Fury of Desire (29 page)

“I run a tight ship,” he said, running a critical eye over the leader of the Archguard.

Rodin didn’t look good. Tie askew. Brown hair disheveled. Face drawn and blurry-eyed, the male slumped in the back corner of the booth. Nian frowned and shifted focus to the bottles of booze sitting on the table. Glenlivet single malt whiskey… one empty, the other magnum halfway there. Drunk and disorderly. Rodin epitomized the first and was about to land face first in the second.

Caution yanked his chain. Something was wrong… very,
very
wrong.

Grabbing a chair from the tabletop, Nian dropped its legs to the floor. Wood scraped against wood. A soft thump echoed as he flipped the chair backward and, folding his arms over the backrest, sat directly across from one of the most powerful males of his kind. “What’s wrong?”

“What makes you think there’s anything wrong?”

Aw, come on. Were they really going to play this game? He didn’t have time for the sideshow. Only an hour remained until showtime, for Silfer’s sake. Gritting his teeth, Nian resisted the urge to glance at his Rolex. He raised a brow instead, asking without words. Patience, after all, was the better part of valor. And right now, silence seemed like the best policy. He couldn’t afford to turn the older male away. He needed Rodin’s trust. Had worked hard to make inroads these last few months, and the fact Rodin now sat inside his club instead of halfway across the city in his pleasure pavilion was a good sign.

Breaking eye contact, Rodin frowned into his drink. “Lothair is dead.”

“How?”

“Murdered by the Nightfury pack.”

“Ah, hell, Rodin… I’m sorry,” he said, even though he didn’t mean it. Lothair. The male didn’t deserve to be mourned. Rodin’s second son represented everything Nian wanted to change about Dragonkind. And as far as he was concerned? Bastian had done the world a favor by taking the bastard out. Not that he would ever admit it. “But Lothair knew what he was signing up for when he joined Ivar’s camp. Any male involved in that war is—”

“Bullshit!” With a snarl, Rodin slammed his fist against the tabletop. The whiskey bottle jumped, skittering across the wooden surface. Teeth bared and dark eyes aglow, he leaned forward in his seat, violent intent throbbing at his temple. “He was my son. Mine! Immune from death. Do you know how this reflects upon me? I am the leader of the Archguard… the most powerful Dragonkind male in a sea of them. No one touches what belongs to me.”

And there it was—the real reason behind the rage. Rodin didn’t care that his son was dead. His concern centered on his own reputation.

“And your plan is…?”

“To kill them all.”

The announcement sent Nian back a step. The conviction he saw in Rodin’s eyes gave him pause. The bastard might be drunk, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d thought it through. Had a plan in mind. Which meant the ball was already rolling… in nasty directions.

“How?” he asked, needing more info. Intel, after all, amounted to power. The right information fed to the right male at the right time could make all the difference. To him, at least. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about Rodin. “The Nightfuries are a warrior pack… one of the strongest and most lethal. Bastian is well loved. Many follow him… are begging him to serve as High Chancellor over the Archguard as his sire did before him. You try and assassinate him, and packs will choose sides. Dragonkind will splinter. You will start a war, Rodin.”

“Not if I reinstate
Xzinile
.”

Nian blinked. Oh Christ. Not good.
Xzinile
was an ancient state of law, a legal way to label someone a traitor. Once invoked and voted upon by the high council, the male—or pack of males—became outcasts, fair game for legalized assassination. Sanctioned execution by the Archguard put a bounty on the warrior, making him an attractive target for any Dragonkind male in need of money, prestige… or simply a way into the Archguard’s good graces.

Dangerous. Foolhardy. Brilliant in a sick kind of way.

It also endangered Nian’s agenda. He needed Bastian to support his hostile takeover of the high council. But if
the Nightfury pack came under threat of
Xzinile?
He’d be screwed. Stuck waiting for another opportunity to strike at the upper echelon and take the power for himself.

“Who is responsible for Lothair’s murder?”

“A Scottish warrior,” Rodin said. “Goes by the name Forge.”

Uh-huh. Not even close to accurate.

The bastard lied. Nian recognized the slither in his tone. Rodin didn’t have a clue who’d killed his son. Which begged a question, didn’t it? Why pin the murder on an individual member of Bastian’s pack? His eyes narrowed. The entire thing stunk. Not surprising. Nothing Rodin ever handled came out smelling like roses. The leader of the Archguard targeted Forge for a reason. A very specific one. One Nian would bet his fangs had more to do with Rodin covering his own ass than the truth.

Shifting in his seat, Nian stared at the wallpaper above Rodin’s head. As he pretended to consider all the angles, he shook his head. “It’ll be a hard sell.”

“Not if you’re behind me.” One corner of his mouth twisted up, the bastard smirked, making Nian want to take his head off… just for the fun of it. “The other members of the high council will follow our lead.”

“You want my word I’ll vote with you.”

“I want your loyalty and support.”

Two things Rodin would never possess, but what else could he do? If he said no, he jeopardized his position. If he said yes, he condemned an innocent pack to death.

“I’ll think about it,” he said, refusing to lie down like a fifty-dollar whore. Strength respected strength. It was time he showed Rodin some. “When’s the vote?”

“Night after tomorrow, just before the festival’s closing ceremony… if I call it.”

Nian nodded. “Call it.”

“Can I count on you?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Good.” Downing the rest of the whiskey, Rodin slid out of the booth and pushed to his feet. Heavy-handed, the bastard slapped him on the shoulder, then turned toward the door. “In the meantime, see that Gage and Haider are rounded up, will you?”

Alarm bells went off inside his head. “To what end?”

“They will be held until Bastian complies and delivers the Scottish whelp to me for execution.”

Held,
his ass. Nian stifled a snort. Imprisoned was more like it. “He won’t do it.”

“Exactly.” Halfway across the club, Rodin glanced over his shoulder. A terrible gleam in his eyes, he murmured, “This is a power play, Nian. When Bastian refuses to hand over Forge, all of the Nightfuries… every last fucking one… will fall under the rule of
Xzinile
and—”

“The Metallics become fair game.”

“Duel beheadings at the festival’s closing ceremony sound good to you?”

“Could be fun.”

“I think so too,” he said, dark voice drifting.

The handle clicked. The door opened then closed behind Rodin.

Christ help him, he felt sick. A stomach full of rotgut would be more pleasant. But as Nian pushed to his feet, automatically returning the chair to the upside-down perch alongside its fellows, he refused to acknowledge the chop and churn. He tilted his wrist and glanced at his watch,
checking the time instead. So much to do, so little time. Just under an hour to reevaluate his plan, formulate a new one and… Nian swallowed… decide how much to tell Bastian. All while he tried to figure out a way to smuggle Gage and Haider the hell out of Prague without compromising his position.

Or getting caught.

Silence seeped from the ground, licking through chilly air to electrify the neighborhood. A good sign. The fewer humans around the better.

Wick didn’t want to be interrupted. Not while hunting Azrad.

All right. Maybe
hunting
wasn’t the right word. Rendezvous might be more accurate considering Bastian wanted to talk to the bastard first. But as Wick scanned building tops, searching for hidden threats behind steel and concrete, his commander’s agenda didn’t concern him. Not at the moment, anyway. His need for retribution trumped the party line. Payback sounded better. A lot more fun too, so…

No. The tatted warrior who liked to hurt females wouldn’t get a free pass. Not this time. Not with him involved.

Night vision pinpoint sharp, he looked across the cityscape. Puget Sound sparkled in the distance, water rolling in to wash up on shore. The corner of his mouth curled, exposing one huge fang. Frigid air ghosted over his teeth. He relished the chill. Jack Frost enlivened him, coating his scales, prepping him for the showdown and…

Jackpot. About time too. Coffee shop at twelve o’clock.

Slithering in on a slow glide, Wick swung wide, banking into a holding pattern. He revolved into a continuous series of concentric circles, widening the grid with each pass, reconning the area, searching for hostiles within the target zone while avoiding the airspace above Starbucks. No sense tipping the bastard off. Better to arrive undetected. And if he flew directly overhead? He risked alerting the enemy to his presence.

Not advisable. Particularly while planning a sneak attack.

Eyes narrowed on the city below, his sonar pinged. Alive with magic, the cosmic net spread, molding over rooftops to flow unrestricted into the street. Or rather… the avenue. First and Pike, a veritable hub of activity during the day. Completely deserted at night. Nothing but tidy street corners, stone-clad buildings, and wide, pedestrian-friendly sidewalks. Charming with its old style, three-globed lampposts and inlaid-brick intersection, both throwbacks to a simpler time and place.

The golden age of wholesome.

Wick snorted.
Wholesome.
Jesus. Where the hell had that comparison come from?

It took him less than a second to figure it out.

Jamison. Despite her past, she embodied innocence with her big blue eyes, smooth as silk skin, and innate beauty. Wick shook his head, told himself to stay on task, but… God. It was hard. She was so damn pretty, her dark hair so long and straight he wondered what it would feel like wrapped around his fist. Or sifting through his fingers, caressing his palm in a sensual sweep. The visual made him
swallow. The imagined sensation drew him tight. His muscles flickered in reaction, forcing a shiver down his spine.

Killing the twitch mid-shudder, Wick flexed a talon. The tips of his claws met the center of his palm. Pinpricks of pain nicked interlocking dragon skin, setting him straight. He needed to get a grip. Fast. Obsessing about her wouldn’t change the facts. He wasn’t built for connection, never mind the intimacy that went with it. And yet, he couldn’t deny his curiosity. For the first time—ever—he allowed himself the possibility. Wanted to follow the trail of bread crumbs to its conclusion, maybe get closer to her and see what happened.

Damned strange. More than a little bent too, considering his phobia. And the fact he never touched anyone or fed… unless forced by desperate need and Venom’s pain-in-the-ass prodding. Wasn’t inclined to modify his behavior either, except…

Shit. He’d done a lot of touching in the past twenty-four hours, hadn’t he? Caring for her. Holding her. Waking up with his hand pressed to the softness of her skin.

With a frown, Wick swung around a chimney stack. Smoke swirled in his wake, dancing with the frosty air. He watched tendrils curl, then drift, disappearing against the dark sky and—

“Wick,”
Bastian growled. Sensation swirled against his temples, turning his attention back to the mission. Thank fuck. He needed his head in the game, not on Jamison. Thinking about her distracted him, splitting his focus in two directions. Never a good thing when headed into a potential firefight.
“How close are you?”

“Thirty seconds out.”

On point, five minutes ahead of the pack, he played lead male tonight. Although, maybe
bait
described his role
better. Venom had balked, not liking the plan. He’d insisted. No way he wanted his commander on-site—or anywhere near Azrad—until he assessed the situation. An ambush? Could be. Probably was too. Wick huffed. Hell, the meet and greet inside the human-owned coffee house had bait and switch written all over it.

Which made him the best male for the job.

The most maneuverable in flight, stealth was his specialty. Good at covering his tracks—able to camouflage the unique energy signal he left in his wake—most males never saw him coming. Unless, of course, he wanted them to, which… truth be told… happened nine times out of ten. He couldn’t abide a quick kill. Liked the claw-grinding, muscle-stretching challenge of a good fight and engaging one-on-one. Or in his case, three-to-one odds. Being outnumbered equaled fun on a grand scale. A way to test his skill each night while out on patrol.

Not that it ever amounted to much.

The rogues were woefully inept. Unskilled. Lily-livered. Inexperienced. A damning combination that amounted to even less satisfaction.

More’s the pity.

“Heads up.”
Flipping into a slow spiral, he went head-to-head with an apartment building. The angle gave him a clear shot down Pike Street, and in turn? The Corner Market building situated across the street from Starbucks. All clear. Nothing to be alarmed about… at least not yet. Banking right at the last moment, he circled behind a skyscraper. “
Making a final sweep.”