Together.
The word—the show of loyalty—should’ve made him feel better. Stronger. More confident about staying put until the sun sank low and night took over. But as he ran his hands over his skull-trim, breaking B’s hold, a gaping hole opened inside him. One filled with hope and a raging faith that he’d retrieve Angela unscathed. And as both rose, clogging his throat, tying a knot around his heart, Rikar called himself a fool. Hope was for idiots, and faith for the dying. He clung to them anyway, like a drowning man would a life preserver.
Chapter Eight
The cold nipped, damp autumn air sinking bone-deep as Angela crested another rise. Thick forest behind her, more of the same in front, she suppressed a shiver and paused at the center of the bluff, appreciating its smooth, dome-like top. Big contrast, a welcome one from broken branches she’d stumbled over most of the afternoon. But even better than the smoothness? Sun-warmed granite beneath the soles of her bare feet.
God, that felt good.
Settling into a crouch, she pressed her palms flat against the stone, absorbing more heat, and searched the sky. Way off to the west, the sun sank closer to the horizon. Stupid Razorbacks. Trust them to build a bunker in the middle of nowhere. With nothing but rock and brush for miles around. She should know. Her sore feet told the story. Scratched, bruised, cut in places she didn’t want to think about, the tale was a sad one. A woe-is-me-I-need-to-kick-someone’s-ass kind, and it wasn’t getting any better.
Blowing out a breath, Angela pushed to her feet. She stood weaving a moment, the light breeze making her sway like a bulrush in the wind, exhaustion dangerously close. Temptation called, urging her to lie down and rest…if only for a second.
She shook her head. No time for that. Nothing to do but keep running. She needed more distance between her and the enemy.
The rat-bastard’s name skated through her mind. Angela picked up her feet and the pace, avoiding the bluff’s crumbling edges, and scrambled down the slope on the other side. As she rounded a boulder the size of her Jeep, she paused on a ledge. Seven, maybe an eight-foot drop to the ground below. Under normal circumstances the distance wouldn’t be a problem. But today she wasn’t looking forward to it. Her feet hurt like hell, and the landing wouldn’t be fun.
Angela leapt anyway. Her knees rebounded, slamming into her chest, knocking the air from her lungs on impact. With a curse, she lost her footing, went sideways and…
Crap. Another hill. Another spine-grinding fall down an unforgiving slope.
Her heart kicked, hammering her breastbone as loose earth crumbled beneath her heels and she fell backward. She dug her elbows in, protecting her back, desperate to slow her slide down the hillside. Good plan, one that worked like a charm until a raised tree root entered the game, smashing into her tailbone. As she gasped and fought forward momentum, she wished she was a little more mountain goat and a lot less human.
Yeah, hooves and a crapload of sure-footedness would be helpful right about now. ’Cause, man, she was running out of places to bruise.
Too bad there weren’t any trails to follow.
She’d given up hope of finding one hours ago. Of stumbling upon helpful hikers. Of catching a ride on a hunter’s ATV. The bush was too dense, a thick, inhospitable landscape only the most experienced would brave. And only then with the right equipment—warm clothes, food, water…a rifle. And as she continued down the never-ending descent, skirting tree trunks, tripping over rocks and sticks, she wished herself home for the thousandth time. Maybe if she prayed hard enough God would hear her…have mercy and teleport her inside her condo.
Or the nearest police precinct.
Definitely. The cop shop was a better choice. At least armed, she stood a chance. But here? Surrounded by forest and frosty air? She gave herself a two-in-ten shot at survival. Bad odds, but she had to try. The second she lost faith, she’d quit…find the prettiest redwood, curl up in a ball underneath it, and die. Or get eaten by a mountain lion.
And my, oh, my, what a lovely thought. Right up there with getting recaptured by Lothair, only over much quicker, with a lot less brutality.
Angela ground to a stop at the bottom of the hill. She scanned the terrain, taking cover behind a fallen log. Quivering with fatigue, white puffs of air sawing out of her mouth, she reached out to steady herself. As her hand settled on rotten wood and wet moss, she tilted her head and listened hard. Nothing. No sounds of pursuit, just bursts of birdsong and the creak of tree limbs.
She checked the sun again, using its position in the sky to gauge the time. An hour—maybe two—before the light faded, and she’d be forced to find shelter for the night.
“Keep moving…you’re doing all right,” she murmured, adding a rah-rah-rah-go-Angela to the mental mix. “Just keep moving.”
As the cheerleader inside her head got busy shaking her pom-poms, Angela rubbed her upper arms, wincing with each pass of her battered hands. Not that her fingertips hurt much anymore. Like a gift, numbness had set in, her body throwing out endorphins, easing the scrapes better than a pantry full of ibuprofen. Add that to the adrenaline rush, and…
Bam. She had a little more fuel in her tank. Enough, maybe, to get her to a highway. A rest stop. Somewhere safe.
God, she hoped she was headed the right way. Without a compass, she couldn’t be sure, but…yeah, south was the best bet. Civilization lay in that direction. She was almost positive. Wanted to believe it like she wanted her next breath. If she kept running, somewhere along the way she’d see lights through the trees, spot a lone house, run into a small town.
Which meant break time was over.
She needed more distance between her and the Razorback bunker. Lothair was a vindictive son of a bitch. No way would he let her go, not after she’d taken a chunk out of his pride and left him for dead. Too bad she hadn’t thought to check. If she’d just taken a couple more seconds…
But no. She hadn’t finished the job and slit his throat. And she knew—just knew—the lapse in judgment would come back to bite her.
Her hands curled against the rotten log, pushing moss under her fingernails. She couldn’t think about it. Not about him. Or the fact he’d left her alone all day. It didn’t make any sense. Why hadn’t he come after her yet? Was he playing some sort of game?
Probably. She knew his type. The bastard enjoyed the thrill of the hunt too much to pass up a challenge. Add that to his sadistic nature and…yup. Mystery solved. He’d let her run, hide, play cat to her mouse while she struggled to stay alive. Wait until she was half-frozen, out of gas, too exhausted to fight. And then? He’d hurt her again. Force her to—
No…no. Don’t go there.
Angela shook her head, banished the memory. The past was the past, no matter how recent. She must concentrate on the here and now. On the fact she was strong, well trained, and, for the moment, free. No reason to lie down and die. Nothing in God’s playbook said Lothair would win. Or she couldn’t make him pay for hurting her.
The thought gave her courage. Got her moving, but as her feet obeyed, carrying her around the fallen log, she glanced over her shoulder. The bogeyman was real. And as the creak of tree limbs shivered through the quiet, Angela searched the shadows: looking for dragons, expecting the snatch-and-grab, her heart nothing but an awful throb inside her chest.
Go. Go. Go.
She broke into a sprint, racing between tree trunks. As she passed the last one, the ground leveled out. Damp with recent rain, wet leaves slipped beneath her soles, kicking up the scent of decaying earth and old sap. But the rotten smell came with benefits…softer ground cover. Easier on the feet than the pine needles she’d crossed over at higher altitude.
Slowing her pace, she snaked between low-lying cedars. She ignored the grabbing pull of wooden fingers, her focus on a break in the forest where the prickly undergrowth thinned. The setting sun hung low, slicing between trees, painting the branches with an orange glow. She squinted and got a clear shot of open terrain. A clearing and—
>
Water. She could hear the gentle rush and lap. A glacial lake? A river, maybe?
Angela prayed for the latter. A river, after all, went somewhere. And where water traveled, people set up shop, building towns and houses close to the shoreline.
“Please, please,” she whispered, running toward the lip of the clearing.
Five feet from her target, she veered right behind a mound of rock. Recon time. No sense blowing her cover. At least, not before she knew what lay beyond the tree line.
She saw the blue Chevy first. Tireless, circa 1950, half buried in the dirt, the rust bucket listed to one side, a twisted axle raised as though it waited to shake her hand. Angela grazed it with her fingertips as she moved past, brushing rust chips from the cold metal, making sure it was real.
Hallucination had never been her style, but she was beyond cold, way past tired. So yeah, checking seemed like a solid plan. Especially with fatigue setting in, blunting her normally sharp senses.
Rubbing her eyes, Angela forced herself to focus and—
“Oh, thank God.”
A cabin. Nestled between two ancient pines.
Small with crooked eaves, moss had moved in like it owned the place, growing between chinked logs, rambling over old shingles, making a meal of the wooden porch steps. The signs of neglect were everywhere, and as she scanned the terrain, she picked up other details. The crumbling chimney top. An abandoned, weed-ridden garden. Another old car, built in a long-forgotten decade, sat beside it. The cabin’s roof looked solid, though, and the windows? Unbroken.
Within seconds, Angela was halfway across the clearing, her footfalls silent on the compacted dirt of the little-used trail. Reaching the steps, she slowed down. Rotten in places, the treads were slick with recent rain. She tested each board, taking the steps one at a time until she reached the narrow landing. Her breath caught as she reached for the handle: hoping, praying, making all kinds of impossible bargains with God if only…
Metal squawked as the knob turned.
Angela nearly fell over and, after sending a thank you heavenward, wedged her shoulder in tight and pushed. It cracked open, wood groaning, hinges squeaking, the door bottom scraping against the cabin floor. One, then two inches grew between the warped frame and the door edge. Not nearly enough for her to slip through. Angela thrust again, bloody feet sliding on slick boards, her strength disappearing as fast as the setting sun.
“Come on. You…” Angela pushed harder. “…stupid…” With a curse, she hammered the door again, putting all her weight behind it. “…thing.”
The last shove did the trick, and her feet left wood. She had an instant of “oh, crap” before she hit the floor. Pain arced, stealing her air as the body slam rattled her bones. Facedown in the dust, she wheezed, seeing spots, the threat of unconsciousness nanoseconds away. As her vision dimmed, self-preservation kicked in. She couldn’t pass out. Refused to give in, but…
Goddamn. She hurt…everywhere.
As the agony expanded, the urge to close her eyes and stay down came with it. Man, it was persuasive, murmuring in hushed tones, tempting her so softly she wanted to listen. To relax into oblivion and let herself fall. To sleep and forget about the wide-open door, wild animals, and asshole dragon guys. The problem? Her body might be fried, but her brain was still online, working well enough to know succumbing to exhaustion was a bad idea. So, yeah. Much as she yearned to cop out, she needed to get up.
Right now.
Gritting her teeth, Angela pressed her palms to floor. One minute. She just needed sixty seconds to catch her breath, and she could get up, start moving, make her tired body work.
The water wasn’t far. She heard it lapping at the shoreline. From the sound alone, Angela guessed the river snaked past the cabin’s back side. With a groan, she pushed into a crouch and raised her head, forcing her mind to work. A boat. Maybe whoever owned the place kept a canoe out back. Something sturdy enough to float her down river and into civilization.
Now all she needed was some luck. She was sick of running, tired of looking over her shoulder. People. She needed to find someone to help her. No matter how tough, she wouldn’t last much longer. The thought got her moving.
Shivering in the dark, Angela struggled to her feet and searched the shadows. Nada. The place was empty but for a single chair sitting kitty-corner in front of a shallow fireplace. From its shape, she guessed a wingback. From its smell? She knew it had seen better days.
Angela headed for the rear entrance and—
Great. All that effort for nothing.
The back door stood wide open, dirt and leafy debris piled high between the jambs. Angela glared at it while she made a mental note—always check the back door before body slamming the front one open. Good advice. All right, so it came a little late, but as she glanced out the opening, she found it hard not to be grateful. At least she could run straight down to the shoreline. No walking around the cabin. No extra muscle required.
Forcing her stiff legs to work, she half walked, half shuffled to see the river beyond the threshold. The moon peeked through high clouds now, lighting the surface of the water, making it look like a ribbon of black silk.
Angela snorted. Black silk? She really must be losing it if she was getting poetic. Completely off her rocker if she—
A tingle swept the nape of her neck. Her head snapped toward the front door. Something wasn’t right. The buzzing sensation lit her up, screamed along her spine, telling her to run. To hide. To head straight for the river’s edge.
Adrenaline punched through as she crouched low. Listening hard, she stared through the open front door, straining to see in the dark. The thump-thump of heavy wings sounded overhead, and Angela’s throat closed. Oh, no. He was here. The bastard was—
“Here, kitty-kitty-kitty.” The soft growl slithered through the night air, polluting her with fear. A soft snick came next as claws touched down in the front yard.
Without thought, Angela bolted, launching herself off the back porch. As she touched down, branches snapped, giving away her position. She didn’t care and refused to stop. Lothair was right on her heels. She could feel him in the mountain air, rising in the dark. The awful prickle of awareness exploded down her spine, and panic picked her up, instinct urging her to run faster. Zigzagging through the underbrush, each breath a harsh rasp against the back of her throat, Angela kept her eyes on the water.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
The terrible voice singsonged in the moonlight, sliced through the quiet, and Angela tried not to cry. Tears fell anyway, leaving twin tracks on her cheeks.
Rikar broke through the cloud cover, coming down like a vengeful God, wisps of fog curling from his wing tips. The blowback washed out behind him, bending trees in half as he skimmed evergreens and redwoods, his night vision so sharp he saw every blade of grass. Up ahead, the forest thinned, then stopped short, running out of ground as rock tumbled off a cliff into the river below.
Banking left, he leveled out, following the river’s snaking turns. Another tight turn. More of Angela’s energy. His magic responded, rising so fast frost gathered, coated his scales, rattling the spikes along his spine. Locked on, his sonar pinged and information whiplashed, narrowing the target zone.
The riverbank. She was somewhere close to the water’s edge.
“Good girl,” he mind-spoke to her, trying to touch her mind. Shit. He hoped she understood…was picking up the instructions he threw at her despite the distance separating them. “Angela…get into the water.”
He sensed her shift, increase speed, the struggle in each pumping stride. Rikar reached deeper to connect, throwing more mind-speak her way. “Come on, angel. You can make it.”
Thump-thump-thump.
Her heartbeat rushed at him, throbbing through cold mountain air to reach his own. His went jackrabbit inside his chest as he clung to her bio-energy, pushed her harder, knowing what chased her. He might not know “who” exactly, but he felt the fucker
. His dragon radar picked up all kinds of trace, giving him an impression of big-dark-and-ugly, but beyond that?
He wasn’t getting much. And unlike Bastian, he couldn’t dissect a male’s strengths and weaknesses from a distance. Too bad. He could’ve used the skill tonight. Especially since B hadn’t made the trip.
What a freaking nightmare. Nothing was going as planned.
FUBAR number one? Mac.
As a fledgling, he couldn’t be left alone, and not many were qualified to take care of him. Venom wasn’t an option. Not after calling the cop “blockhead” all day. The warrior was as likely to roast their new boy as help him. And Wick? Rikar snorted. No way he could trust the male. Their resident sociopath wasn’t fit for babysitting, no matter the circumstances. So, yeah, that put B on the hook, waiting at Myst’s loft for Mac to wake up.
“Rikar, man.” Venom flipped in midair, rolling in on his left side. “Lay it out…talk to me.”
“Half a mile out.” Rocketing around another bend, Rikar’s wing tip skimmed the surface, throwing up spray. Water turned to ice, free-falling with a splash into the river. “ETA…thirty seconds.”
“How many?”
“Can’t tell.”
Venom cursed. “Where the hell is Wick?”
Like he knew? Christ, the warrior might be lethal in a firefight, but his punctuality sucked. Which meant they were going in light, one wingman short of a fighting triangle. “No time to wait. Split wide right. Go in on the blind side…divide and conquer.”
“Wicked,” his buddy said, a whole lot of pissed off in his tone. “You divide. I’ll conquer.”
“Watch your six.”
As his buddy hoorahed, a deep growl came out of nowhere, “Rikar…right flank.”
Speak of the devil. Backup, coming in hot.
Black, gold-tipped scales nothing but a blur, Wick separated from the gloom, rocketing toward them like an arrow tip. Unfurling his wings, he slowed his flight, settling beside Rikar’s right wing.
“About time you got here.” Ruby eyes shimmering, Venom glared at the male.
Fury of Ice (Dragonfury Series #2) Page 8