Fury of Fire (13 page)

Angela swallowed the awful taste in her mouth.

This wasn’t their guy’s usual MO. None of the other girls had been pregnant. But Caroline? Holy hell. Someone had…had…cut the baby right out of her womb.

Yeah, not at all like the first three victims.

So different, in fact, it made Angela sick. Stomach-turning, bile-tasting sick.

Crouched beside the island—mere feet from a black bag and strewn medical supplies—Angela forced herself into detective mode and reached into the back pocket of her chinos. As she snapped on her rubber gloves, her mind went critical, diving into the place that allowed her to do her job—the place that both her captain and her partner loved: the sinkhole of analytical thinking that once engaged, solved a crap load of cases.

Seconds passed into minutes. How many Angela couldn’t say as she collected and analyzed…all without touching. Her brain was like a camera, snapping pictures that she would later recall with total clarity. Some labeled her skill a “photographic memory.” Mac called it magic.

A soft scrape on the ceramic sounded behind her. Without looking away from the vic, she asked, “Any sign of the nurse?”

Mac cleared his throat. The rough sound echoed in the small space, telling Angela more clearly than words that her partner was on the same page. He hated what he saw as much as she did, the scene that had taken another girl’s life.

Shifting a little behind her, Mac said, “Shoe impressions…size seven, maybe…behind the rusted-out Buick. Alongside more big boot prints.”

“Military grade…like downtown?”

“Yeah.”

“The smaller ones might be Caroline’s.”

“Could be, but my gut says no.” Moving around to the other side of the kitchen, Mac hit his haunches at the opposite end of the island. A muscle jumped in his jaw as he met her gaze over the top of Caroline’s body. “I think they belong to Myst Munroe, our missing nurse.”

“Um-hmm.” Picking up a discarded cell phone, she flipped it open. Yup, it belonged to the nurse. “Wrong place, wrong time?”

“Maybe.” He tipped his chin toward their vic. “That’s precision cutting…surgical, clean, no hesitation marks. Need a lot of training to do that.”

“So, what are you thinking? Black-market baby?” Angela hoped not. The monster killing young women was enough for any duo to handle. That someone might have sliced up a woman to take her baby? Yeah, she wasn’t going there until the evidence forced her to. Her eyes narrowed, she scrolled through the nurse’s phone, looking at the history. “Got a nine-one-one call.”

“A hang up?”

Angela shook her head. “Two minutes and twenty-seven seconds.”

Mac’s eyes narrowed as he stood to take the iPhone out of his front pocket. “I’ll get the recording. And a BOLO out on Munroe’s car.”

“Get a warrant, too…for her place, financials. Everything.” Angela snapped the cell phone closed and reached for the tag on the medical bag lying open beside the victim. With a flick, she flipped the name out and…what do you know? Myst Munroe was printed on the face in neat block letters, address included.

Yes, indeedie. Something smelled rotten in Bumpkinville.

And Angela’s gut told her that Ms. Munroe was up to her eyeballs in it.

Myst woke up in a strange bed. Naked.

Alarm bells—the kind that killed brain cells—went off inside her head, shutting down her ability to breathe properly. As her choppy breaths grew louder, adrenaline joined the fun, ramping her heartbeat into catastrophic territory. She swallowed, forcing herself to focus. Yeah, a functioning brain would be good right about now. Maybe then she could figure out whose bed she’d face-planted in.

And where her clothes had gone.

Rubbing her eyes, she ransacked her memory, trying to remember the hows and whys. Nothing but fog came…and the shriek of panic.

Double-fisting the down duvet, she forced herself to breathe in and out—in then out—and turned her head on the pillow. Her vision stayed blurry a second then…

Thank God. She was alone.

Good news all the way around, but even better? The neighboring pillowcase was smooth, the pillow without a dent from oh, say, a head. Which meant, she’d crawled in by herself and stayed that way since landing, well, here. In the middle of a strange bed…that no doubt belonged to a strange guy.

She rubbed her forehead, struggling to remember. The missing piece was…right there. On the tip of her brain, but no matter how hard she stretched, she couldn’t reach it.

“Okay…relax and think,” she said to herself.

Which, in hindsight, was a bad idea, because upon that instruction an awful thought popped into her head. While it banged around in there, Myst swallowed hard. Had she been…been…God, she didn’t want to say the r-word, but she couldn’t shake the horrible suspicion. Her big mind blank could be drug induced. Rohypnol was a powerhouse narcotic, one that wiped memory clean with wide, ugly brush strokes.

Myst should know. She’d had a patient or two come into the ER looking lost and empty-eyed the morning after being slipped Roofies at a bar.

All right.
Breathe.

That was an awfully big assumption. Huge, really, without proof. So, first things first…eliminate every other possibility.

Myst pushed up onto her elbows. A narrow wedge of light streamed across the carpet, coming from an open door to the left of the bed. A bathroom, maybe? Seemed like a good guess, particularly since a second door was closed tight on the other side of the room. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, shadowed shapes formed: a dresser against the far wall, a bench at the end of the bed, a wide window behind tightly drawn shades.

But better than the semi-lit, somewhat sketchy decor? She really was alone…100 percent by herself. No one was sitting in the wide-backed armchairs in front of the window or lurking in dark corners or leaning against the wall across from the bed.

Relief hit her so hard she jackknifed into a sitting position. Blankets clutched to her chest, she took her investigation one step further. As she curled her legs underneath her she paid close attention. She and sex were nearly strangers. Had been for more than…what? Three years? Yeah, that sounded about right, so if she’d been…ah, sexually active last night, then certain muscles should be sore.

Right?

She nodded, liking the logic. “Yes, absolutely.”

Myst came close to crying when she realized she wasn’t hurting…at all. But the craziest thing? The one with sure wow factor? Other than the hole in her memory, she felt amazing: well rested, energetic, no headache. No headache? Man, that was a gift. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d woken up without—

A knock sounded from across the room.

Her head whipped around. She stared at the door, traced its antique lines, not wanting to know who was bare-knuckling the thing from the other side. She’d just gotten used to the idea that she was okay, and now? Someone stood out there with every intention of proving her wrong.

A second knock echoed, stomping on the quiet like a herd of elephants.

Galvanized into motion, she scrambled over the side of the bed. As her feet hit the floor, she tripped over a throw pillow and, heading ass-over-tea-kettle, grabbed onto the top sheet. Still anchored to the mattress, the cotton did its job and kept her upright before she yanked the entire mess off the bed. The duvet and an assortment of other bedding went flying.

But, what did she care?

She wasn’t going for homemaker of the year here. The goal was safety, and as she wrapped the bed sheet around her like a toga, she searched for a weapon. Whoever stood in the corridor wasn’t necessarily her friend. She needed to be prepared to do…what exactly?

The heavy silver candlestick sitting on the bedside table caught her eye. One hand holding her makeshift dress, she snatched the thing off its perch. Curling her hand around its neck, Myst held it close, right up against her breastbone.

“My lady?” A crisp British accent came through the door, drifting on a polite wave of inquiry. “May I come in?”

Myst blinked.
My lady?

The Brit waited half a heartbeat before the handle began to turn. Myst’s pulse went ballistic, ratcheting up another notch when the polished pewter rotated and the space grew wider between the door and its wooden frame. She raised the candlestick, widened her stance, expecting an axe murderer to come through the door.

A cherub—compete with dark curls and innocent eyes—stuck his head into the room. “Oh, wonderful. I am so pleased you are awake. Good morrow, my lady.” Completely ignoring the fact she was brandishing a candlestick like a battle axe, he pranced over the threshold. “Are you hungry, my lady? I have prepared waffles this eve and all have gathered in the kitchen.”

Myst stared at him, mystified. Waffles? In the kitchen? Holy crap, who—

“Oh, my goodness me,” he said as his flying fairy feet paused in the center of the room. He gave her an apologetic look, then smiled, flashing a gold front tooth. “Forgive me. Wherever are my manners? I am Daimler, and I am so very pleased to meet you, Ms. Munroe.”

With a flourish, he bowed, twin tails on his tux flapping.

Okay, so Daimler—Mr. Starched-Pressed-and-Buttoned-Up—knew her name, but as far as monikers went, she didn’t like that one.
Ms. Munroe
reminded her too much of her mother and, right this second, she didn’t need to have an emotional breakdown as well as a mental one. “Ah, it’s Myst.”

The little guy stooped to pick up a small throw pillow. He came back up with a perplexed look on his angelic face.

She cleared her throat. “My name is Myst.”

“Oh, my lady…thank you.” His eyes went a little misty, like she’d given him a huge gift. “You honor me beyond measure…” Smoothing the pillow with his long-fingered hands, he gave her a wobbly smile. “Myst. Master Bastian said you were a female of great worth, but…”

As Daimler prattled on, he scurried around the bed, picking up the discarded duvet. Myst heard every word, but didn’t care about any of them but one.

Bastian
.

Bam.

Her memories poured back into her skull like water into a glass. Her eyes narrowed. The kidnapping jerk had kissed her. Last night. In the clinic. And…goddamn it. Why had she liked it so much? Exhaustion. Yes, that was a good excuse. She’d been so tired, and no wonder. After a night like that—after Caroline’s horrifying death and her angel’s near miss—she…

Holy crap. The baby.

Panic closed her throat for a second. Myst zapped herself with mental jumper cables.

“Daimler,” she said, her tone sharp with worry. “Where’s the baby?”

The butler hit the pause button on his mouth and the tidying routine. Standing with one hand poised in the air—in a gesture that reminded her of the guys from one of her favorite shows,
Queer Eye for the Straight Guy
. “Oh, no need to worry, my…Myst. The little one is with Master Bastian, of course.”

“I need to see him…the baby,” she clarified. Not Bastian. The rat-bastard. “Right now.”

With a slight incline of his head, Daimler headed for the dresser and as he turned, Myst noticed something odd about him. The guy had pointy ears…like Legolas from
The Lord of the Rings.

Holding tightly to her toga, Myst examined that bit of information. Although why it surprised her was anyone’s guess. Bastian and his crew were at least half dragon. Why not have an elf for a butler?

“Here we are.” Daimler turned and approached, clothes folded over his forearm. He laid black yoga pants along with a white tank top and purple hoodie on the bench at the foot of the bed. “It is my hope these will suffice, my…Myst.”

“Thank you,” she whispered in return, her terminal politeness coming to the fore. And why not? She wasn’t angry with Daimler. It wasn’t his fault that she found herself here, in a strange place with a half-dragon jerk.

“I will leave you to dress in privacy. When you are ready, the kitchen is just down the corridor…to the right.”

When she nodded, Daimler did a quick one-eighty and headed for the door. As the latch closed with a soft click behind him, Myst reached for the clothes. She needed to get to the kitchen ASAP. Not that she wanted to see Bastian again. Not a chance. Her angel was there…and if the lair was anything like a human home? The kitchen would be at its heart. A prime place to engage in a little reconnaissance…and find an escape route.

Myst nodded. Good plan.

Time to take the bull by the horns and find a way out of the nightmare.

Rikar sat at the kitchen island, amazed he was still alive. He should be ashed out, nothing but a messy pile on the clinic floor. He deserved it a hundred times over for touching his friend’s female. Okay, so he hadn’t actually been the one doing the touching. Didn’t matter. He’d crossed into uncharted territory, an abyss not many came back from.

The fact he’d woken up at all this evening was a testament to Bastian’s control. Or love. Either way, he still couldn’t believe…

Yeah, it was a mind fuck to the nth degree. Especially when he met B’s gaze—across a stack of waffles and ocean of maple syrup—and got nailed with a don’t-you-ever-do-that-again glare. If there’d been any doubt, that look sewed it up. Myst and her unbelievable energy were off limits. To him and every other male in the universe.

Bag it and tag it, CSI Willows. Case closed.

One with a slap-happy ending, too.

Or was it?

Try as he might, Rikar couldn’t find any happiness in the situation. Sure, B had found a high-energy female that appealed to him: goal accomplished, a totally high-five worthy moment. But, palm slapping aside, the suck factor was there, too. His best friend was headed for a whole lot of hurt. Rikar knew it like he was sitting there, ass glued to the stool, ignoring the others chowing down on Daimler’s homemade waffles as he stared at Bastian, hoping for the best while fearing the worst.

Rikar guessed it was a question of degrees, of taking the good with the bad. God knew he wanted what Bastian wanted—a healthy race moving forward into the future. Warriors with strong backs and even greater determination, bringers of death to the Razorback rogues. But an equal part of him didn’t want to hurt a female—or to see one hurt—to accomplish the goal.

The whole plan seemed back-assward to him.

After all, his kind needed females like Myst. Ones with high energy to keep them well fed and healthy. What would it serve to take one to mate, only to see her die in childbirth?

And the question was redundant. He already knew the answer, had gone round after round with Bastian so many times that he could hear the other male’s voice inside his head. Females with strong energy produced more powerful offspring. Stronger sons guaranteed a lethal force, males like him and Bastian. Warriors who were gifted beyond the physical with genetically enhanced firepower.

The perfect examples? His ice. B’s crazy-ass exhale.

Man, that lightning strike, psychochemical combo was some freaky shit. And that was before he got into the whole mind-meld thing his friend was packing. To have the ability to read and dissect the enemy’s strengths and weaknesses from a distance was one hell of an advantage. Christ, that kind of up-front info came in handy in a firefight.

Playing with his fork, Rikar flicked a strawberry across his plate. He watched it somersault through the syrup with little enthusiasm. His hunger wasn’t about food. He needed to log some personal time with a female, draw some energy to flush out the last of the poison.

Not that he was hurting anymore.

Nah, the anti-venom had done its job, and the gash on his arm? Nothing but a thin pink line on his skin, one that would disappear completely before the night ended. Still, a faint ache stayed with him, giving him a headache that jammed up his ability to concentrate. A little sip from the right female and he’d be good to go.

That was if B didn’t ground him for the night.

Christ, he hoped not, even though protocol called for it. Warrior or not, an injury like he’d suffered wasn’t taken lightly. Had it been any one of his comrades, Rikar would’ve been on board with a night off the fighting rotation. But no way he could stay home. Not tonight. He needed to stretch his wings or he’d go rat-shit crazy…especially with Myst in the lair. He needed to stay the hell away from her. There’d be no double jeopardy on that one. He went anywhere near her again and Bastian would kill him.

Rikar stabbed a piece of melon, wishing it was a Razorback’s head. Wishing Bastian would start the freaking meeting already.

They were all here, in their usual spots around the kitchen island. Everyone except…

“Where the fuck is Sloan?” With a scowl, Rikar put his fork down before he did more than mangle a fruit wedge.

Sitting opposite him, forearms folded on the marble countertop, Venom raised a blond brow. “Temper, temper there, buddy.”

“Sun’s going down,” he growled. Translation? Time to get out of Black Diamond and head downtown to hunt the enemy…and feed.

Wick murmured his agreement. Which amazed the hell out of everyone. The taciturn male never talked, rarely made any sound at all. He was more phantom than male, ghosting in and among the Nightfury warriors…with them, but not really. The only one who truly knew him was Venom, his bunkmate. Yeah, those males were tight—as close as he and Bastian were—but their history remained a mystery. Ven protected the male like a cub, refusing to share the hows and whys.

Fine by him. Rikar knew all he needed or wanted to know about Wick. The golden-eyed SOB was lethal, a sociopathic killer without conscience or reserve. The perfect male to have your back on a battlefield.

The newborn’s cry started up like a siren on a fire engine. Soft at first, the unhappy sound gathered in strength until every male looked up from his carb overload to focus on the playpen on the other side of the kitchen. Looking like a blurry-eyed first-time father, Bastian pushed away from his stool and crossed to the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Tinted black, the glass panels were alive with movement and magic at the moment. Soon, they would lighten on their own, go from black to crystal clear, allowing moonlight to shine into the aboveground lair. The special feature protected them from the sun, allowing them to move freely during the daylight hours.

As he scooped up the infant and set him against his shoulder, Bastian strode back to his spot. Instead of sitting on his stool, though, he sat on the adjacent countertop, leaned back and tipped his chin in Rikar’s direction. “Any word from the others?”

“Not yet.” Rikar shoved his plate away. Fine china slid across marble on its way to meeting the butter dish. The pair kissed with a clink as he said, “They should arrive at The Gathering soon, though.”

A furrow between his brows, Bastian rubbed the baby’s back, his concern for the other members of the pack showing. As Nightfury commander, his friend carried a heavy burden…worried about them all. But what he hated most? Too much distance, and the fact that Haider and Gage were an entire continent away didn’t sit well. With any of them.

“Fucking Archguard,” he murmured, disgusted with the idiots responsible for the mess about to go down in Prague.

Venom snorted. “Arch-idiots, you mean.”

Yeah, that sounded about right. The Archguard—the males who headed the five dynastic families and sat on the high counsel—
were
idiots. The good-for-nothing assholes sat on their aristocratic duffs, protecting their own interests while doing little to help the race. Christ, they had no clue what happened in the real world…the one outside the cushy, privileged society in which they existed.

Dealing with them was like talking to someone who lived in a bubble. Sound got through, sure. But it was just a whole lot of Charlie Brown…
wah-wah-wah—wah-wah.

None of that mattered, though. Not in the long run, because however much Rikar wanted to kick the whole lot of them to the curb, The Gathering couldn’t be ignored. All of Dragonkind revered the celebratory tradition. To not send a representative was akin to treason. So, Haider and Gage had made the trip. Now, all of them sat on pins and needles, praying the pair not only arrived safely, but made it back in one piece.

The heavy clip of footfalls sounded in the corridor.

Rikar shifted in his seat, releasing some of his tension. “About time.”

Sloan jogged into the kitchen, red file folders tucked under his arm. The male threw him a dirty look. “Heard that, asshole.”

“Can’t take the heat? Be on time.”

Sloan’s dark gaze narrowed on him. “Get off my dick, Rikar.”

Keeping his mouth closed, he bit down on a grin. Thank Christ for the dark-skinned SOB. Razzing Sloan always improved his mood. Though one look at B’s expression told him to lay off.

“Sloan, whatcha got?” Bastian shifted the baby to his other shoulder.

Poor little guy squawked, the sound pissed off with a dash of I-Want-My-Mommy. Which had pretty much been his MO all day…fussy with a capital F. They’d each taken a turn feeding him, walking him with the bouncing rhythm he seemed to like. Well, almost everyone had taken the baby out for a spin. Wick didn’t make the cut. No one trusted the male anywhere near an infant.

Their resident computer genius—hacker of impenetrable databases—tossed the file folders onto the center of the island. Red card stock slid across white marble, bumping into the maple syrup pitcher. “Trouble.”

Venom reached for one of the files. “The normal amount or the oh-my-God-hide-the-kids kind?”

“The SPD kind.”

“Fuck,” he and Bastian said at the same time.

“Yeah, we got a pair of detectives up our ass.” Flipping a chair backwards, Sloan slid onto the seat, forearms folded on the rounded chair back. “Three unsolved murders…all females, dark hair, early twenties. Cause of death…catastrophic organ failure.”

Another round of “fucks” took a turn around the kitchen.

Sloan kept talking. “Oh and here’s the best part. Ash piles laid out next to the victims. Wanna take a guess what that means?”

Bastian growled. The infant reacted with a startled cry. With a curse, B started pacing, up and back between the island and the bank of wall cabinets. As he patted the little guy’s bottom to soothe him, B switched up his tone and murmured, “Ivar.”

“Yeah, that’s my guess, too,” Sloan said. “I think it’s a message.”

“A big ‘fuck you’?” The second folder in his hand, Rikar scanned the contents, picking up the detectives names: Ian MacCord and Angela Keen. He looked at their pics and bios. Huh, both homicide veterans. And hmm. The female was gorgeous, with dark red hair and intelligent hazel eyes. “You think he’s that stupid? If he’s leaving ash, he’s taking one hell of a risk. If the humans get samples into the lab, they might find more than human DNA.”

Venom sighed. “We’re gonna need to clean this up.”

“I’ll do it,” Rikar said, grabbing onto his escape hatch. No way was he staying home tonight.

“You sure?” Bastian’s eyes narrowed, drilling him with a glare as he walked past with the kid.

Rikar nodded, smoothing his expression to hide his reaction. He hated when B gave him “the look.” It was like getting nailed in the grill by a wrecking ball. “Hit the lab, scramble the results. Find the detectives and scrub ’em. No sweat.”

His best friend eyeballed him for a second and then switched gears. “All right. Here’s the plan. Wick, you’re going out with me tonight. Venom and Sloan…pair up. And Rikar…do what you need to do, then get your ass back here. You took a hit last night. No fighting until you’re one hundred percent.”

Fucking hell. He’d just had his wings clipped.

Even so, Rikar kept his yap shut. If he argued, B would ground him for sure. And while the situation was less than optimal, at least he wouldn’t be left behind. In the lair. With a female that belonged to his best friend.

“We clear?” Bastian gave him another warning glare.

“Got it,” he said, not willing to push his luck. “And the baby?”

“Myst’ll take him.” With a quick inhale, Bastian glanced toward the corridor, then back to him. “You’re gonna want to put on a shirt, man. Right now.”

He scrubbed a hand over his bare chest. Shit, he hated clothing. It made him hot and itchy, something his frosty side didn’t tolerate well. The only reason he wore shorts at all was so he didn’t freak his friends out by walking around with his equipment dangling.

Then again, staying alive trumped being comfortable. And the status quo in the lair.

Yeah, he had a feeling a new “normal” was about to hit Black Diamond. But that tended to happen when a female dropped into the picture and fucked up the flow.