Fury of Ice (21 page)

After years spent in subpar conditions—caves, run-down factories, basements, and old wine cellars…you name it, he’d been there—the facility was a revelation. Modern, high tech, the Razorback’s new home was über comfortable. Something to be proud of, and for once, he was thankful. So attached to the fire hall now, he would fight to defend rather than abandon his home at the first sign of trouble.

Lothair shook his head. The sentiment was stupid, but no matter how hard he tried to quash it, the feeling wouldn’t go away. Acceptance. The sense of belonging. Both were powerful things, forces that shaped a male. He’d never been truly welcome anywhere: not with his family or by his former pack, not by anyone other than Ivar.

Slamming the car door behind him, Lothair glanced over his shoulder. He met D’s gaze over the roof of the car. “Deal with the females. I’ll handle Ivar.”

The male nodded, relief shining in his dark eyes.

“Get them something to eat after you lock ’em down.” Heading for the stairs at the far end of the ten-car garage, he skirted Ivar’s ride. Kitted out vintage style, the 1963 ’Vette owned sweet curves, a set of wicked rims, and an engine that purred like a female in heat. He should know. He’d picked a coed up in it last week. Let the engine rumble as he banged her in the front seat: pulling her into his lap, spreading her thighs, thrusting deep as she begged for more and he fed.

Not his favorite memory. The willing ones were never as much fun.

He paused at the base of the steps, the smell of new cement making his nose twitch. “Make sure they get enough, D. We lose those two, and the Ivar’ll go postal on our asses.”

Pace even, footfalls silent, Lothair took the stairs two at a time. Taking a tight turn, he continued up, double-timing another set of concrete treads. Thirty seconds later, he stood on the third-story landing. He scanned the shadows, the bank of cracked windows yet to be replaced, hardly noticing the devastation that years of neglect had wrought. Built in the 1950s, the fire hall had sat empty for years. Decay liked it that way, but things were about to change. Right now the underground lair had priority, but soon Ivar’s worker bees would turn their attention to the brick structure sitting on terra firma.

Lothair could hardly wait.

The underground lair—while comfortable with its bedroom suites, modern kitchen, computer center, and Ivar’s lab—didn’t have a game room. Cards. Pool. Foosball. Ping-Pong. Video games. Whatever. The game didn’t matter as long as he got to play. And kicking his comrade’s asses? Hmm…yeah. He liked that best of all.

Skirting a jagged hole in the wooden floor, he headed for the elevator. Hidden behind a wall of paneling, the modern wonder waited, the hum of powerful magnets barely audible above the street noise. He reached out with his mind. The lock disengaged with a snick, and the hum got louder. Floor-to-ceiling wainscoting pushed into the room, then slid sideways, steel glinting behind polished mahogany in the dimness.

The double sliders retreated, opening into the Otis. His mouth curved into a satisfied smile. Beautiful. Excellence in a steel box.

Lothair stepped inside and pressed the solitary button. Closing his eyes, he leaned against the back wall, arms crossed over his chest, reengaging the security system with his mind as the elevator descended. The soft beep told him the wainscoting had closed, sealing the entrance to the underground lair tight.

An unnecessary precaution? Probably.

Denzeil and the females were no doubt right on his ass, but…well, a male could never be too careful. Not with a new home to protect.

The Nightfuries were a clever bunch: well organized, skilled warriors, tenacious with a shitload of vicious sprinkled on top. A lethal combination, one he didn’t want anywhere near Ivar. The male had taken a hit at the shipyard. Was still recovering from Rikar’s ice daggers and—

Fuck, he hated that prick. More than Bastian or any of the others. Tonight’s dance on the beach only cemented the feeling. The pale-eyed, white-scaled male had taken his prize, and because of it, he was headed into an unpleasant conversation. One that would end with him making concessions.

Lothair growled. He’d rather chew his own arm off than admit failure…or give up an ounce of power. But Ivar would take his pound of flesh. No sense putting it off.

The double doors slid open, dumping him into a high-ceilinged, double-wide corridor. The smell of wet plaster and fresh paint hung in the air as he strode toward the lab. Ivar spent most of his time there, at the farthest recesses of the lair. With project supervirus in full swing, the male practically slept in the antechamber.

Not good on any level.

He turned the last corner and punched through a set of swinging doors. White from floor to ceiling, the lab’s antechamber was Ivar’s domain. The space suited the male, showcasing his preference for all things neat and tidy. Lothair almost snorted.
Neat and tidy?
Jesus, it was more than that. Call it OCD on steroids, but whatever you labeled it, normal wasn’t one of the choices. Neither was colorful. The only things with an ounce of flash were the computer screens running down the left-hand side of the room and the fruit basket sitting on the table beside his commander.

One shoulder propped against the wall, one arm supported by a sling, Ivar glanced away from the one-way window into another chamber.

Lothair tipped his chin. “How’s it going in there?”

“They’re not dying fast enough.” Black wraparounds in place, Ivar shook his head. The sunglasses slipped, sliding down the bridge of his nose, exposing pink irises and a visual load of pissed off. “Two aren’t even sick yet, and it’s been five days.”

Moving away from the entrance, Lothair crossed the room. “So superbug number one is a bust?”

“A total fucking failure.”

“Then gas ’em.” Slowing his roll, Lothair stopped beside his friend. He looked through the glass into the hermetically-sealed chamber/apartment. Decked out with the best, the suite boasted everything a human could want: high-tech kitchen, comfortable bedrooms with en suite bathrooms, a kitted-out living room with modern furniture, and a sixty-inch plasma TV complete with every video game console known to mankind. Why Ivar bothered with the luxury when the humans inside were nothing but guinea pigs, he didn’t know. A quirk of character, maybe. “Clean up the mess and start over with a new batch.”

“I like this bug.” Ivar sighed, dark red brows furrowed behind the Oakleys. “I’ll give it a few more days.”

Lothair wanted to shake his head. He didn’t dare. His friend would kick his ass if he thought for one second he wasn’t 100 percent on board. Not that he wasn’t. He hated humankind as much as, if not more than, Ivar, but…

All the science stuff was above his pay grade. He didn’t understand it—wasn’t sure he wanted to—but Ivar loved the shit: playing with viruses that would scare the piss out of human doctors, never mind the best biochemical experts in the business.

To what end?

The extermination of the human race.

Stupid insects. The assholes were killing the planet with their greed and neglectful attitude. Global warming. Entire rain forests laid to waste. The oil spills, nuclear power plant leaks, companies spilling toxic chemicals into lakes and rivers…into the fucking sky. Where he flew every night. If they didn’t wipe the humans out soon, there would be nothing left to save.

“I’ll get another batch of humans together. Strong ones with healthy immune systems.”

Ivar scowled at him.

“Just in case,” Lothair murmured, not pushing his luck. His commander was touchy enough already. Ivar liked fast results and positive outcomes when his babies (aka superviruses) were involved. “I’ll get some low-energy females to throw into the mix too.”

“Good idea.” Pushing away from the wall, cradling his injured arm, Ivar limped over to the bank of computer monitors. A couple of quick keystrokes and the screens went active, scientific data, spreadsheets as well as the video feed from the chamber, coming online. “Vary the ethnic backgrounds as well…Latino, Caucasian, Asian. You name it, toss it in there. I want to test exactly what kind of RO ratio we’ll get for both male and female.”

Lothair frowned.

“RO ratio?” Ivar raised a brow, enjoying the science lesson. “Rate of infection.”

“The faster, the better.”

“Not necessarily.” Fingers flying, his friend tapped a command into the keyboard. A spreadsheet complete with a pie graph morphed on the screen. “We need an infected human to stay alive long enough to spread the contagion to at least five or six other people. We want a global, systemic epidemic. An untreatable one.”

“Deadly with a extra dose of kick-ass.”

“Exactly.” Ivar’s mouth tipped up at the corners.

Lothair grinned back, then turned his attention to the humans caged inside the chamber. Some were coughing. One was passed out on the La-Z-Boy recliner. Two were playing Xbox, a version of Halo. He loved that game. Would probably play some himself before he hit the sheets for the day. But first? Eats. He was as hungry as hell.

Filching an apple from the basket, he bit into the red, juicy, and delicious. As the sweet taste hit his tongue, he glanced sideways at his friend. Jesus, even with his injuries half-healed, Ivar was in rough shape. He took another bite and murmured around the mouthful, “Two high-energy females are in the house, Ivar. You should feed.”

His friend nodded. “You’re coming with me.”

Without a doubt. No way would he let Ivar go alone. His commander liked killing females too much. Would drain one of the coeds dry if Lothair wasn’t in on the action. His balls fisted up tight as he swelled behind his fly. He could do with some action right now. Particularly after the goat-fuck his night had turned out to be.

He tipped his head toward the door. “Let’s go now.”

“Tell me about our other project first.” Turning away from the computer, Ivar ass-planted himself on the lip of the desk.

Ah, hell. Here it came. His confession and talk of the breeding program.

So not what he needed right now. He’d hoped to Zen Ivar out with an energy feed first. No such luck. The male was too savvy. Was reading his level of pissed off and making the right conclusion. The one that had shot-to-hell written all over it.

Lothair sighed. “We ran into a snag tonight.”

“Shit.”

No kidding. Losing another high-energy female didn’t bode well. Not for him. Not for the breeding program Ivar wanted operational, oh, say…yesterday.

Designed with one purpose in mind, the program was simple. At least in principle. Dragonkind males didn’t produce female offspring. Why? Something about a vengeful goddess and a curse, but…whatever. Lothair didn’t believe in old wives’ tales. As long as Ivar knew how to manipulate the DNA and map the genomes to allow a Dragonkind male to produce a girl-child, it was all good. He’d hunt down however many females his commander wanted. Impregnate as many as needed when the Meridian realigned.

He was happy to do it. For results. For a daughter of his own.

A Dragonkind female with the ability to feed males of her own kind. Hmm, what a concept. Something worth striving for if it eliminated his dependence on humankind once and for all.

For the program to be successful, however, they needed six females to start: all healthy, high-energy, and of breeding age. Anyone under eighteen need not apply. Which meant he needed to track, trap, and imprison six twenty-something candidates.

No easy task.

High-energy females were the rarest of the rare. Smart. Tenacious. Skilled in their chosen fields, there was nothing run-of-the-mill about them. Which meant he was in FUBAR territory before he even stepped outside the lair each night. The theme song from
Mission: Impossible
thrummed through his head. Forget Tom Cruise. Hands down, he had the actor beat in the crazy mission situation.

Ivar’s gaze zinged him from behind the dark lenses. “What happened?”

Fuck. Truth time. All of a sudden, Lothair wished he could choose
dare
. But whatever…truth, it was. “Lost the third tonight.”

“The she-cop?”

“She ambushed me before I could get her in a cage,” he said, angling his face, showing off his cheek. “Got out through the ventilation system.”

“Smart,” his friend said, pushing away from the computer console. The sound of his boots thudded as he came at Lothair from across the room. The approach was slow and measured. Dangerous by any standards. Lothair tensed, waiting for the blow, refusing to fight back, knowing he deserved the beatdown. But as his friend stopped in front of him, he didn’t lash out. He reached out instead and with a gentle touch grasped Lothair’s chin. Leaning in, Ivar got up close and personal with the butterfly bandages. “Nasty cut. You okay?”

The question wasn’t about physical injury. It was about headspace and intention. Ivar wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly what kind of male he’d chosen as his XO.

“
Nyet
,” he growled, shaking free of Ivar’s hold. “I’m not fucking
okay
.”

“You looking for some payback?”

“A shitload.”

“So retrieve her come nightfall and…” Ivar trailed off as Lothair cursed. Reading him right, his eyes glowed pink behind the Oakleys. “Goddamn it, Lothair. Tell me Bastian didn’t—”

“His evil twin…Rikar.”

As the name rolled out, a sour taste filled his mouth. Unpleasant in more ways than one. Not only must he admit the bastard had gotten the better of him but also that he’d come home empty-handed. With a snarl, Lothair swallowed the name like a mouthful of mothballs. Unable to stay still, he rolled his shoulders to work out the frustration. When that didn’t work, he put his boots in gear and paced the length of the antechamber.

He strode back in the opposite direction, his footfalls echoing off the glossy walls. Coming within inches of Ivar, he passed his commander, then stopped, dead-ending at the computer console. Asleep from disuse, the touch screen that controlled the “apartment” was black. He stared at his reflection a moment, seeing himself, but not really. “I hate that asshole.”