Fury of Obsession (Dragonfury Series Book 5) (26 page)

Focus locked on the rogue, Venom spread his wings and, slowing, floated in mid-air. The male gasped once, then stopped breathing. An instant later, his enemy disintegrated in an explosion of dragon ash.

Gray flakes swirled on an updraft of winter wind, sending each one in a different direction. Muscle bunching, Venom gained altitude and flew out of the canyon. His sonar pinged. A familiar signal rose inside his head. His mouth curved. Wick. Right on time. His friend’s unique energy signal throbbed against his temples, reassuring him as he—

“Venom.”

“All in one piece. You?”

“A few scratches. Two dead rogues.”
Still a mile away, Wick grunted.
“Your female?”

Venom glanced down and grimaced. God, she was pale. So scared she was a breath away from hyperventilating.
“In a tailspin.”

“Get her home.”

Good idea. Except for one thing.

He couldn’t fly toward Black Diamond and stay out of the fray. Not with his brothers engaged in claw-to-claw combat east of Arlington. Radar up and running, he tracked the battle, hooking in to each Nightfury’s life force. Thank God. No one seriously hurt, but his sonar didn’t lie. His pack was still outnumbered three to one. Not bad odds, but with Ivar and Hamersveld in the mix—along with the nasty little wren—the tide could turn quickly.

“Wick—turn around. Go help B and the others.”

“You sure?”

“No sweat,”
he said, knowing he was out of danger. No Razorbacks in the vicinity. No reason to worry.
“I’ll fly west, then follow the coastline into Seattle.”

“You’ll stay at the safe house?”

“Yeah.”
It was the better bet. An easier fly too considering the battle in progress between him and home.

Located in a swanky Seattle neighborhood, the safe house served a serious purpose. Daimler had bought the waterfront property a month ago, spending millions—at Rikar’s behest. A necessary expediture. The house provided a haven of last resort, a place for Angela, Rikar’s mate, to crash when she lost track of time while in investigation mode and couldn’t make it home before nightfall. It had happened more than once. And when it did? Rikar lost his mind, freaking out so fast anyone with half a brain would conclude the world had just ended. Not that he blamed his XO. An HE female out after dark—especially one mated to a Nightfury—spelled big trouble. The kind that arrived with Razorbacks in tow.

And yet, Venom didn’t blame her for the lapses.

Hell, he admired Angela for it.

An ex-SPD detective, she loved her work and was good at it. So skilled at unearthing facts, she now served as the Nightfury chief investigator, helping Sloan monitor the cyber highways, often digging up information that led to great intel and big leads. The biggest of all, though—her white whal
e . . .
the location of Ivar’s new lair—still eluded her. But Venom had faith. Angela would find it eventually—along with the HE females imprisoned in the bastard’s subterranean complex.

“Twenty minutes max, Wick, and I’ll land in our new backyard.”

His friend hesitated, staying on course, rocketing toward him.
“Ven—”

“Go.”
Wheeling over the thick forest, Venom recalibrated his internal compass and set a course for Seattle. With a murmur, he conjured a cloaking spell and settled into a smooth glide, flying toward the coast and more populated places.
“No rogues around. I’ll be fine.”

“Later, then,”
Wick said, raw anticipation in his tone.

“Be safe.”

“Aren’t I always?”

Venom snorted. Right. Sure. The word
safe
didn’t belong anywhere near his friend. Vicious? Unpredictable? Lethal in a fight with his lava-infused exhale and bad attitude? Without a doubt. Throw all three into the pot, give it a good stir, and slap Wick’s name on it, ’caus
e . . .
yeah. The trifecta of nastiness fit the male to perfection. But as he sensed his friend shift direction mid-flight, Venom almost changed his mind and called him back.

Almost
, but not quite.

He wasn’t a coward. He was a warrior. A powerful one gifted with keen intelligence and the brute strength to back it up. Hell, he’d just KO’d a rogue against a cliff face, for God’s sake. No reason to run scared—or dread Evelyn’s reaction when he set her back on solid ground. Stil
l . . .

Worry tweaked his tail.

Venom glanced down at his female.

Breathing easier now, Evelyn lay prone in his paw. He met her gaze. Brown eyes narrowed on him. The prickle of unease intensified, crawling under his skin. Venom bit down on a curse. Ah, hell. Not good. She was alert, fear fading fast, intellect surfacing hard. Nowhere near her happy place either. She took another deep breath, calming under the influence of his smooth glide. She pursed her lips. Venom smoothed his expression, determined to give nothing away in the face of her rising fury.

But God, it was hard.

She hardly knew him. And yet, her no-nonsense stick-it-up-your-craw look cut through all the crap, making him want to squirm. He shut down the urge, but knew her silence wouldn’t last long. Her vibe said it all. The second he landed at the safe house and shifted back into human form, Evelyn would throw down. Ass-plant him like a head of lettuce or something.

He knew just by looking at her. Guaranteed. No doubt in his mind. Which left him with nowhere to run, a giant bull’s-eye on his back, and an angry female he wanted to placate more than he needed his next breath.

Shifting fast in flight, Bastian rocketed toward the enemy. Engaged in aerial combat, dragons roared around him. The deafening howls blasted over treetops, giving voice to pain. Adding to the ambiance, he hammered a rogue on the flyby. His claws shrieked against scales. The Razorback snarled at him. Bastian grinned back and, vaulting into a flip, hit him again, pushing the male toward the high bluffs. Dragon blood arced in the moon-glow. The metallic scent met frigid air, joining the smell of fire and brimstone.

Bastian dug in, sinking his claws deep.

The rogue spun full circle, desperate to break his hold.

Good strategy. Fat lot of good it would do the pale-scaled male. Freedom wasn’t an option for the Razorback. Not anymore. The rogue was already trouble. In his sights. Tethered by his talons. Wings now immobilized by his claws. Cut off from help and the greater pac
k . . .
about to lose his life.

One thing stayed Bastian’s hand—the need for information.

On board with his plan, Mac and Forge played keep-away, protecting his right flank. Sloan and Rikar fought on the left, holding the line. Bastian bared his fangs. Lovely. Excellent. Perfect in every way. All the time and space he needed to work without interruption. To crack Razorback heads and interrogate each while in mid-air.

Great in theory. Too bad he had next to nothing to show for it.

Three rogues down. Not an iota of information.

And the Razorback in his grasp? No luck yet. He might as well start pulling teeth. Prying scales loose too, ’cause lord knew, the fourth victim wasn’t the charm. No matter how much pain he inflicted, the male refused to talk—or tell him where Ivar had gone. Bastian growled in frustration. Bad timing. Even worse luck. The rogue leader had gotten away—again. For th
e . . .
well, shit. He didn’t know many times. A hundred? A thousand? He gritted his teeth. It felt like millions right now.

Night after night. Week after week. Year after fucking year.

Ivar always managed to slip through his net.

Applying ruthless pressure, he twisted his enemy’s wings. “Where is he?”

A gasp. A cry of pain. Nothing more. The rogue still refused to answer.

Bastian folded the male’s wings back another foot. “Tell me.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fine. Have it your way.”

With a snarl, Bastian adjusted his hold and spun in mid-air. Talons around the back of the male’s skull, he twisted. The rogue thrashed, fighting the lockdown. A brutal wrench of his claws. A single snap, and he broke his neck. The vicious crack echoed. The rogue went limp in his grasp a second before he exploded into dragon ash.

Gray flakes swirled, blowing in his face.

Ignoring the blow back, Bastian banked hard, searching for his next target. A white streak rocketed into view. Dialed in, he pinged his best friend.
“Rikar, what you got?”

“Dick-all. No one’s talking. The assholes are loyal, I’ll give ’em that.”
Nothing but blur, Rikar blasted past him. Arctic air swirled, dragging snow in his wake.
“Any luck on your end?”

“None. Ivar’s gone. Hamersveld with him.”

Rotating into a spiral, Rikar settled on his right side.
“Fucking hell. We can’t catch a break.”

No kidding. Bastian cursed under his breath. Same story, different night.
“The bastard must have a lucky rabbit’s foot up his ass.”

His best friend snorted in amusement.

Gaze locked on Mac and Forge, Bastian shook his head. His mouth curved. Wow. The wonder twins were tearing it up, taking on five rogues at once. And Sloan? Bastian glanced to his left. Nothing but a pinprick against the sky, his warrior flew away from the battle. Frowning, he tracked his friend. His sonar pinged an
d . . .
huh. Strange. Not at all Sloan’s style. The male never left a battle unless forced to break rank.

Which meant something was off.

Beyond wrong and headed into dangerous territory.

Bastian scanned the horizon again, looking for the telltale flash of Sloan’s snow-white paws. A glint drew his eye. The flash of white, dead ahead. Wings spread wide, Bastian put on the brakes. Stretched to capacity, his muscles squawked, protesting the pull.

Rikar blew by him.

With a quick shift, Bastian changed direction.
“I’m going after Sloan.”

“I’ve got the wonder twins.”
Velocity supersonic, Rikar circled around, looking for an opening between Mac and Forge. Pale gaze narrowed on the Razorback off Mac’s left wing.
“Mac—shove over. I’m coming in hot.”

“Isnae that supposed tae be ‘coming in cold,’ Frosty?”
Forge asked, smart-ass attitude reigning supreme. With a grunt, he broadsided a Razorback. Scales rattled. A scream rippled across the night sky, streaming over treetops.
“Would hate tae confuse you with—”

“Asshole Scot,”
Rikar said, getting in on the trash talking.
“Shut up and get out of my way.”

Forge huffed, the sound full of enjoyment.

Mac laughed as he fed a rogue a face full of water spear.

Leaving the trio behind, Bastian fine-tuned his radar. Unease pricked across scales. He followed Sloan anyway, swinging behind a sheer rock face. Eyes on the rough terrain, he traced jagged hollows and rocky outcroppings. His night vision sparked, allowing him to see everything. Each dip. Every spike. All the nuances. Ancient and deep, thick forest stretched to his left. Huge pines stood beside old oaks, competing for shoulder room along snaking blacktop. Under construction, the highway cut through the wilderness, playing peekaboo between heavy tree limbs and pine cones. Heavy machinery sat alongside patches of ripped-up road, faded pylons glinting orange in the moonlight.

Bastian clenched his teeth.

Wonderful. Just terrific. The perfect place to set up an attack—high cliffs on both sides, narrow valley between, little room to maneuver. His brows collided. Freaking Sloan. What the hell was he thinking? No way should the male be sailing into ambush central without someone at his back. Increasing his wing speed, Bastian sent out the call, requesting backup.

“Still busy.”
A grunt echoed through mind-speak. The shriek of claws on scales followed. Rikar hummed a second before bone snapped with a crack.
“We’ll finish up and—”

“Inbound,”
Wick said, more snarl than an actual word.

Bastian’s mouth curved. Well, well, wel
l . . .
wouldn’t you know it? Right on time. God love the male. Wick possessed the most impeccable timing.
“Venom?”

“Free and clear.”

White jets streaming off his wing tips, Wick shot over the top of the bluff. With an acrobatic flip, he dove over the cliff edge, the move pure kamikaze. Bastian ducked to avoid a collision. The crazy SOB changed course, missing him by inches, rattling the spikes along his spine, pissing him off in the process.

Bastian scowled at him.

“Nice to see you too.”
Wick grinned, all wolf, no apology.
“Where’s Sloan?”

“Right here.”

Dark-brown scales tinted green and gold glinted up ahead. The flash of Sloan’s pure white paws followed in the gloom. Bastian’s gaze narrowed. Bingo. Target acquired. One earth dragon, dead ahead.

“What the fuck, Sloan?”
Coming within range, he threw his warrior a sidelong look. Sloan didn’t return the favor. Expression intent, dark eyes moving over ragged terrain, the male cursed under his breath. And Bastian went on high alert. Less volatile than most, Sloan never overreacted. He thought things through, using his off-the-charts IQ and wicked IT skills to puzzle things out. Which meant whatever had the male so focused required his undivided attention.
“Lay it out.”