Table of Contents
Epilogue
Your Free Book
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Excerpt from Fury of a Highland Dragon
ONE
Excerpt from Fury of Shadows
Excerpt from Fury of Surrender
A Note from the Author
Also by Coreene Callahan
About the Author
Fury of Denial
Dragonfury Series Scotland Book 3
Coreene Callahan
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, locales is entirely coincidental.
FURY OF DENIAL
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2017 by Coreene Callahan
Cover Art by Yocla Designs © February 2017
www. CoreeneCallahan.com
ISBN Print: 978-1-7751105-2-1
In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher.
Thank you for your support of author’s rights.
For my girls—I love you to pieces.
Contents
Your Free Book
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Excerpt from Fury of a Highland Dragon
ONE
Excerpt from Fury of Shadows
ONE
Excerpt from Fury of Surrender
One
A Note from the Author
Also by Coreene Callahan
About the Author
Your Free Book
BE ON THE INSIDE
For a limited time, you can get a FREE copy of Inside the Dragonfury Series: EXTRAS — an insider's guide to the Dragonfury Series — directly from here. Click on the link or image above to get started.
One
Edinburgh, Scotland
The wind shifted, carrying the stink of city streets. The scent of garbage rotting in alleyways. The chemicals contaminating the water in half frozen gutters. The roll of smoke from fires burning in metal drums beneath highway overpasses. Even from his vantage point high in the sky, Wallaig smelled the putrefaction. The toxic swill rose to taunt him, painting a picture of a place in decline as clean air thickened into man-made smog.
Descending through the haze, he looked left to right. The urban landscape blazed like a multi-colored grid, creating a framework, allowing him to see in the dark.
Wallaig snorted. See. Seemed like the wrong word to use.
He couldn’t see much of anything. His damaged retinas wouldn’t let him. Not that he cared at the moment. With his dragon in full flight, his sightlessness didn’t matter. Magic took the lead, drawing his particular talent to the foreground—the ability to sense energy in all things. Dead, alive, the object of interest didn’t matter. If it existed—and held space in the world—he detected it before others of his kind knew it was there. A distinct advantage for any dragon warrior, but for him a necessity…and the only reason he’d flown out of the lair alone tonight.
Not the smartest move.
He could get into real trouble out here. On his own. In the dead of night one hundred and twenty miles from home with rogues in the area and no pack mates watching his six. But the honorable couldn’t always be honest. Sometimes subterfuge walked hand-in-hand with doing do the right thing.
Focused on a borough west of his position, he angled his wings and sliced through heavy cloud cover. Rimmed by blue, building tops came into view. Colorful energy streams converged, surrounding the neighbourhood like an iridescent rainbow, helping him distinguish animate from inanimate. A cluster of rats tucked beneath a row of dumpsters glowed yellow. The casement above their coiled tails pulsed a greyish-white. Street lamps went from dull pinpricks to glowing steel towers with dirty glass heads.
Wallaig grimaced. So much filth. Little to recommend. His nose twitched. His dragon half rebelled, urging him to turn around and fly home.
The need to heed the warning poked at him.
He hesitated mid-glide, then shook his head. Leaving a task undone wasn’t an option. Not his usual MO either, so instead of copping out, Wallaig clung to his convictions and wings spread wide, aimed for the nearest rooftop. His back paws thumped down first. Blood-red scales rattled as his claws scraped along the parapet. Metal squawked a second before the beam dimpled beneath his weight. He flexed his talons, tightening his grip on the sagging roofline, and scanned the pixilated rise of tall structures against the dark horizon.
Wings tucked in tight, he crouched low and glanced over his shoulder. So far, so good. No rogues in pursuit. None of his brothers-in-arms giving chase. All in all, a good start to an already fucked up mission.
Shuffling sideways, he peered around a crumbling chimney top. He spotted the five-story walk-up three streets over. Brick facade, chipped stone trim, rusted balconies leaning in dangerous directions. Just as she’d described—a rundown shite hole in Edinburgh’s west end, no need for guesswork.
With a grunt, he examined the building more closely. His gaze settled on the lone plastic chair close to the roof’s edge. Huh, someone enjoyed being outside. A smoker, maybe. An idealist, perhaps, a human brave enough to sit out at night with huge dreams and even bigger plans. Dragging his gaze from the warped seat cushion, he focused on the entrance. Outlined in bright blue, the door led into the complex from the rooftop. His way in. One story down. A single staircase to navigate, a quick walk down a short corridor to leave the letters he carried on the counter in apartment seventeen.
No sweat. In and out in under five minutes. Six tops, if he took his time.
Wallaig hopped from his perch. His spiked tail lashed through cold air as he landed beside the chimney. The timbers supporting the roof groaned. Bricks cracked together, sprinkling him with stone dust, warning of an impending topple. Ignoring the threat of structural collapse, he picked his way across ancient asphalt tiles. Moss and clunks of tar peeled away, pushing between his toes as a garbage truck rumbled past on the street below. Snorting in distaste, he raised his paw to shake the debris from his claws. The black gunk stuck like barnacles to the bottom of a boat.
He curled his upper lip. Fucking disgusting and—
“Ah, hell,” he grumbled, taking a closer look. “That shite’s going tae stain.”
Served him right. Fuck him and his soft heart. Or mayhap, the problem originated inside his idiot head. A complete lack of brain power explained a lot—like why he stood in the midst of a city he despised
playing messenger for his commander’s mate.
Ridiculous. His pre-dawn escapade qualified as bampot crazy. Particularly since sending a bloody email would’ve taken one-point-two seconds instead of the rest of his night.
But then, Elise had been persuasive.
Worried for her friend, she’d wanted to call and explain her sudden disappearance from Edinburgh. Cyprus kept telling his mate no, and Wallaig agreed with his commander’s stance. Continued contact with the human world—and Elise’s friend—wasn’t a good idea. It was dangerous to both Elise and Dragonkind. As the newest member of the pack, Elise understood the need for secrecy, promising to cut all ties to her old life, ensuring the safety of all.
Logical argument. Sensible course of action. Nothing wrong with the dictate—other than the fact it was hurting a female he’d sworn to protect.
Wallaig shook his head. He should leave well enough alone. Ought to unfurl his wings and head for home. The balance inside the lair was good. Cyprus had claimed his mate. Elise adored him in return. Toss in the fact she loved her new life inside the Scottish pack and…absolutely. Zero question in his mind. He had no right to stick his nose in where it didn’t belong. And yet, her upset didn’t sit well with him.
He disliked the guilt he sensed in her. Hated that Elise believed she’d abandoned her friend. Pretty personal stuff, and something he shouldn’t know. His fault from beginning to end. He never should have read the letters—the ones she wrote to make herself feel better about leaving Amantha behind without an explanation.
In his defence, he hadn’t gone looking. He stumbled upon the correspondence by accident. Distracted by some new book in the library, Elise had left her letters unattended—and one half finished—in a wooden box in the middle of the coffee table. Open top. In plain view. Recipient made obvious by the ‘Dear Amantha’ scribbled across fancy paper. Curiosity forced his arse onto the couch. His dragon half had done the rest, helping him read the words, making each letter glow like pixels on a computer screen.
He swallowed a growl.
Goddess smite him dead with a thunder bolt.
He ought to be shot for invading her privacy. Cyprus certainly would after learning of his ill-advised trip tonight. He deserved whatever unpleasantness his commander threw his way. Another excellent reason to turn his arse around. The situation could be salvaged if he arrived home before dawn. No one would be the wiser and…
Wallaig clenched his teeth. Nay. Not going to happen. He hadn’t flown this far only to back out now. He refused to abandon his plan. Elise needed closure. He could give it to her by playing errand lad tonight. So, best to get a move on. Standing around all night wasn’t going to get the neat bundle of letters delivered on the sly.
Eyeing his target, he rechecked his sightline while attempting to shake the gunk off his paw one more time. No luck. Nothing budged. He was stuck with the shite—literally.
He exhaled in frustration. Lava shot from between his fangs and splashed across the rooftop. Exposed wood caught fire. Smoke swirled into a funnel feed by a ravenous orange glow. Mesmerized by the quick burn, he watched the flames grow into twin spirals before snuffing it out. Unleashing his flamethrower qualified as stupid. He might be a bit of a pyromaniac, but he refused to let the fire burn. The surrounding buildings couldn’t take it. One misstep, and the whole block would burst into flames. Fun to watch. Not great to clean up. Too many humans would end up charbroiled.
Extinguishing the last ember, he leapt from one rooftop onto the next. On the third jump, he reached the building where the female lived. He landed with a soft thump. The plastic chair scuttled sideways, then tipped over, landing on a mound of dirt. Leftovers from a garden plot or…he sniffed the air…a pile of sheep dung? The second option seemed like a better guess given the stench and—
Bloody hell. What a pit.
Every time he flew south from Aberdeen, he remembered why he never wanted to do it again. The building top he stood on wasn’t changing his mind. Transforming from dragon to human form, he conjured his clothes. A long-sleeved tee and his favorite jeans settled on his skin. He stomped his feet into his boots and started toward the door. Frigid wind gusts ruffled the hair at his nape. Ignoring the chill, he reached out and grabbed the handle. A quick yank. A shrill shriek of hinges. Wallaig stepped over the threshold and, footfalls banging across the landing, descended into the bowls of human society.
The smell of urine greeted him.
He wrinkled his nose. Hellfire in a hospital. What in the god’s name were human officials thinking? The odour alone screamed neglect. The rickety railing and crumbling concrete steps did the rest. No wonder Elise worried for her friend. The apartment complex should’ve been bulldozed decades ago. Rounding the fifth-floor landing, Wallaig stepped over a collection of used condoms. He grunted in disgust. Christ help him. Sex in a filthy stairwell. So classy…and not a place a female should be living alone.
Everything about the neighborhood screamed unsafe.
The state of disrepair backed up his theory.
Wallaig scowled. What was the female thinking? Why the hell was she living in such a shite hole? Serious questions in need of quick answers. Otherwise, he might do something stupid, like ditch the mission—along with the rules—and save Amantha from the building she lived in before the walls fell down around her.
Two
Standing at her kitchen island, Amantha Leblanc plunked a lime green mixing bowl down on the butcher-block countertop. The rubber rimmed bottom landed with a thump. Stainless steel measuring spoons rattled in protest. She ignored the calamity and, with a shove, pushed the white sugar and vanilla beans to one side. She’d need those later, but right now, flour came next on her hit list.
Heavy paper crinkled as she grabbed the bag and dragged it front and center. Digging in, she dumped four cups of All Purpose into the waiting bowl. A white puff drifted up, clouding the air as she glanced at the clock hanging on the wall between the windows in her living room. The cheap plastic frame looked back at her, second hand ticking, sounding impatient in the silence.
Music would’ve helped quell the quiet.
She refused to put any on. Not at three in the morning. No matter how low the volume, the paper-thin walls acted like speakers, piping noise into her neighbors’ apartments. Amantha huffed. So not advisable. The last time she’d unleashed iTunes (and rocked out to Brian Adams), Ronald had banged on her door. Something she never wanted to experience again. The guy freaked her out, and it wasn’t just about the cowlick. The cold glint in his eyes gave her the chills. Toss in the awful vibe he threw off like pollution and…
Amantha stifled a shiver of revulsion. Total Creeps-ville. Absolutely worth avoiding, so…scratch the music. It wasn’t worth the unwanted attention, no matter how much she needed a good tune to help her stay awake.
Rubbing the grit from her eyes, Amantha shook her head. She should be used to it by now. Hell, she’d signed up for early morning bake-offs. Had gone countless rounds with her professors at Le Cordon Bleu Ottawa for the privilege of sleepless nights and, oh yeah…earning top of her class as a Pastry Chef. Her mouth curved as she sorted through her measuring spoons. Surviving until graduation day had been tough, but one hundred percent worth it. Independence came in unexpected ways and different packages. For her, the dream started with getting her degree and ended with owning her own business.
So close. She was so damn close to realizing step one in her five point plan.
Brushing her bangs out of her eyes, Amantha cracked eggs into a separate bowl. Six months. One hundred and eighty days—give or take—and she’d have enough saved. Enough to invest in the right equipment. Enough to rent an empty storefront not far from the Royal Mile, next to thriving businesses and the tourist traps near Edinburgh Castle. A gold mine in the making, but first…
Amantha snuck another peek at the clock.
She needed to finish baking for her regular customers—the cafes who hired her to make fresh pastries for the coffee a
nd croissant crowd who stopped by every morning. She’d started with one—a place called Perk Up in the business district. Now, she worked for three different places. A great boost. Better money and more time spent doing what she loved, but…
She blew out a long breath. A lot less sleep too.
Dumping the rest of the ingredients into the bowl, Amantha eyed the list stuck to the fridge with a pineapple shaped magnet. The apple, pecan and rhubarb pies were made. The brownies and cupcakes with frosted icing and extra sprinkles done. Her scones and coffee cakes sat in boxes by the front door alongside containers of croissants waiting for the delivery guy to show up. Suppressing a yawn, she refocused on the recipe in front of her.
“Muffins,” she murmured. “Double batch of each.”
Brushing flour from her hands, she formulated a plan of attack. Muscle memory took over. Her hands did the rest, throwing together the wet ingredients before adding it to the dry mix. She didn’t have a lot of time. Just a couple of hours to get the blueberry, cranberry-walnut, apple spice, and plain old bran muffins baked. Easier said than done, and…yup. She was cutting it close tonight. Not her usual habit, but worry always screwed with her timeline. Stress piled on, making her clumsy, drawing her mind away from the task at hand, reminding her Elise was still missing.
Vanished. Disappeared. Taken. Use whatever word worked.
Nothing changed the facts.
Her best friend was gone. No explanation. No clues to follow. She’d simply walked out one evening and never returned.
Fury of Denial Page 1