Fury of Fire (34 page)

Something sprayed the back wall of the container. Breathing hard, she pushed onto her knees, praying that whoever had set up camp on the other side of the wall was on her side. She heard the sizzle first…then saw the fire. A thin line flared, cutting through the steel like a welding torch, drawing an arch near the container top before flowing to the floor.

A doorway.

Shivering in the cold, she waited—fearing the worst, hoping for the best—as fire ate through the steel. With a scraping sound, the cut panel fell forward, banging as it hit the floor. Smoke billowed in. The acrid smell coated the back of her throat before the cloud cleared, giving her a clear view outside. Something moved and she caught a glimpse of purple.

“Bastian?” she whispered, her voice sounding as uncertain as she felt.

A huge man appeared in the doorway.

Myst’s heart rate went into triple overtime. Not Bastian.

Obscured by shadow, the guy stood unmoving for a moment, then dipped his head and stepped into the container. She shuffled backwards, her focus fixed on his face…and the glowing amethyst eyes trained on her.

Oh, God. He wasn’t a Nightfury.

“Myst Munroe,” he said, his deep voice rolling on a thick Scottish accent.

Lovely under normal circumstances, but right now? She didn’t like the sound of it. Or the fact he stared at her from beneath his black brows. It wasn’t a good sign, and as he walked toward her, casting long shadows on the steel walls, Myst wanted to scream. She swallowed instead, trying not to shiver, keeping her gaze on his face. No way she was looking lower. The guy didn’t have a stitch on. Even his feet were bare.

His eyes narrowed. “You’re the nurse.”

Her bottom lip trembling, she nodded. “W-who are you?”

“Forge.” He stopped a foot away and sank to his haunches, bringing himself to her level. “You knew my Caroline.”

Her mouth opened then closed. She shook her head, searched his expression, trying to guess his game. The amethyst stare that met hers was steady: no guile or subterfuge. She saw the pain in him, heard it in his voice as he’d said Caroline’s name. His honesty prompted hers. She went with it, instinct warning that lying to him was a dangerous game.

“Caroline was my friend. I was there when she died.” Unable to hold them back, tears filled her eyes. “I tried so hard to save her, but she was…I couldn’t…I’m so sorry.”

He studied her, his face an expressionless mask. “Bastian didn’t kill her, did he?”

“No.” The pressure banding her chest tightened another notch. “I called for help. Bastian got wind of the nine-one-one call and came, but…it was too late.”

Reaching out, Forge grabbed her wrists. She gasped, the startled sound coming out as she jumped and pulled away. He tugged her back and, running his thumb over the zip tie, melted the plastic. As it fell away without burning her skin, he drew the cuff off her wrists and tossed it over his shoulder.

She murmured a thank you and, flexing her hands, worked the blood back into her fingertips.

He shrugged off the gratitude and gestured with his hand. “Give me your feet. You’re coming with me.”

“Promise not to hurt me?” Shifting onto her bottom, she presented him with her ankles.

“You have two choices, female.” After freeing her feet, he paused, his hand hovering above her legs. “Take me to my son—”

“Gregor.” Her eyes narrowed on him, his interest in Caroline making sense. And as the puzzle pieces slid into place, Myst finally understood the reason her friend stopped answering her calls and making appointments. Her patient had known about Dragonkind through Forge and had been trying to protect the father of her child.

“—or stay here and face Ivar.” When she hesitated, he said, “Better me than the Razorback breeding center, Myst.”

Man, that didn’t sound good. No way she wanted anywhere near a “breeding center.” And sticking around for Ivar? Forget it. She’d take her chances with Forge and hope like hell he looked the other way long enough for her to escape.

“I’ll go with you.”

He nodded and reached out. His big hands settled on her upper arms, and she tensed, curled her hands into fists, prepared to defend herself. But he didn’t make a wrong move, just lifted and set her on her feet. Pain screamed up her legs, taking her knees out. As the numbing pins and needles spread, she moaned and crumpled sideways.

Forge caught her.

Without effort, he swung her into his arms and headed for the door he’d burned into steel. “Keep your head down. It’s nasty out there.”

Cradled in his arms, Myst frowned. He wasn’t like Ivar or his scary first in command. Forge didn’t have a cruel streak. Nor was he indifferent. He was…something else. Not a Nightfury, exactly, but his vibe read as protective…like Bastian’s.

She glanced up at his face as he carried her out of the container. “Are you sure you’re a Razorback?”

His amethyst eyes shimmering in the dark, he stared down at her. Time slid sideways, and one moment ticked into the next before he looked away, refusing to answer. His silence deepened the mystery, and Myst started to wonder. Was he a good guy? A bad one? Somewhere in between?

She didn’t know. And now was not the time to solve the puzzle.

Forge was ramping up and, as his pace went from quick to mach four in five seconds flat, all she could do was hold on. And pray. There were dragons overhead. She caught a glimpse of a wing over Forge’s shoulder. Heard a roar. Smelled the brimstone as a fireball streaked across the night sky and hoped like hell Bastian sensed she was on the move.

Cold air rushed over Bastian’s scales as warm dragon blood flowed between his talons. With a twist, he retracted his claws and dropped the Razorback like a bad habit. The rogue plummeted toward the ground, his body disintegrating in midair. Twisting into a spiral, ash blew into Bastian’s face, anointing him with the remnants of the dead as he attacked another.

So close. He was so close now.

He could smell the alluring scent of his female’s skin. Her energy lit him up, and he zeroed in, all his focus on a single shipping container. Orange with the number six-seven-one on its side, it stood in the third row from the right.

Dead. Ahead.

Myst was barely one hundred yards below him.

On a flyby, he slashed a yellow dragon with his razor-sharp tail. He ignored the shriek and tangled with a second Razorback. The kill took seconds. A quick twist, a hard snap, and the enemy folded: broken bone knifing through scales, spine split wide open, the metallic scent of blood perfuming the air. Taking out another rogue, Bastian scanned the aerial firefight for his warriors.

All good. He spotted them, each one kicking ass without taking names.

Wings spread wide, he sliced around a mega-crane, coming in from the back end. If he could get low enough, he’d slip through the enemy front. From there, he’d have a straight shot at Myst.

He snapped another enemy neck, the kill efficient, his technique brutal. Without watching the decapitated Razorback fall, he pinged his warriors, giving them a heads-up.
“I’m going in.”

“Make it fast,”
Rikar said, breathing hard.

Venom chimed in,
“Thick as fucking flies out here. Grab her and get out.”

Dipping low, he gave the f-bomb a workout. Retreat wasn’t in his playbook. He added another page, ignoring the hit to his pride.
“Rikar, cover me.”

“Roger that.”
The crackling of ice came through mind-speak as Rikar unleashed his frosty side on the enemy.
“Coming in on your right flank.”

Registering his first in command’s presence, Bastian rotated, spinning up and over. He needed the most direct route…a fast in and out. The snatch and grab would secure his female and protect his back, allowing him to get them both out in one piece. He lined up his approach and—

Bastian’s scales prickled, picking up a powerful vibe.
“Shit…Wick!”

His warrior growled in answer.

“Deep Purple’s here,”
he snarled, tracking him…realizing the male was too close to Myst.

“On it.”

Fury replaced the blood in Bastian’s veins. He flew fast, tracking low over rows of shipping containers. The bastard had his female and was moving fast. He scanned each alleyway, his night vision picking up trace energy. Seconds ticked past, cranking him tighter, making his scales feel too small for his skin. He needed to find them before Deep Purple left the—

Bingo.

Jesus, the male was in human form, running with Myst in his arms. Not wasting a moment, Bastian dove, coming in fast and furious, claws wide open. The rogue glanced over his shoulder. With a curse, he dropped Myst and shifted. Dark purple scales flashed in the low light. Baring his fangs, the Razorback curled his talons around the top of the container. Bastian let him climb, wanting a clear shot without jeopardizing his female.

One, Mississippi. Two, Mississippi. Three, Mississippi…four.

Bastian exhaled, drawing deep from his core.

The electro-pulse shot from his throat, hammering the male in the chest. Deep Purple cartwheeled, smashing into a crane beside the loading dock. Metal groaned as the structure snapped, raining steel down on the Razorback’s head. Locked and loaded, Wick banked hard overhead. The rogue flailed, spiked tail arching as he struggled to get up. His warrior pulled the trigger. The three-pronged Taser nailed the enemy dragon in the side, pumping him full of electricity.

As Deep Purple went spastic, Bastian arched his wings and set down fast. He slid sideways, claws tearing holes in the steel container top, and shouted, “Myst!”

Sitting on the ground, she looked up at him. He saw the relief in her gaze—felt it fill his own chest—a second before her focus shifted over his shoulder. “Bastian…watch out!”

Her scream made him twist sideways. As he flipped, sharp claws raked his side. Blood welled along his ribcage, and he caught a flash of red scales. The spikes on the enemy tail missed him by an inch, and upside down—still halfway through his spin—Bastian lashed out. His paw connected with a crunch. The rogue pinwheeled, spinning like a top, and he got a good look at his attacker.

Ivar. The pink-eyed SOB had come out to play.

Primal need and brutal aggression ripped through Bastian. He’d waited for this moment forever. Had dreamed of coming face-to-face with Ivar. Wanted to rip him apart. Make him bleed. Watch him suffer. But an equal and opposite compulsion vied for airtime, turning him away from his thirst for vengeance. His female was on the ground, vulnerable and alone. Yeah, he craved Ivar’s blood, but the need to protect his female was stronger.

Myst came first. No matter what.

But he couldn’t get to her now. Not with Ivar catching air and his XO attacking his flank from the north. The best he could do was hold the line, keep himself between the rogue dragons and her. Yeah, that and call for backup.

“Rikar!”
Baring his fangs, he launched himself at Ivar.

“I need you.”

“Thirty seconds.”

“Make it fifteen.”

Ten would be better, but his best friend was busy. He caught the sight line out of the corner of his eye. Frosty side deployed, ice shards were flying and Razorbacks dropping like flies.

With a quick turn, he sideswiped his nemesis. The prick roared, and Bastian smiled, baring his teeth in satisfaction. Ivar came at him again. He countered, unwrapping an uppercut beneath the asshole’s chin. As the red SOB’s head snapped back, Lothair snarled and attacked, making a grab for the horns on Bastian’s head. He jerked out of the strike zone, keeping his skull intact, awareness shimmering through him. What the hell was Ivar’s XO doing? Usually a dragon attacked head-on, never going for a glancing blow.

And Lothair’s flyby? Yeah, there was all kinds of wrong with that attempt.

Whipping his tail, he kept Ivar at bay and searched the sky for the black scales. Lothair had dipped low, but…

There he was, rising fast with a harness in his claws. And snarled in the loops? Bricks of plastic explosives. Jesus. The rogues didn’t know how to fight fair. They were trying to blow his head off. Bastian’s eye narrowed. Fat chance of that. No way would he allow the rogue to get that close.

“Heads up, boys…C-four,”
he said, sending the info out through mind-speak.

Wick answered,
“Where?”

“In Lothair’s paw.”

“Asshole.”
Coming around the crane boom, Rikar zeroed in on the black SOB.

With the cavalry in sight, Bastian rolled right, giving his friend a clear shot. As he disengaged, Rikar growled, sending ice crystals out in a foggy wave. Visibility went from good to rat-shit awful. Using the frigid cloud cover, Bastian pulled into a tight turn. He had one shot. Just one chance to hammer Ivar. The male would adjust quickly, and when he did? His plan to grab Myst would go from difficult to FUBARed in a heartbeat.

Lost in the icy swirl, Ivar roared for his XO. Bastian showed no quarter, coming in hard, striking with precision. The red fucker pinwheeled, spinning into the cold mist. And Bastian made his break.

Without slowing, he flew over the shipping containers. “Myst!”

“Here…Bastian, I’m right here!”

His heart shuddered as he spotted her thirty yards ahead. She was on her feet—thank God—and running down the alleyway toward him. He landed hard, pushed the containers out, widening the corridor. All sound ceased and time slowed as he reached for her. Seconds felt like hours, stretching out, and Bastian started to pray. He sensed Ivar closing in behind him…knew he was vulnerable on the ground, but he couldn’t leave her.

Not now. Not ever.

The world returned to him, speeding into reality the instant his front paw curled around her. Ignoring her gasp, he hoisted her onto his back. She slid home, straddling his shoulders.

“Hang on,
bellmia.
” Leaping into the sky, he mind-spoke to the others,
“Got her. Get out.”

A roar came from behind him.

Rikar cursed.
“B…hard right.”

Without hesitation, he shifted into the tight turn. Scrambling to hold on, Myst clutched at his horns as the Razorback leader circled behind him. With a hiss, Ivar exhaled. Poisonous gas and toxic fumes ignited, shooting pink flames from between Ivar’s fangs. Bastian tunneled into a spiral. Myst screamed, losing her grip, plummeting toward the ground.

“Bastian!” Eyes wide with fear, in a freefall, she reached for him.

Wings stretched to capacity, he dove, straining hard to grab her. He caught her on the upswing, cutting her scream short, plucking her out of thin air. Ivar roared. Pink flame streaked past his wing tip, singing his scales as Rikar swooped in. He came in like an avenging angel. White wings spread, he hung motionless a moment, poised above the spikes on Bastian’s back and unleashed hell.

The temperature dropped into single digits. A whistling sound hit the airwaves as eight-inch ice daggers sliced through the gloom. Cradling his female close, Bastian ducked and flew under his best friend’s tail. No way he wanted to get in the way of Rikar and his arsenal.

Ivar sucked wind, tried to compensate, drawing up short to avoid the icy knives. But it was too late. The deadly shards struck, thrusting through his red scales. As the Razorback leader shrieked and lost altitude, Lothair rose.

Wings spread, black scales gleaming, he launched himself from a twisted heap of steel, attacking from below. Little more than a green streak, Venom grabbed the SOB by the tail and, making like an Olympic shot-putter, spun. The C4 went flying, landing in the harbor with a splash. One. Two. Three rotations later, Venom let go, tossing the enemy male headfirst into an ocean freighter.

The metal-to-skull collision clanged, echoing off the water as Sloan flew in, a squadron of Razorbacks on his tail.

“Go. Go. Go,”
Bastian shouted, signaling their retreat.

Another night. The Razorbacks would be there to annihilate tomorrow night. The rogues always were, but he only had one female. And as he cradled her—leaving twisted steel and the enemy behind, flying faster than he ever had before—Bastian didn’t give a damn about vengeance or Dragonkind.

All he cared about was Myst. To hell with his pride.

The wind pulled at Myst’s hair, blowing the tangled mess around her head. It seemed strange, but she wasn’t cold. Bastian was all around her: beneath her in flight, cocooning her from the autumn chill with his magic.

Thank God.

She needed him more than she wanted to breathe, and as clouds rose in the dark sky, she pressed her cheek to his warm scales and struggled not to cry. But the fight was a downhill one. She couldn’t forget. The scrapes and bruises reminded her. The awful scents and sounds stayed with her. And pink eyes flashed in her mind’s eye.

Nightmares. She had a feeling she was in for some terrible ones.

Squeezing her eyes closed, she battled the shakes, clamping down on emotion, desperate to stay strong. But the internal cyclone hit her like a sidewinder, sent her over the edge, cracking her wide open. She choked on silent tears, the droplets rolling like twin streams down her cheeks.

How could she have been so stupid?

She’d fought Bastian every step of the way. Had run scared instead of standing strong. The “if onlys” were a litany she couldn’t ignore. Or forgive herself for. Because of her, the Port of Seattle was a mess and Angela Keen was probably dead.

Another case of “if onlys” rolled through her head. Goddamn it. “B-Bastian?”

“What,
bellmia
?” As smooth as his glide, his voice surrounded her in a warm curl.

“Do you think Rikar will find her?”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, and his silence told her all she needed to know. The chances that Angela had made it out of the shipyard were slim.

“Rikar’s the best tracker we have, Myst.” He banked in a slow tilt, changing his flight path. She caught a glimpse of forest below before he leveled out. “If she’s out there, he’ll find her.”

His
if
didn’t comfort her, and she nestled into him, needing to get as close as humanly possible. Strange, she knew. A week ago she hadn’t known dragons existed. Now, she couldn’t get enough of one. “I’m so sorry.”

“Shh,
bellmia.
” Crisscrossing the night sky, Bastian took them over the edge of the tree line. The landscape dropped off fast, falling over a cliff, moving from the skeletal outlines of evergreens into nothingness. She heard the rush of the river before she saw the midnight ribbon below them. “We’re almost home.”