Authors: Coreene Callahan
Man, he could hardly wait.
As he circled over apartment buildings, Rikar scanned the alleys below. His night vision sharp, he cast a wide visual net, sonar pinging, sending out calls he hoped Mac would answer. But maybe the male was down. Or hurt. Unable to link in through mind-speak.
Bastian flew by, thumping him with the side of his tail.
The love tap brushed one of his bruised ribs. Rikar flinched.
“Ow!
Shit, B…that hurt
.
”
“Suck it up. There are worse things.”
“Like what?”
“The fact you’re about to get wet
.
”
Rikar blew out a long breath. The exhale started off smooth but ended on a growl. He should’ve guessed. The water. No way could Mac resist its allure for long.
“Elliott Bay?”
“Smack dab in the middle of it.”
“Fuck.”
Dawn was only three hours away. If he couldn’t talk Mac into coming out by then, he’d be forced to go in and pull a grab-and-go. With Mac fighting him every step of the way.
“I hate my job.”
Bastian laughed.
“You got him through the change, my man. He’s one hundred percent yours.”
Fantastic. Most males got a fire dragon as a sidekick. But oh, no. Not him. He landed a water dragon. Just his freaking luck.
He only hoped Mac went the reasonable route. Otherwise Elliott Bay would end up as one big ice bath. Not something the human authorities would understand. Or get over quickly.
“He’s got a rogue down there with him.”
He threw Bastian an incredulous look.
“You’re shitting me.”
“Nope,”
B said.
“The yellow fucker…the male that kept attacking him
.
”
Rikar’s heart picked up a beat, thumping hard. A Razorback. Mac had gotten a hold of a rogue, one that might have valuable intel. Holy shit. Maybe the night didn’t have
screwed
up
plastered all over it. Maybe he could salvage something from the snafu. Bring Angela home the information she wanted and—
He needed to reach his boy…fast.
Putting his wings to good use, Rikar streaked over the Port of Seattle. Still a mess from their showdown with Ivar, the shipyard lay in shambles. Busted-up steel containers, cracked concrete, a beat-to-shit industrial crane, and an ocean freighter with a huge dent in its hull were only part of the tally. Nothing but dark dots on shadowed pavement, the humans scurried around. In clean-up mode, men drove forklifts and front-end loaders in the hopes of returning everything to the status quo.
Rikar snorted. Good luck with that. The second Wick—the brother that liked to toss heavy machinery around for kicks and giggles—flew by, the place would only get fucked up again.
Reaching the middle of the bay, Rikar circled once, searching the water beneath the spray of four-foot waves. A pinpoint glow caught his attention just below the waterline. Bingo. He had a lock on Mac. Aquamarine eyes aglow, the male surfaced with the yellow dragon. Bladed tail swishing, webbed claws out in full force, Mac controlled the Razorback completely, playing with him, letting him take a breath before dragging him back under.
Rikar’s mouth curved. He couldn’t help it. Mac was vicious, beyond the pale of good behavior. And shit, that just make him proud. Too bad he didn’t have time to let the cop explore the good, the bad, or the ugly side of his nature. He needed the enemy male alive. Conscious enough to spill his secrets.
“Mac.”
The male growled in answer.
“Bring the Razorback up.”
“No.”
Holding the rogue’s head under, the nine-inch-high blade running down the center of Mac’s spine broke the surface of the water. Rikar stared at it for a second, watching it knife through the choppy spray. Christ, a shark’s fin didn’t have a thing on the male. The sight freaked Rikar out a little. It would be next to impossible to haul Mac out of the ocean if the cop didn’t want to come. Mac was in his natural habitat. Even a frost dragon couldn’t compete with that.
“He’s mine.”
“Come on, man. I need him.”
White scales flashing in the moonlight, Rikar made another pass, watching the distorted shadows beneath the waves.
“Stop fucking around.”
Mac hissed.
Rikar snarled in return, the sound aggressive and sure. All about being an XO, not a buddy.
Air bubbles popped like blisters, breaking the surface of the water. Afraid the rogue was already dead, Rikar snapped,
“Mac! Get your ass up here! Or I swear to fucking God, I’m gonna turn you into an ice cube.”
“Miiine.”
Terrific. Threatening the idiot wouldn’t get Rikar what he wanted. Mac was too far gone. It was a case of instinct over intellect. For a fledgling, it was normal. For a warrior, it could prove deadly.
Rikar changed tack, using the one thing he knew Mac would respond to…even with the mind-fuck the male had going on.
“Angela needs him, Mac
.
He’s got intel that your partner needs. Without it, I can’t keep her safe.”
“Fuck.”
A pause then,
“Your word.
I get to kill him after…my way.”
Circling in behind him, Bastian joined the party.
“Deal.”
In an instant, Elliott Bay’s choppy surf went smooth. No waves. No ripples. Absolute stillness, like a pane of blue-white glass. Freaky. And really fucking cool. Especially when the water shifted, began to turn and dip, getting sucked toward the bottom of the harbor. As a whirlpool opened beneath Rikar, the wind came up, howling as it whipped the smell of brine into the air.
“Incoming,”
Mac said.
“Catch.”
Yellow scales flashed in the swirling depths of the funnel. A second later, Mac launched the rogue out of the water and into midair, turning the enemy dragon into a torpedo.
Chapter Seventeen
In his usual spot, flat on his back in the middle of the concrete floor, Forge cracked an eye open as steel clicked against steel. It sounded like a gun being cocked at close range. But nay, it was just the door to his prison getting put to good use. The soft hiss of hinges slithered through the silence. Quiet footfalls followed, ping-ponging off the walls and down the wide open space in front of the cellblock to reach him. The whispers came next. Held high by the rush of air from the ventilation system, the murmurs drifted, sounding as loud as a shout to his sharply keen senses.
Forge hummed. Visitors. How nice.
Even better? They came with a plan and clear purpose. Came to play a deadly game of mental chess. One he excelled at, too bad for them.
Allowing his eyes to drift closed again, he listened to the voices. Studied the tone and nuance of each. Picked up the tenor. Read the determination that hinted of desperation. He added a dab of well-meaning manipulation to the pot, and…boom! He had a recipe for disaster in the making.
With a sigh, he folded his arms behind his head, waiting for…ah, and there it was. Right on time. Her scent reached him. Myst was back. And she’d brought a friend. Another female along with his son.
Forge’s mouth curved. God love her. Aye, she might be planning an ambush, one with him as the main meal, but at least she wasn’t cruel. And as he listened to his bairn’s happy coo echo down the corridor, he thanked his lucky stars. A male would’ve used his lad as leverage. Taunted him with the promise of seeing him if Forge traded information, but not Myst. She believed a father had a right to his son. And that a son needed his father.
A shortcoming on the strategy front?
Maybe. But Forge didn’t think so. He was more inclined to talk to her—help and give her what she wanted because of her kindness.
Which made him a first-class fool.
He should be using her soft heart against her. Not admiring her for it. But it was what it
was
. No changing that. So he went with it instead, ears attuned to their every move, picking up the faint noises like a stray dog did table scraps.
It was sad, really. How much he wanted to see Myst and her guest, to hear their voices up close and talk to them in return. He’d been alone for a while with nothing but silence and his own thoughts to keep him company. Well, that, and the sound of his own heartbeat. He took the fact it was still thumping as a good sign. Especially with Frosty beating a death drum with his name on it.
So, aye. The females were welcome. Even though he knew it wasn’t a courtesy call.
Myst was too single-minded for that. She needed information. Intel she believed he possessed, so coming to him was a logical choice. Too bad he couldn’t give her what she wanted. Not yet. Not until Bastian caved.
Such a shame. He really didn’t want to hurt her.
His ears tuned, he listened to his visitors’ approach. Flip-flip-flop. Flip-flip-flop. Bloody hell, he loved that sound. It was such a feminine one, so lovely and familiar he smiled. Which was a bad idea. Especially if he didn’t wipe it off his puss before Myst saw it. No sense handing her that kind of tactical advantage. The second she thought he was glad to see her, she’d use it against him.
Oh so unwise.
Forge wanted her to believe he was a brute, capable of anything, unworthy of her concern and attention. Maybe then she’d realize he was a lost cause. Stop trying to save him. Win him over. Make him believe second chances existed for a male like him.
Dangerous. The game she played was so bloody dangerous.
And one he’d bet his eyeteeth Bastian didn’t know about yet. He snorted. Jesus, the male would lose it when he found out. But for now, Forge would enjoy her visits. And hope for more.
Without opening his eyes, he knew the exact moment she cleared the corner of his cell. “My lady Munroe…to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Oh, shut up and get over here,” she said, tone tart. “Your son wants to see you. And I want to introduce you to someone.”
Forge grinned. He couldn’t help it. It was hard not to like Bastian’s female. “Let me guess…one of SPD’s finest.”
He tried to sound casual, but fuck him, relief came through as his throat went tight. Rikar had gotten her out, rescued her from Razorback hell. And no matter his beef with the Nightfuries, he couldn’t help but be grateful for their cunning efficiency. No female deserved to be treated that way. Left to linger in pain and despair.
“It’s Angela…or Ange,” she said, voice soft yet somehow strong. “Take your pick.”
Unfolding his arms from behind his head, he planted a hand on the cold concrete and popped to his feet. As he turned toward the front of his cell, he got a load of the newcomer. Halle Berry short, her red hair shone in the low light and…shite. She was pretty with her intelligent hazel eyes and a whole lot of edge. No surprise there. Plugged into the Meridian, she was high-energy, power personified, her aura flaming bright and true. But unlike Myst’s gentle warmth, Angela’s was jewel-like: hard, cold, rooted in icy resolve and a never-say-quit attitude.
No wonder Rikar wanted her so badly. Her chilly energy was exactly what Frosty would crave and…hmm. Had he mentioned she smelled lovely too? Like ice and evergreens, fresh as a cold winter morning. A beautiful combination that reminded Forge of his Highland home. He tipped his chin, his acknowledgement of her a silent one.
Playing shuffleboard with the container she held, she shuttled it from one hand to the other. After a second, she mimicked his movement, greeting him without words.
“Crap,” Myst said.
With a frown, his focus snapped to Bastian’s female, concerned something was…
Nay. Nothing wrong. No threat but the scowl on her face as she noticed the new decor. À la Japan, large square cushions sat on the floor. Set up a safe distance from his cell’s invisible barrier, smaller pillows flanked the whole, acting as backrests, inviting the females to sit down and get comfortable. But the best part? The minibar. Pushed against the end wall, it contained all sorts of fun stuff: fancy fruit juice, milk, bottled water, Perrier in pretty green bottles, chocolate treats wrapped in colorful packages. And he should know. He’d watched as it was stocked. Sat with his back propped against his cell wall while the whole deal went down.
His lips twitched. “The Numbai was here.”
“Obviously.” Cradling his son in her arms, Myst stared at the thick floor cushions and grimaced. “Oh, man, we’re totally screwed.”
Ah, just as he suspected. “Bastian still doesnae know?”
Chewing on her bottom lip, she shook her head. “He’s going to flip out the second he sees this. Freaking Daimler. Talk about a dead giveaway.”
“Thought the butler loved you,” Angela said.
“He probably does,” Forge murmured, watching the two together. He got the sense they’d just met, but…aye. They were a solid match personality-wise and would become fast friends before long. “But he cannae stand the thought of Myst being uncomfortable.”
Angela threw him a questioning look.
In an answering frame of mind, he said, “The Numbai are the serving class, lass…the caretakers of Dragonkind. Daimler’s sole purpose in life is tae see tae his master’s comfort.”
“And by ‘master’…” Lifting her free hand, Myst scrunched her middle and index fingers, making quotation marks. “He means everyone under Black Diamond’s roof.”
“A bit archaic,” Angela said.
“I thought so, too, at first.” Stepping over the large, square cushion, his son cradled in her arms, Myst sat, folding her legs Indian-style. “Until I realized he runs this place. Because at Black Diamond? Daimler’s the boss. He’s valued for his service and loves every minute of it.”