Fury of Ice Page 7

  “Keep your yap shut, D. I’ll tell Ivar myself.” His hands paused in midair, he met Denzeil’s gaze in the mirror, a warning in his own. “We clear?”

  Denzeil glanced away, breaking eye contact, ass-shuffling on the cracked vinyl tabletop. “No problem, boss. Your call.”

  “Da, it is,” he said, enjoying the male’s reaction. Fear—the ability to instill it in a full-blooded warrior—was better than any drug on the market. “I’ll retrieve her at sunset.”

  Surprise flared in Denzeil’s dark eyes. “You’ve already—”

  “Fed from her?”

  Hmm…had he ever.

  She’d tasted good, the white-hot energy she drew from the Meridian so delicious it made his heart pound. Better still? Her defiance. She’d fought like a wildcat, struggling as he forced the energy connection: drew her deep into his veins, took without mercy, wounding her soul-deep, leaving bruises on her soft skin.

  Lothair’s mouth curved as he relived the feel of her. Hot, tight, and oh-so-unwilling.

  He could almost love her for battling so hard. Almost, but not quite. Revenge was more his style and, unlike the two females already locked in their cages, the she-cop deserved his retribution in spades.

  Too bad he was grounded by sunlight, shut down by ultraviolet rays and his light-sensitive eyes. Not that it mattered. He was a patient male. Half a day. Just twelve hours before he went after her, became hunter to her prey. He could hardly wait for sunset. The moment he took flight over the forest, she wouldn’t stand a chance. He was linked in now, connected to her in a way no other male could match. Like a beacon in the dark, her energy called to him, leaving a trail he could track.

  A growl rose in his throat as Lothair applied the last butterfly, absorbing the pain, letting it sink deep to fuel his rage. The slice to his face hurt like hell, but not half as much as Angela would when he got a hold of her.

  Mac was surrounded by endless waves of dark hair. The thick strands filled his hands, curled around his forearms, cocooning him while he nestled in, nuzzled deep, needing more.

  So good. She was so damned good. Nothing but soft, willing curves and white-hot desire.

  With a groan, he licked her pulse point, feeling the buzz along his spine as he pressed deeper between her thighs. She sighed—the sound half hum, half plea—and shifted beneath him, rocking her hips into his. More. She wanted more, and Mac wanted to give it to her. Except…

  He knew he should let her go, that she couldn’t be real. Nothing in reality came close to how amazing she felt in his arms. And any second now he’d wake up. Drunk. Alone. With only the memory of her face and a hard-on to keep him company.

  But goddamn, everything about her felt real: her heartbeat, the small hands in his hair, the taste of her on his tongue, her scent on him, his on her, and yeah, the relief. Her touch banished the pain, made the world fade and him float until all Mac knew was her. Then again, that was the point. A delusion wasn’t a delusion unless you believed it. Breathed it. Made it your own. All the better to fuck you with, my pretty…cue the witchy laugh.

  Mother of God, he was losing it. Making up a fake woman. Imaging hot, sweaty sex with a beautiful stranger. Except she wasn’t a stranger. Not really. He’d dreamed of her for days, ever since he’d seen her at the SPD precinct.

  Tania. Her name was Tania, and oh man, he didn’t want to wake up. Or let his fantasy lover go. She belonged to him in the dreamscape like sugar belonged in cookies. Inseparable. Undisputed.

  His.

  Mac growled, the need to get closer and something more prickled beneath his skin. The sensation drew him tight, and muscles coiled, preparing for…what exactly? He frowned, revolving around the mystery, trying to unravel it, but his thoughts tangled, leaving his mind blank and his heart empty. Something was coming. He could feel it rumbling toward him, gaining speed by the second and—

  A heavy hand curled around the nape of his neck.

  Mac twitched. That wasn’t right. He never invited other guys into his dreams. And imaginary dream woman or not, he didn’t want the bozo anywhere near Tania. With a quick twist, he shielded her with his body and tried to shrug out of the touch.

  “Easy, big guy,” a deep voice said, tone soothing. “B…we good to go?”

  “Furniture’s cleared.” Footfalls came from far away, the soft thuds throwing red flags inside Mac’s head as a second voice joined the first. “Is he ready?”

  “Any second now. She fed him well. His energy levels are good…stable.”

  “Calm before the storm.”

  Jesus Christ. A third guy? This was the strangest dream he’d ever had, but weirder than that? He heard the sheets rustle, felt the mattress dip as someone climbed on beside him.

  The third guy murmured, “I’ll grab him. Get the female out of here.”

  Aggression rolled through him, pumping him full of “oh, no, you don’t.” If one of them tried to touch Tania, he’d rip him a new asshole. Imaginary or not, she was his, and right now? Way too vulnerable, so relaxed Mac knew she was fast asleep.

  The mattress shifted. A second set of hands touched his shoulder. Mac let loose.

  Punching his fists into the sheets on either side of Tania, he thrust up, back and…oh, yeah. Instant liftoff. The 180-degree spin put him on the balls of his feet, face-to-face with Dickhead at the end of the bed. Surprise flared in shimmering red eyes an instant before Mac hammered him with a right cross. The guy’s head snapped back, throwing the idiot off balance and over the side of the mattress. As he hit the floor, the other two cursed.

  Keeping himself between Tania and them, Mac swiveled, fists raised, teeth bared, desperate to do damage. To ignore the onslaught of returning pain and keep her safe…away from the bastards tag-teaming him. He set his stance and—

  Motherfuck, too late.

  Brutal and quick, the frosty-eyed SOB moved in, nailing him with a quick jab. As his head cranked sideways, hard hands dragged him off the bed and into a full nelson chokehold.

  “You touch her and I’ll kill you.” Muscles straining, pain gnawed on his bones as he reared, fighting the lockdown. “I’ll rip your fucking—”

  “Settle down, MacCord.” Breathing hard, the bastard hauled him into the center of the open-plan loft. Upended furniture lined the walls beneath blacked-out windows. Alive with movement, the glass seethed, rolling from frame to steel frame. As his “holy shit” meter went red zone, the guy forced him to his knees. “No one’s gonna touch the female. We just want her safe and out of the way.”

  The assurance struck a chord, and he stilled, relief warring with a boatload of “really?” But something in Full Nelson’s voice—the undercurrent in his tone, the absolute confidence—told him not to worry. They weren’t interested in Tania. Crazy conclusion? Maybe, but Mac didn’t think so. His spidey senses were on overload, tingling, picking up a strange vibe. One that said trust this guy.

  “Mac,” he rasped, testing the waters, giving a little to see what came back at him.

  “What?”

  “It’s Mac. No one ever calls me MacCord.”

  “More with the attitude.” Full Nelson huffed, the laughter underneath the exasperation unmistakable. He eased his grip without letting go, giving Mac enough slack to lift his head. “You know what, Ven? Give me some time, and I might actually like the big dummy.”

  “Not me.” Dickhead—Ven…whatever—wiped the blood from his mouth and rolled to his feet. “The blockhead rattled my cage.”

  “You deserved it,” Mac said, grinding out each word as agony closed the gap, gluing his knees to the floor. His gag reflex kicked in. He fought the dry heaves, breathing with lungs that felt like they’d been poured full of cement. “Goddamn…what’s wrong with me?”

  “The change.” Full Nelson released him. As his hands slid away, he moved around front and crouched, nailing Mac with pale peepers. “You go head-to-head with a dragon lately, Mac?”

  He nodded.

  “Not sure why the magic in your blo
od was dormant…” The guy paused, a furrow between his brows as he shook his head. “Call it a sleeping giant…but whatever the reason, contact with the Razorback triggered you. Now your dragon DNA is kicking in.”

  What the fuck? Razorback? Dragon DNA? Was the guy insane? Except…

  He couldn’t get the black-scaled bastard out of his head. The SOB had blown him through the two-way in IR One with his freaky exhale, and he’d been sick ever since.

  Mac frowned so hard the center of his forehead stung. “Who…”

  Losing the battle with his stomach, he squeezed his eyes shut, slammed his palms on the wood floor, and dry heaved.

  “I’m Rikar, and you’re Dragonkind…just like me. Like us.”

  On all fours now, he shook his head. “No…way.”

  “Look at your hands, big guy,” Rikar murmured. “And then tell me no.”

  Fighting his stomach and a bad, bad feeling, he opened his eyes as Rikar gave him a gentle push, throwing him off balance. As his spine touched down on the cold floor, Mac raised his hands, a scream locked in the back of his throat.

  Scales.

  Interlocking blue-gray scales.

  Like a disease, the nightmarish weave spread over the backs of his hands, up his arms, wrapped over his shoulders, heading straight for his heart. Cold and deadly, the sensation slid deep, chaining him to the floor. Immobilized by invisible bonds stronger than steel, his roar of horror turned to screams of agony as his bones snapped: hands morphing into paws, fingers into claws.

  Exhaustion gnawing on him like a bone, Rikar sat down on the floor beside the kitchen island. Leaning back, he propped himself against the cabinetry, brushing shoulders with Bastian, and stretched his legs out in front of him. As his muscles unlocked, his bones cracked, protesting the long hours, hard work, and cramped conditions.

  “Jesus,” B murmured, rolling his chin against his chest.

  “Yeah.” Not much more Rikar could say. Getting hit by a Freightliner carrying a heavy load at full speed would’ve been easier than the last few hours.

  The quiet, though, was nice. No more cursing. Or screams of pain. Just silence, and a whole lot of relief.

  Done with a shoulder roll, Rikar refocused on the cause of his condition. He blew out a long breath. Man, the male was big and…yeah. Unlike any dragon he’d ever seen.

  Sleeping like the dead, Mac lay curled like a cat in the center of the large loft: his face tucked behind one wing, his tail wrapped around the whole. Blue-gray scales glimmered in the low light, the interlocking dragon skin polished to an almost shine, protecting the male like armor, the mean-and-hard outer shell a characteristic shared by all of Dragonkind. But the weird thing? His scales were almost perfectly smooth, lacking the ridges and valleys of most males. Rikar frowned, his gaze wandering along Mac’s sleek hide and muscled flank. Maybe all that smoothness helped him swim, made him more water-dynamic or—

  “Jeez, Rikar,” Venom said, footfalls quiet as he paced another circle around Mac. Ruby gaze roaming, he studied the male, examining him like a scientist would a new species. Which, come to think of it, wasn’t far from the truth. “Blockhead’s got some serious blade. And get a load of all that ink.”

  Bending one leg, Rikar propped his forearm on his knee, attention straying to Mac’s tail. “Blade” didn’t begin to describe it. Lethal was a better word, considering the nine-inch paper-thin ridge that started behind the horns on his head. Sharp as a razor blade, the narrow, steel-gray strip gleamed like a knife edge, running between his shoulders and along his spine before spreading to both the top and underside of his tail. And the tip? Dagger quality. Rikar shook his head. Nope…not the usual spikes for Mac. Christ, he could cut another male in half with that thing. A single sideswipe and…

  Wham. Game over. Add that to the webbed paws, sleek skin, and Mac had water dragon written all over him. The magical tattoo, though—the Celtic-esque swirl of dark blue lines covering one half of Mac’s torso—baffled him. He’d never seen a male with ink like that before.

  Chasing an itch, Rikar rubbed his back against the raised edge of a cabinet door. “Stop calling him a blockhead, Ven.”

  “Feeling a little possessive there, buddy?” Meeting his gaze over the top of Mac’s shoulder, Venom raised a brow.

  Rikar glared at the male, his message clear. Back off. So he was feeling protective? Big deal. Getting Mac through the change hadn’t been easy, and he’d been the primary: connecting to Mac through mind-speak, guiding him through seven hours of hell, through the energy shift and the physical change that came with it. Just like a sire would for his son. The fact he felt invested in the male’s welfare now didn’t make him a pansy. It made him normal. Right?

  Man, he hoped so. His work with Mac was nowhere near done. As a fledgling, their boy was vulnerable right now and would be for a while…until he learned the basics. How to shift from human to dragon form. How to control his new body and curb the increased strength that accompanied it. How to fly and fight. So, yeah, Mac was headed into some serious training: boot camp, dragon style.

  “Hey, that’s cool.” With a shrug, Venom turned his palms up in the universal gesture of whatever. “You got him through the change. You can feel however you frigging want.”

  “Gee, thanks, buddy,” Rikar said, sarcasm dripping from each word.

  “Lay off, Venom.” With a sigh, Bastian crossed his shitkickers, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. “Give our new boy the respect he deserves. He did well…came through strong.”

  Pride filled Rikar’s chest to bursting and…fucking hell. Maybe pansy-ass pathetic applied to him after all. And as Rikar scrambled to plug the crack in his defenses—one Mac had slipped right through—he covered the breach by changing the subject. “We got…what? Four hours to sunset?”

  “Give or take,” B said. “Get some sleep.”

  Good plan. After the fight in the Port of Seattle, his search for Angela, and Mac’s transition, he was running on empty. All of them were, and sleep deprived was no way to start the new night. Not with a pack of Razorbacks on the loose. Not when he needed pinpoint focus to track, find, and kill the males who’d taken his female. After that? He’d retrieve her. Hopefully in one piece without—

  Rikar murdered the thought. He refused to picture scenarios that might never come true. Facts. Strategy. He must deal in what he could control, whom he could pursue, what locations held the most promise. And as he stretched out flat on the floor, Rikar sifted through a list of possibilities. Nightclubs. The university. Outdoor concerts. All-night coffee shops. Art galleries. Anywhere a rogue would go to find a female and feed.

  Interrogating the enemy wouldn’t get him what he needed…the location of the Razorback lair and by extension, Angela. The idiots were too afraid of Ivar to ever give up the goods. None of them would crack. So where did that leave him?

  Nowhere. In butt-fuck country with only one option.

  Tracking one of the rogues. A tricky play? Absolutely. The enemy was as aware of him as he was of them. Shadowing a male without being detected wouldn’t be easy. Hell, he didn’t even know if it was possible, but…

  What other choice did he have? If he didn’t free her soon, Angela would—

  A tingle slid over the nape of Rikar’s neck.

  Sucking in a breath, he jackknifed off the floor. As his feet touched down, he squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated, struggling to connect. Static buzzed inside his head, washing in and out as he hunted for the signal. Christ, had he imagined it? Was thinking about his female making him feel her when—

  His head snapped to the side. There it went again. Whisper soft, the sensation slid down his spine, lighting his senses on fire.

  A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, gripping him through his leather jacket. “Whatcha got, Rikar?”

  “Angela.”

  Bastian’s palm shifted, cupping the back of his head. “You locked on?”

  “Fuck.” Rikar flinched as the pinging beacon hammered his temple
s. “I can feel her…B, she’s out from under their shield. I can feel her.”

  “Where?” Venom rolled up on his other side. “Where is she?”

  Gritting his teeth, Rikar bowed his head, sifting through mental static. The telepathic flight took him out of Seattle toward the Canadian border. “North of the city. Somewhere in the redwoods.” With a full-body shiver, he tracked her elevation, coming up over mountain tops. “Shit…I gotta go. I need to—”

  “Sun’s up, my brother.” His best friend’s hand flexed, tightening on his nape. Taking a step back, Rikar tried to shake off the vise grip. He should’ve known better. A move like that never dissuaded Bastian. Instead, his commander stepped into him, putting them chest-to-chest. “You go now…you get fried.”

  “The rogues—”

  “Are grounded until nightfall…same as us,” B said, his reasonable tone pissing Rikar off. “If you can feel her, she’s in sunlight where they can’t reach her.”

  His hands flexed into fists, Rikar shook his head. Fuck him. He knew Bastian was right, but…God. He didn’t want to wait. Angela was out there, alone, vulnerable, probably half-frozen in cold mountain air. If he didn’t leave now, the Razorbacks might reach her first.

  He swallowed, trying to stuff his fear for her down deep. It didn’t work. The worry kept circling, taking potshots.

  “Rikar, man, we’re a team,” Venom murmured, jumping on B’s bandwagon. “We wait for sunset, then go after her.”

  Applying gentle pressure, Bastian forced him to raise his chin. As Rikar opened his eyes, he got nailed by his best friend’s shimmering gaze. “You can’t help her if you’re dead. We’ll get her back, but we do it together.”

  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.