poison him, so…

  Something sweet, maybe? Oh, man, he hoped so. After watching Daimler stock the minibar, he could use a sugar infuse.

  Curiosity killing him, he asked, “Whatcha got there, female?”

  She glanced at Myst, a question in her eyes.

  Myst tilted her head, like she was debating the state of the union or something.

  “Ah, come on,” he said, enjoying the game even as his stomach rumbled. “Share.”

  Angela flipped her hands, palms up, and raised a brow.

  Her lips pursed, Myst hesitated a heartbeat, then nodded.

  The round container got shoved in his direction. The blood-red top flashed, and the energy shield hummed, crackling as the metal slid through the barrier. Forge grabbed his gift, popped the top and—

  Oh, hell, yeah. Shortbread cookies. His absolute favorite.

  Inhaling hard, Forge drew in a lungful, the smell of sugary perfection as close to heaven as he was likely to get any time soon. God, the beautiful sweetness reminded him of home, of the Highlands and holly at Christmas when his mam—

  With a swift kick, Forge booted the memory out of his mind. He didn’t need to remember. Not now. Never again.

  Without looking at his visitors, he held onto the tin like a greedy five-year-old and sat down where he stood in the middle of his prison cell. Hunger out of control, he bit into the shortbread and moaned. Bloody hell, that tasted good. Melt-in-your-mouth perfection. The second mouthful was even better than the first. And the third? Divine.

  “Diabolical…” Forge paused to stuff another cookie into his mouth. A male would never have thought of the strategy. Toss a female into the mix, however, and tactics changed, veering way off course. “Using my sweet tooth against me.”

  Angela snorted.

  Myst grinned at him. “We have a few questions.”

  “I know.” And he did. More than they knew or would like him to.

  For instance? Aye, the females might be here under a united front, but they wanted different things. Putting his talent to good use, he mined their intentions. The ability to read another’s aim was a rare one. And the gift he’d been born with was strong—grew more potent with every year he lived—and he used it to effect.

  Actions. Thoughts. Words. Important, sure, but on a lesser scale. But the intention behind each one? Well, now, that’s where the magic lived. Anyone, after all, could fake a thought, tell a lie, or live one. But true intent
was ground zero, the jumping-off point for all else. And as he stared at the two females sitting across from him, he read each like an open book.

  Dusting off his hands, he zeroed in on Rikar’s female. The detective with the wounded soul. Aye, she tried to hide it, but Forge saw through the act. Holding her gaze, he tipped his chin in her direction.

  “You wish to know about…” he trailed off as she tensed, as though preparing for a physical blow. He should’ve guessed. Angela didn’t want him to say the bastard’s name. Forge switched tacks, using the nickname he picked up on her frontal lobe. “The rat-bastard.”

  She released the pent-up breath, relaxing a little, but not enough. Unable to meet his gaze, she glanced away and nodded.

  “Look at me, Angela.” She shook her head. Forge held his ground. He wanted her to understand something. Aye, he might be a stranger, but she needed to accept what he was about to tell her. “If you want tae know…look at me.”

  A muscle twitched in her jaw, but she obeyed.

  The second her gaze met his, he said, “It’s not your fault. He was bigger than you. He was stronger than you. Any male worth his salt would’ve protected you…not hurt you. Accept that you did your best, Angela. That you’re alive because you did, and move on.”

  “What are you? Sigmund freaking Freud?”

  “I know a thing or two about being hurt.” God, what was he doing? Revealing way too much, that’s what, but…screw it. In for a penny, in for a pound. He couldn’t stand all the pain he sensed deep inside her. “About having another’s will forced upon me.”

  Angela blinked, battling to stay even. “What do you know about…him?”

  “Not much. I dinnae spend too much time with the Razorbacks.” Disappointment crossed her face. And something else, too. Real dismay. Forge folded, just caved beneath the onslaught. He frowned, searching his memory banks to come up with some small detail for her. “He likes games of all kinds. And coeds. He hunts for young females. Ones that have just come into their energy.”

  “Seattle U?” Myst asked.

  “Yeah.” Angela’s eyes narrowed. Palming the Glock, she fiddled with the safety, flicking it on and off. Click-click-snick. Click-click-snick. “Dead college girls have been showing up around there lately.”

  “Ivar’s doing, no doubt,” Forge said with a curse. Fucking bastard. Like Lothair, the Razorback commander liked the young ones. Enjoyed draining them dry while he fed.

  “Thank you. You didn’t have to…” As Angela’s gaze settled on him again, she laid the gun down in her lap. “But that’s good intel. It gives me a starting point.”

  Uncomfortable with the gratitude, Forge shifted, rolled his shoulders, stretched out his neck, got busy examining the grainy pattern of the concrete floor. When that didn’t work, he started on his hands, cracking each one of his knuckles. The sharp snap-snap-snap nipped at the silence, but after a full minute of nothing but quiet, it became too much. He’d had enough silence in the last twenty-four hours. Didn’t want to waste the precious minutes he spent with the Nightfury females lost in thought.

  “And you,” he murmured, his gaze flicking over Myst. “You wish tae know about energy-fuse.”

  Angela threw a load of WTF at the female next to her. “Energy what?”

  “It’s a special bond between mates…a form of energy sharing,” Forge said. “When a male feeds, he connects to the Meridian through his female, staving off hunger, which keeps him healthy. A female needs her mate’s energy tae thrive and heal. The connection is very rare for a Dragonkind pairing. Myst and Bastian share it, and so do…”

  He almost said you, but Forge stopped himself, wondering how much to reveal. If Rikar hadn’t explained, then his female didn’t know the bond already existed between them. Forge could smell it on her, sensed the combined energy like a hound scented a fox.

  “And so do…?” Angela leaned forward, the barrel of her formidable intellect pointed in his direction.

  Forge frowned, hesitating. As much as he wanted to sabotage Frosty, it wasn’t his place to tell Angela. That conversation belonged between mates—was a special moment for a male, a commitment he made with his chosen female.

  And something that precious must be respected.

  Besides, Rikar already wanted his head on a pike. Maybe tweaking the bastard’s tail wasn’t the best idea. Yet.

  So he backpedaled and said, “Other males of my kind.”

  “But it isn’t enough to protect me, is it?” The movement gentle, Myst rocked his son. Back and forth. Back and forth. Caroline was on her mind. He knew it like he was sitting in a cell, the memory of his female lingering in his own thoughts. Desperate for a distraction, Forge glanced at his bairn. His mouth curved. He was almost asleep, his eyes already closed, sucking on his wee thumb to soothe himself. “Something else has to happen, right?”

  Good instincts. Which was a problem. Bastian’s female was too smart for her own good.

  He dragged his gaze from his son’s face. Worried eyes met his, and Forge’s heart sank. He hated to deny Myst the information. Her life, after all, depended on it, but…

  Shite.

  No way he could tell her about the ceremony, the ritual that completed the magical loop, fusing a bonded male’s energy to his female’s for life…keeping his mate young and healthy until he died. Forge knew of energy-fuse through his parents. The firsthand knowledge coupled with the ancient book his sire had made him memorize gave him the edge. He’d read the detailed account again and again, hoping one day to perform it with a female of his own.

  But that hadn’t happened. No matter how much his human half had wanted her, the dragon in him—the magic that forged the connection—hadn’t bonded with Caroline, refusing to accept her as his mate. His mistake—one he would pay for every day for the rest of his life. But as he’d told Angela, the past was over and done. He couldn’t change it, so he must move on.

  What did that entail? Screwing Myst over.

  Bloody hell. What a stupid set of circumstances. He wanted two things: his son and Bastian’s female to live. But in order to secure the first, he must hurt the second. The information he held about the ritual was his last bargaining chip. The only way to force Bastian’s hand and regain his bairn. The fact Myst was stuck in the middle was a terrible burden to bear. But Forge was banking on one thing. Bastian would never allow his female to suffer needlessly. Would do anything to keep her safe, healthy, and whole.

  So like it or not, he must hold the line.

  If his theory held true, by this time next month he’d be out of his cage. Free to fly away from Black Diamond with his son in tow. To leave the Nightfuries and their females behind.

  Which, strangely enough, made his heart ache so hard he actually felt a pang.

  Rikar ducked, avoiding the backlash of Mac’s tail as the male crash-landed on the LZ. Shit. Forget the crash part. Make that spinning into an uncontrolled death skid. Man, the new boy needed a crash course in the art of landing. One that pointed out the benefits of not taking his comrades out like a matched set of bowling pins.

  Another full revolution. Rikar ducked again.

  Holy Christ. The male was out of control, paws scrambling, scales flashing, body torquing all over the freaking place. Which, yeah, he and B should’ve expected. Mac’s fledgling status didn’t come with built-in landing gear. Or brakes, apparently. Too bad. Rikar really didn’t want to get whacked by Mac’s wicked sharp tail.

  Leaping backward, Rikar vaulted over the Honda. As he landed on the other side, Mac whipped into another 360-degree spin. Blue-gray scales rippled in the low light as Mac bore down to stop the tilt-a-whirl. His claws ripped grooves in the granite, and stone dust flew. Musty air rushed, making the light globes bob against the cavern’s ceiling even as they disappeared behind the haze of gray cloud.

  Mac’s tail came around again. The bladed edge sliced the hatchback, cutting through steel. Metal screeched. Glass exploded. The car got decapitated, and the roof went flying, flippi
ng end over end in midair.

  “Fuck.” Dark-blue scales flashing, Bastian dove for cover behind a row of stalagmites.

  Rikar dropped an f-bomb of his own and shifted into human form, making himself a smaller target, and put himself in reverse. The metal panel pinwheeled, somersaulting over the LZ’s edge, falling to the aquifer below. The horrendous sound of claws on stone stopped as Mac slammed into the wall at the back of the cavern.

  “Motherfuck,” Mac groaned, collapsing into a heap on the floor.

  Bastian popped his horned head up from behind a boulder. “Is it safe to come out yet?”

  “Go for it,” Rikar said, beating feet toward Mac.

  The thud of his footfalls echoed, bouncing in the vastness as he skirted the roofless wonder’s front bumper. The second he got a load of Mac, concern hit Rikar chest-level. The male was in bad shape. One big bruise punctuated by shallow cuts and deeper gashes. The worst ran along the curve of Mac’s shoulder. A clean slice, but it was bleeding like crazy now.

  Their new boy needed a stitch-up job…fast.

  Angry at himself, Rikar shook his head. He should’ve left Mac in the water a little while longer. Allowed him to play with his prey for another hour before he hauled him out and headed for Black Diamond. The saltwater had done the male a world of good: soothing bruises, helping to close the nicks and cuts, sealing up the less serious wounds. But the flight home hadn’t done the male any favors, undoing what the ocean had started.

  Rikar slowed his roll, approaching Mac with caution. Not that he thought the male would hurt him. At least not on purpose. But a dragon was a dragon. And underestimating one in pain while he approached in human form wasn’t a good idea.

  Holding his hands up, he murmured, “Mac.”

  The male flinched. A second later he snorted, steam rising in twin tendrils from his nostrils.

  “I need you to shift, big guy.” The movement slow, Rikar reached out and put his hand on Mac’s shoulder. He kept his touch gentle, not wanting to startle the male. The dark-blue tattoo Mac sported on his scaled torso shimmered beneath Rikar’s hand. When he didn’t move, the pattern settled into flat, dark ink once more. “We need to get you inside.”