Fury of Fire (12 page)

The kiss happened so fast that Myst didn’t resist. Instead, she reacted like an idiot and opened, inviting his possession. And oh, hell…beautiful catastrophe. She knew it the second she let him in, the moment she slid her hands into his hair and pressed her body to his.

She’d expected spectacular. What she got was earth-shattering.

He tasted too good. Beyond fantastic, and oh, so crazy right it made her head spin.

And as he groaned and got busy tangling their tongues and touching her skin, Myst knew she’d made a huge mistake.

One kiss would never be enough.

Overhead, the fluorescents flickered, reacting to the energy surge in the room. The delicious swirl was electric, all around him, so beautifully magnetic that Bastian craved more. Ah hell, wasn’t that a kicker. He’d already fed tonight—wasn’t even hungry—but the taste of her…shit, he couldn’t resist. Myst was better than his wildest dream.

And he’d dreamt some doozies in his time. Almost two centuries spent in the dreamscape while he slept and…
umm, yeah
.

But, who the hell cared about that? Not him. Not right now. His female was in his arms and…

Huh. Wasn’t he supposed to be taking her somewhere?

Deep in Myst’s mouth, Bastian reveled in her sweetness while he thought about that. Yeah, he definitely wanted to go somewhere with her, but—

Myst moaned. The desire-filled sound shorted out his brain, hauling him back into pleasure. God, she was delicious…and powerful. The energy she shared was gorgeous, so full-bodied it made Bastian groan. It was more than just her connection to the Meridian, though. It was chemistry; a human-to-human, male-to-female vibe he’d never felt before. She made him want on so many levels, almost as though she’d been created—born, designed…whatever—just for him.

And man, that pleased him so much it scared him.

The last thing he needed was to become bound to a female. Relationships were a minefield, not meant to be a part of his world. All he needed to do was ask Sloan to know that—the poor guy. Pitfalls aside, however, he didn’t want to feel anything for anyone other than his warriors, the brothers who fought beside him night after night. He and his pack shared a necessary bond, one that made them stronger and crazy lethal in the field.

But he and Myst? Their mating was meant to be physical, not emotional: a straightforward, no-strings-attached kind of thing. Yeah, and look how well that was turning out. In less than a day, the whole “absence of emotion” plan he set in motion was shot to hell.

Witness the fact he was a second away from getting her naked and—

Oh, right. That’s where he wanted to take her. To the recovery room, the one that boasted a big bed where he could lay her down and do her hard…do her right. But as much as his body liked the plan, Bastian knew it was a bad idea.

She was too tired, on the edge of exhaustion.

Plugged into her energy field, Bastian could feel her fatigue. She’d had a hell of a night, and with her energy ebbing, sleep was close. Just minutes away for her.

On the heels of the thought, she swayed, her grip on him loosening. Bastian slowed the pace, let their kiss become lazy, a decadent brush of mouths…more of the kind he indulged in post-sex, after he’d come inside whatever female he was with. And wonder of wonders, his dragon—the same territorial SOB that had turned him into a human torpedo to get to Myst—recognized her state and pulled back, insisting he stop.

Fantastic. His beast was now AWOL, a deserter…no longer on board with the plan. Great. So much for not caring.

Bastian forced himself away from her mouth. Eyes closed, halfway to dreamland already, she protested, making a sexy little sound that made him go back and kiss her again. This time, though, it was without passion, a mere brush of lips.

“Myst?”

“Hmm?”

“Time for bed.” Holding her close, he kept her upright as she went boneless.

“Okay.” Her eyes drifted open and then closed again on a lazy downward sweep.

Bastian smiled and hugged her, giving her a gentle squeeze. God, he couldn’t help himself. She was so goddamn adorable.

Cupping her cheek, he tucked her against his chest before gathering her up. Carrying her like precious cargo, he headed for the exit. The quiet hiss of the airlock sounded as the motion detectors went active, opening the clinic door.

Out in the corridor now, Bastian turned right toward the stairs that would take him to the house and their living quarters. Seven stories above the underground lair, a whole wing of guest rooms waited. Bastian knew which one he wanted for Myst: the lavender one that matched her eyes.

Man, he could already see her there: relaxed, ready, her thick, wavy hair spread out on the pillows as she waited for him to come to her. For him to love her. For the pleasure he would give them both.

Bastian swallowed past the knot in his throat. He needed to stop thinking about sex with her. What was happening below his waist was already painful enough.

Strides even to keep from jostling her, he walked by the weight room and PT suites. All was quiet. No clink of metal on metal. None of the treadmills hummed, either. Nor was there a sharp, scathing sound of claws being sharpened.

Huh. Maybe everyone was already in bed, getting some much-needed shut-eye.

With the sun coming up, it was a good guess. UV rays and Dragonkind didn’t mix. Their eyes got the worst of it, though. Prolonged exposure resulted in burned retinas and eventual blindness. Not something any dragon wanted…unless he was gunning to die.

He passed the computer room next—Sloan’s domain—then a series of holding pens and interrogation rooms before coming out into a wide, open foyer. The vaulted ceiling curved upward, trapping the sound of his heavy footfalls, ping-ponging the echo as he walked by the Otis.

Newly installed by Venom, the elevator was a thing of beauty. A real stunner of modern efficiency. And Bastian hated the reinforced steel box. Enclosed spaces made him twitchy…violent, even. No way would he willingly put himself in that cage.

Shifting his female a little, he punched in a code, waited for the go-ahead beep and then popped the security door open to reach the double-wide staircase. Taking the steps two at a time, he kept his ascent smooth and his rhythm steady. Myst was REMed out now, sleeping so soundly it seemed a shame to wake her.

Bastian told himself he was being considerate, that she needed her rest. The truth, though, was much more damning. The second she woke, he’d be all over her. One kiss would lead to another, and then? He’d be finished: roasted, parboiled, cooked with a capital C. And for some reason, he wanted to do the right thing…whatever that was. But it sure as shit didn’t mean taking advantage of her in a weakened state.

Four days.

Ninety-six hours.

Five thousand, seven hundred and sixty minutes.

Before the Meridian realigned.

Then he would have Myst beneath him, be inside of her…make her scream with crazy, orgasmic pleasure. Until then, he would bide his time, get to know her better. As far as plans went, it wasn’t a bad one. Well, at least until he thought about the consequences. Then it became terrible because he knew it would get messy, and yeah, no way he would come out of it unscathed.

And wasn’t that a tragedy.

Uh-huh. Huge. Gigantic. Colossal.

And man, were there any more synonyms for “big”?

No doubt, but as Bastian pushed the door open at the top of the stairs and turned toward his suite, his mind blanked out. As priceless paintings flashed by—done by guys like Jackson Pollock, Picasso, and van Gogh—it took all he had to walk past his door and continue down the hall. The lavender bedroom was just up on the left, close to his, yet not close enough. Down the hall from Myst just wasn’t good enough. Instinct told him nothing would be until she slept in his bed.

He wanted her with him, if only just to spoon up against her. Holding her while she slept would be heaven. Bastian knew it with a certainty that made his heart ache. The need defied everything he’d been told. Everything he’d been taught by his father and the males who had taken charge of him after his sire’s murder. The painful memory set him straight, reminding him of his goal, but didn’t focus him like it normally did.

The female in his arms overrode the system, tugged at the deepest part of him, and he faltered, nearly doing a one-eighty to hotfoot it back to his room.

Standing motionless in the deserted corridor, with a Rembrandt landscape eyeballing him, Bastian debated. No…no, no, no. Myst wouldn’t appreciate waking up with him. She wasn’t ready for that yet, so he forced his feet to move. Made his hand grip and turn the knob to her bedroom. Compelled himself across the plush carpet to reach the bathroom on the far side of the space. Only then did he glance down at the precious gift the fates had set down in his lap.

Drained of energy from the feedings, she curled like a kitten in his arms: eyes closed, cheek against his chest, a relaxed, warm bundle against him. Bastian felt the heavy load weighing on him lighten a little. The contrast she presented amused him. Awake, she was fierce, direct in a take-no-prisoners kind of way. Asleep, she was vulnerable; so sweet he wanted to keep her close and protect her always.

Bastian sighed. He was so screwed.

Juggling her in his arms, he reached into the glassed-in shower stall to turn on the water. He shouldn’t be doing this, but…

Man, he couldn’t put her to bed like this…with the strain of the night and blood of another female on her skin.

“Myst.” Kissing her temple, he nudged her. “Wake up for me, baby.”

A furrow appeared between her brows. Unhappy with the interruption, she grumbled and snuggled closer. His chest went tight, enjoying her dependence as he jostled her again.

“Just a little. Enough to stand.” The softness of his voice roused her, and the second her eyelashes flickered, he lowered her feet to the floor. More asleep than awake, she whispered something. He murmured back, holding her close as she swayed in his arms. “That’s it,
bellmia
…lean against me. I’m going to…”

He kept up the chit-chat and, with gentle hands, stripped her out of the stained hospital scrubs. He tried not to look, but…wow. She was so beautifully made: all smooth skin and gentle curves. And her hair. The blonde waves were so thick, a luxurious tangle he wanted across his chest and wrapped around his—

Jesus. He needed to flambé those thoughts. ASAP.

This was about her, not him. About respect and caring, not sex. About giving Myst what she needed when she couldn’t do it for herself.

On a rough exhale, Bastian shrugged out of his leather duster, ditching it on the limestone floor. The rest of his clothes, he kept on. He didn’t trust himself. Couldn’t get naked with her if he had any hope of maintaining control.

Sticking his hand under the spray, he checked the water, then adjusted the temperature, wanting it just right for her. When he was satisfied, he picked her up and stepped under the warm stream: letting the water hit his back first, double-checking to make sure it was warm enough before turning to let it touch her.

With stark efficiency, Bastian washed and rinsed her. When he got the shampoo out, however, he slowed down. He couldn’t help himself, and as he ran his fingers through her hair, testing its texture and weight, he heard himself purr. Man, he loved her thick waves, the softness of each lock, the sheer quantity of it.

Shaking his head, he rinsed the last of the suds away. He was a walking, talking cliché. A male having a thing for his female’s hair…duh, a total no-brainer.

Another one was getting them out of the shower and himself the hell away from her. If he didn’t, he would do something stupid, like ditch his clothes and join her in bed.

And wasn’t he a freaking hero? Myst was asleep on her feet, and what was he thinking about? Hot, sweaty, mind-bending sex.

Disgusting. End of story.

With a vicious pull, Bastian cranked the faucet, cutting off the warm rush from the rainforest showerhead. After grabbing a towel off the overhead rack, he wrapped Myst up to keep her warm, then snagged another thick-white-and-fluffy and went to work on her hair.

As he patted water droplets from her shoulders and neck, her cheeks and mouth, Bastian’s chest grew tight. He was taking care of his female, looking after her when she needed him most and…

He loved it. Loved being the one to bring her comfort and protect her from harm. And as he gathered her up—towels and all—and headed into the lavender room to tuck her in, Bastian felt torn: ripped wide open by obligation and circumstance. Worse than that? The condition of his conscience.

But right or wrong, duty would win in the end. The future of his kind depended on it.

The human police were at the scene, circling the house like a bunch of…okay, not vultures. He was the one doing that. Ivar hadn’t been able to help himself. After Lothair had dropped the bomb about the infant, he’d tried to distract himself, gone downtown to find what he needed.

The dark-haired female seemed like an excellent idea at the time, but…Jesus.

Ivar should have known better.

He’d been too jazzed to enjoy her. A shame, really. She’d been pretty, leggy, a tight squeeze inside…just the way he liked his females. Too bad he’d lost control. It was happening a little too often lately…not that he regretted taking her life.

Nah, no time for that. Her energy—subpar quality not withstanding—had revived him. Umm, umm good. Yeah, to the last drop.

Huh, where had he heard that before? Oh, right, the Maxwell House coffee slogan. Not that he ever drank the shit, but Denzeil—his second in command—loved TV. Especially the commercials. The male even DVR’d the damn things.

Ivar shook his head, laughing at himself as the last of the female’s energy kicked in. Thank God. His headache was finally fading, moving from behind his eyes to the back of his head. Now the pain was just a blip, a backseat driver to the frustration shifting his gears.

Wings spread wide, Ivar circled above the house again, night vision sharp as he watched another SUV roll in.

Idiot humans. Cattle, every one of them. So clueless they didn’t know he was here, one hundred feet above their heads. All right, so he was cloaked, deep in the invisibility spell that allowed him to rule the skies. Still, he couldn’t keep his hatred of their species under wraps. He wanted to breathe in and let loose, burn them to cinders. But that wasn’t why he’d made the flight.

The ashes. He wanted the remains of his fallen comrades.

Maybe that made him a sentimental fool, but he didn’t care. Those males had fought hard for him, deserved a proper burial in the Cave of Memories. And wasn’t he an altruistic gem? Yeah, those whom Ivar commanded would say he was a real stand-up guy, but what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

He wanted the ashes for another reason, too. They were a message…to Bastian and the Nightfury dragons that served him.

The ash piles combined with all the female lives he took were a big fuck you. A statement that said, “You can’t protect them all.”

The first time had been an accident. Not the death, but the ash pile left beside her body. He’d been carrying Thor’s remains home after a vicious night of fighting and had needed a pick-me-up. As he’d fed and banged the nameless female against the alley wall, the bag had ripped, spilling Thor’s ashes onto the pavement.

Serendipitous? Yeah, absolutely. A real-life lesson in how to upend the enemy.

Now, he possessed what the idiot police called “a signature.” Every time he took a life, he left a little of his fallen comrades behind.

And the police? Useless twits. They would never figure it out, didn’t possess equipment powerful enough to find the truth. Even if they tested the remains, all they’d find was a whole lot of human. Dragon DNA burned in the ashing process, so the most the dummies would get were bits and pieces, a contaminated sample at best.

Ivar hummed. He couldn’t wait until Bastian and his merry band of bastards clued in. The Nightfury’s outrage—and the subsequent hunt for him—was going to be so much fun.

But there wouldn’t be any fun tonight. No ashes, either. The humans were swarming like ants.

The best he could do was collect the scraps; little hits of information to use with Forge. Details. Ivar wanted them all, anything and everything he could turn into ammunition to stoke the lethal male’s fire. He needed to direct all that rage. The death of Forge’s female—Caroline what’s-her-face—was the perfect foil.

As Ivar picked up the metal tinge of blood and acrid smell of death, he smiled. Forge would go mad with grief, murderous as he searched for his child.

And once he did, Bastian wouldn’t stand a chance.

Leaving Ivar to do what he did best…continue his work in the lab, designing the perfect weapon to unleash on humankind.

Gravel crunched beneath the X-Trail’s oversized tires as Angela turned into the Van Owens’ driveway. Lights flashed farther up the lane, painting the trunks of tall pines in revolving yellow splashes.

Hmm. That was a pretty impressive light show…much bigger than she’d expected. Particularly since the sheriff had promised to keep the scene tight. Not more than fifteen minutes ago.

She sighed. Lovely. Just what she and Mac needed…another circus.

Double fisting the steering wheel, Angela tightened her grip to keep from swearing. Her partner was doing quite enough of that already, enough for both of them. And honestly? Two pissed off detectives at a crime scene was one too many.

With all the enthusiasm of a gutted fish, Angela slowed the SUV’s roll and rounded the last bend. The high beams swung around, sideswiping a knot of police cruisers before ghosting over a hunk of burned-out metal. Still smoking, the wreckage threw black plumes skyward, washing out the details of the house behind it.

“Holy crap.”

“Uh-huh.” Mac scanned the mess through the windshield. “Welcome to Clusterfuck County, Ange.”

No kidding. It looked like a bomb had gone off. The unfortunate victim? An ambulance with a twisted undercarriage and a scorched orange and white paint job. The house hadn’t fared much better. From what Angela could see, the porch roof had collapsed inward to shake hands with the floor. And the windows? Gone. All of them shattered, leaving gaping wounds in the Cape Cod’s face.

And yeah, wasn’t that a lovely reminder of what lay inside the freaking place. On the drive out, Mac had filled her in: dead girl slit wide open, missing baby, AWOL nurse. Terrific. The combo was right out of a horror show. Now, all they needed was the guy from
American Psycho
to show up with his chainsaw to round out the picture.

First things first, though. The crime scene needed to be locked down.

There were too many cops standing around. Doing what? Nothing, but getting their yak on.

And wow…she’d laughed at Mac, calling him paranoid when he said he didn’t trust the country yahoos. His words, not hers. But looking around now, she conceded the point. They
were
a bunch of yahoos.

Crap, she owed her partner an apology—the second one in the space of a week. And wasn’t that going to suck?

Mac pointed to the right, toward a copse of redwood trees. Ah, a parking space. The perfect one, too…close enough for a bird’s-eye view, far enough away to avoid contaminating the crime scene. But the real perk? No one hemming them in, which meant the possibility of a fast getaway if Sheriff Yahoo proved to be as stupid as his officers looked.

With an “atta-boy” for her partner, Angela turned the wheel, heading away from the congestion at the mouth of the lane. As the SUV bumped over uneven ground, she scanned the scene again. God, what a mess. Not the kind of case a cop wanted to catch this close to the weekend. And yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum. All of a sudden, Sheriff Yahoo was looking a whole lot smarter than the two of them put together.

What in God’s name had happened here?

Her brows drawn tight, Angela hit the brakes and threw the truck into park. Taking the keys out of the ignition, she tossed them to Mac. “Man, where are we? Kandahar?”

“Not enough dead bodies.” Mac caught the airborne gift, cutting off the happy jingle of metal on metal mid-song.

“We’ve got what—just the one, right?”

“Yeah, one dead girl, but…” Popping the latch, Mac pushed the door open and stepped out of the SUV. “Night’s still young.”

Angela snorted. Four a.m. was young? Her partner needed his internal clock reset. Then again, an insomniac no doubt dealt with a different set of criteria for determining what constituted early and late.

“So, what’s your best guess here. Is it…” Angela trailed off, realizing her partner wasn’t listening. Hopping out of the cab, she glanced over and got a load of Mac’s expression. Oh, boy, she knew that look. He didn’t wear it often, and seldom went that still, but when he did? Nothing good followed. “Hey…Mac.”

Size twelves planted on the ground, he stood frozen in the V-shaped cove between the open door and truck frame. White-knuckling the roof edge, he stared at the sky above the Cape Cod, his gaze sweeping through the darkness, searching for something. A something Angela couldn’t see, but experience told her not to discount. Mac’s spidy senses were crazy accurate, much sharper than hers…when he wasn’t having one of his episodes.

One eye on her partner, the other on the sky, Angela unVelcroed her Glock. Gripping the hilt, she kept it holstered and hustled around the front of the SUV.

“Talk to me…whatcha got?”

“Don’t know…something’s off.”

Great. Here they went again. Trouble.

“What was your first clue?” she asked, keeping her voice light to bring Mac back onside. Every once in a while, he freaked her out like this. The last time, he’d seen some sort of shadow, felt breath on the back of his neck. Mac had hauled ass, moving with freakish speed after something Angela hadn’t seen, much less felt. She’d chased him seven blocks that night. No way she wanted him to put in a repeat performance here…in the middle of nowhere with nothing but bush for miles. “A freaking bomb went off out here.”

“Probably C-four,” he murmured, his military mind coming back online. Thank God and all the angels, too. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good to know,” she said and meant it. She’d had enough cardio lately, thank you very much. “Come on. Let’s walk the scene. See what we got.”

He studied the skyline for another heartbeat, then dragged his gaze away and tipped his chin in her direction. “Right behind ya.”

With a nod, she folded the Velcro back in place and, securing her weapon, led the way up the lawn. After flashing her creds, she ducked beneath the yellow tape and peeled right to walk the perimeter. From the corner of her eye, she saw Mac go left, toward the sheriff and the tight knot of deputies surrounding him.

Thank God for small favors. Or rather, for Mac. He knew her strengths lay in the field—in picking up evidence at a glance, the small stuff that most detectives missed—not in interdepartmental schmoozing. Being a twenty-first century woman didn’t mean automatic acceptance. Some of the old-timers still got their panties in a wad over a woman working homicide. And that just pissed her off…so, yeah. Her talking to Sheriff Yahoo wasn’t a great idea.

With methodical precision, Angela let her eyes do the walking and worked her way down the side lawn, around the back corner of the house and what the—

It looked like a freaking tornado had blown through back here.

Snapped like toothpicks, a swath of trees lay flat, massive trunks torn in two. The track was at least fifteen feet wide and forty feet deep. Holy crap. Something huge had made that, a bulldozer maybe. Big problem with that theory, though. No tire treads or tracks, not a single one indicating any heavy-duty equipment had rolled through recently.

Angela kept going and found an ash pile. A massive one. Okay, so it was bigger than the ones they’d found in the city, but discovering it ticked the first box. Their guy had definitely been here.

She found a second pile as she walked the other side of the house, just to the right of a rundown garage. And then, something else.

An impression at the top of the driveway, beside the old tractor. Which, of course, the yahoo idiots were gum-flapping around. With a “do you mind, get the hell off my evidence,” she examined the hole. About a foot deep, the long trench was U-shaped with a mucky bottom. Stranger still? The ice chips. The small fragments were all over the area: in the trench, around it, mixed in with the gravel.

Hitting her haunches, Angela picked up a chunk. The piece was smooth and even, perfectly formed, like something you took out of a freezer. Weirder still? The thing was thawing evenly, keeping its shape as it melted in the palm of her hand.

An eerie sensation ghosted up her spine. Something was really wrong here…in a crazy spooky kind of way.

And she hadn’t even made it to the kitchen yet.

Angela blew out a rough exhale. Time to go. She’d avoided the body of her latest victim long enough.

Taking the steps two at the time, she avoided the rubble and stooped under the downed porch. A second later, she crossed over the threshold, boots crunching on broken glass, to head down the narrow corridor. She took a moment before moving into the kitchen, noting the red pool beside the island and the footprints drying in human blood on the ceramic tile. With a deep breath, she settled herself and took a wide path around the island, making sure to step carefully. The CSI unit would arrive soon. She didn’t want any evidence compromised…needed every scrap to figure out what exactly had gone down here.

At least, she thought so until she got her first glimpse of Caroline Van Owen.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered against the back of her hand. “The bastard.”

Laid out on her back, the girl had been sliced wide open. Mac had warned her, but still…