Fury of Obsession (Dragonfury Series Book 5) (11 page)

“You need to come home.”

“What’s going on?” she asked, a death grip on her phone. “Is it Mema? Is she all right?”

“I just put your grandmother in an ambulance.”

“What—”

“I’ll explain when you get here.” A door slammed. Men shouted nearby, the sound coming through the connection loud and clear. The police, perhaps. Paramedics maybe, the urgency in their voices unmistakable. “We’re taking her to Cascade Valley in Arlington.”

“Okay.” Mind racing, feet already moving, Evelyn ran across the road. Gaze locked on her Volkswagen, she slid onto the walkway and into the parking lot. “I’m leaving now.”

“Good,” he said. “Don’t doddle, Evelyn. I’ll meet you at the hospital.”

A siren sounded in the background.

The phone disconnected.

Fear closed her throat. Dear God. Please, let her grandmother be all right. Please, pleas
e . . .
triple
please
. The litany gouged at her temples, becoming a chant inside her head. Dread joined the party, twisting her stomach into knots, asking questions like—what if Markov lied? What if the monster had paid her grandmother another visit? What if Mema didn’t pull through? The raw edge in Dr. Milford’s voice pointed to an inescapable fact. He was concerned. Whatever had happened was more than just serious. The situation approached life threatening. And as Evelyn unlocked the door and slid inside her car, the possibilities—each one more horrific than the last—forced her to admit the truth.

It was her fault. The circumstances along with the outcome.

Every bit of i
t . . .
her fault.

If only she’d been more clever. If only she’d solved the problem faster. If only she’d found a way to pay what her mother owed. None of it would have happened. She wouldn’t be in front of the Luxmore, in a godforsaken parking lot, a breath away from prostitution in the middle of the night. And Mema wouldn’t be headed to the hospital, never mind fighting for her life.

Chapter Seven

One shoulder propped against the wall inside the fire station, Ivar stared out the window and scowled at the night sky. Pinpoint stars winked at him from a blanket of black above the Seattle skyline. The city’s glow blurred the edges, creating a fuzzy line between light and dark. Temper getting the better of him, he frowned at that too.

Waiting sucked.

He hated it. Despised the delays. The reason behind each one too.

Ivar growled. The low rumble made the rounds, echoing off glass and unpainted gypsum. He clenched his teeth on another curse. Fucking humans. Uncooperative residents of Granite Falls. His patience thinned by the second, the need to know poking at him like a pointy stick. Like a meth addict jonesing for his next fix, he craved information. Needed statistics. Yearned for colorful pie charts full of percentages—the equations detailing infection rates of the people who lived in the small town south of the Canadian border.

Everytown USA. The perfect human petri dish. One of the best sample groups around. But only if his gamble paid off.

Too many healthy immune systems made the outcome almost impossible to predict. Which left Mother Nature out in the cold. Not that
she
cared. Or gave a damn what he wanted. The fickle witch obviously didn’t appreciate bar graphs—or microbiology—the way he did. Incubation periods of powerful viruses enjoyed a different kind of symmetry. The sort that didn’t include him.

Aggravation jabbed at him.

Ivar shoved at his shirt sleeve. Light from a street lamp streamed through the window, hitting the face of his watch. The expensive timepiece served up the hour—just shy of two a.m. Almost seven days without a recorded symptom. Not a single one. Ivar sighed in disappointment. Delay upon delay. Days wasted watching TV, monitoring news broadcasts, listening to annoying anchormen yammer on about nothing special. Nights spent searching the Internet, streaming live video, reading blogs, looking for something—anything—to confirm his plan was working. Or whether time marched on without him.

A good question. One that should’ve yielded a quick answer given the fact he’d infected Granite Falls’ water supply with a superbug over a week ago. A bio-cocktail, his baby was a beaut. Nasty. Fast acting. A killer wrapped up in a lethal viral load.

Or so he’d thought.

Until tonight.

Fucking hell, it was frustrating. He should be there now, right in the middle of the action. Set up in the center of town, watching his experiment unfold while his superbug went to work and humans died. A lovely thought. Nothing but a dwindling hope right now. Evidence of the outbreak had yet to surface. Not a whisper on the nightly news. No word from Denzeil or a ripple of panic in the human population. Which
sucke
d
. . .
big time. Particularly since he couldn’t collect a single blood or tissue sample until the infection took root. Which left him where? Stuck at home. Doing what? Twiddling his thumbs—hands tied, boots planted, bad mood escalatin
g . . .

Waiting
for something to happen.

Dragging his gaze from his watch, he focused on the road snaking past 28 Walton Street. An old fire station built in the 1930s, the property suited his needs. Ivar liked the symmetry of the place—big rooms, open layout, the very essence of feng shui. Toss in the underground lair sitting beneath the thirteen acres surrounding it, and he owned a winner. All he needed to keep himself busy and out of trouble, bu
t . . .

Not tonight.

Ivar bit down on a curse. He was bored as hell, in desperate need of a distraction. He scanned the neighborhood again. Nothing and nobody. All quiet on the suburbia front. He pursed his lips. Different night, same results. No deviation in routine. No drama after dark. Very little to write home about. Same, same, and more of the
same
. Most nights, he enjoyed that about the sleepy corner of Seattle he called home. Neighbors never knocked on his door. Cops rarely drove by. And the lights inside the tiny houses dotting both sides of the narrow avenue always went out around nine o’clock.

Nice and predictable. Safe and—Ivar sighed—completely boring.

Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he pushed away from the wall. His reflection wavered in the dark glass. Stepping over a pile of debris, he ignored his blurry outline in the bank of windows in favor of admiring the installation. High gloss and high tech, the triple-paned quintuplets stood shoulder to shoulder—wide, tall, and church-like, with arched tops and straight bottoms: a long line of clean, clear, and fabulous. No more hairline fractures in the glass. No more heat loss or chilly breezes through rotten wood frames. Brand spanking new, just like the wide floorboards beneath his feet.

He kicked at a piece of bamboo plank left by the recent renovation. Sawdust kicked up, dusting the toe of his boot, joining the scent of fresh drywall and joint compound. He glanced at the white patch of plaster beneath one of the window’s steel casing. His mouth curved.

Almost there.

Another week or two and the upper floor of the once dilapidated firehouse would be finished. Nothing left to do but furnish the rooms and enjoy the space. A pleasant notion. One that should’ve pleased him. Most of the time, it did. Especially while testing viral loads inside his state-of-the-art laboratory one hundred and fifty feet below his present position. Tonight, though, satisfaction remained miles away. So far from reach, he couldn’t summon an ounce of pride for his new digs.

Unclenching his fists, Ivar indulged in a shoulder roll. Sore muscles squawked. No surprise there. Stiff from standing still too long, his body begged for action. Wanted him to unleash his inner beast, spread his wings, and soar above the cityscape. His dragon half perked up, liking the idea. He glanced at the ceiling. Damp plaster patches stared back, daring him to do it, bu
t . . .

Ivar shook his head.

No way. Blasting through the roof to reach fresh air wouldn’t solve anything. Sure, it would lift his mood. Might even elevate the underlying tension for a while, but the relief wouldn’t last. Temporary fixes never did. He must stay on track and hold the line. Just a little while longer. A month at most and he’d have what he needed—progress on all fronts. A safe, comfortable place to land after a hard night of fighting. News about Project Supervirus and Granite Falls. More data on his breeding program and the female captives he kept caged in his underground lair.

So many balls in the air.

He couldn’t afford to drop a single one. Not if he hoped to protect Dragonkind.

Some thought his fight to end environmental erosion was a phase. Nothing more than a way for him to pass the time while he played scientist. Ivar knew better. He wasn’t
playing
. His willingness to eradicate an entire species—the human race—indicated that much. His decision stemmed more from desperation than curiosity. Was a haven of last resort, one he’d reached months ago. The tipping point was comin
g . . .
the point of no return along with it. Mother Earth couldn’t handle much more of the abuse humankind doled out on a regular basis.

The idiots were killing the planet.

Slowly. Without conscience. Or an ounce of remorse.

Evidence of it dominated the headlines. Monster storms. A depleted ozone layer and poor air quality. Ravaged rainforests, poisoned groundwater, and sick kids with never-before-seen allergies. Ivar blew out a long breath. He couldn’t stand it anymore. The situation was so unnecessary. A ticking time bomb. One hundred percent correctable if caught in time. He shook his head. No hope in hell of that happening. The humans refused to heed the warnings. The idiots would do what they always did—take what they wanted, be greedy morons when it came to the environment, and ignore the consequences.

Which left him one recourse. Make plans. Ensure each strategy’s success. Continue to move forward on his own with fewer resources than he wanted—and more pressure from Rodin than he needed.

A pity in more ways than one.

Ambitious and power hungry, Rodin liked to meddle and never let up. He wanted regular updates and called far too often. Annoying? Absolutely. A necessary evil? Without a doubt. The constant monitoring in exchange for support from one of the most powerful males of his kind was a small price to pay. Well worth the aggravation in the long term. Ivar grimaced. All right, so he didn’t enjoy the strings. Or Rodin’s habit of trying to play him like a marionette. But money was just tha
t . . .
money
. And more funds equaled greater flexibility.

The kind that would allow him to end the scourge called humankind.

Turning on his heel, Ivar strode toward the opposite side of the room. His footfalls echoed, pinging off the pitted brick walls. Bang-scrap-thump. Thud-creak-rasp. Up and back. Round and round. One circuit rolled into anothe
r . . .
and then into more. His reflection flashed across the wall of glass as he skirted a plastic garbage bin. Sidestepping the table saw next to it, he halted in front of the last window. Right back where he started. Sad, but true. Ending up where he began seemed to be his MO of late.

With a long-drawn sigh, he shoved his hands into his front pockets and resettled against the frame. Steel bit into his bicep. Discomfort raced down his arm as he mimicked the sad sag of a house with ancient eaves across the street. He stared at it and the beat-up Jeep parked in the driveway. Memory clawed, then dug in, reminding him who owned the rusted-out Wrangler. His mouth went dry. Ivar swallowed as her name streamed into his head.

Sasha Coope
r . . .
sex kitten extraordinaire.

An image of her raked the inside of his skull, making his temples throb and the traitor behind his button fly wake up. Full-blown arousal in under a second. Devastating need. Burning desire. All-consuming
want
. Ivar closed his eyes and, giving in to recall, replayed the night he’d spent with her. The one in which Sasha had played siren to his sailor. Holy fuck, she’d been incredible. Beyond anything he’d ever experienced. Gorgeous bio-energy. Unforgettable taste. Enthralling surrender. Her beautiful brown eyes soft in welcome. The heat of her embrace. All that pale, smooth skin beneath his hands. The sound of her voice as she whispered his name, begging him to take her again. The feel of her coming around him. God. What a memory an
d . . .

Ivar fisted his hands in his pockets.

Shit. Not good. Or even the tiniest bit wise.

He needed to get her out of his head. Right now. Before he did something stupid—like leave the lair, cross the street, and knock on her front door. Again. Like the last time. Big mistake. Even worse results. Particularly since she’d tried to kill him in the aftermath of multiple orgasms.

Jesus, he’d almost died.

Died
, for fuck’s sake. And yet, here he stoo
d . . .
fantasizing about her. Recalling the touch and taste of her. Trying to figure out how to protect himself so he could visit Sasha a second time. Sleep with her again. Spend the entire night instead of just a few hours.

The idea tugged at him, urging him to find a way around the problem. So far, he hadn’t come up with a single way to negate her effect on him. For obvious reasons. He’d never met a female who could counteract his magic before, never mind open a channel to the Meridian through him. Sasha had done just that, using his unique bio-signal to connect to the source and steal his core energy. She’d sapped his strength, blocked his ability to disconnect, then drained him dry. The fact he’d made it out of her house alive qualified as a miracle.

A huge one. The kind he knew wouldn’t happen twice.

Too bad the scientist in him refused to let it go. He loved puzzles. Excelled at finding answers to difficult problems. Sasha represented an intriguing one. Now he wanted to know everything about her along with what kind of power she wielded. Otherwise he’d remain vulnerable, flawed by weakness instead of warrior-strong. In no way ideal. He was commander of the Razorback nation. Born and bred for war, not a sissy in need of—

“Ivar.”

Couched in a thick Norwegian accent, the voice slid home like a knife blade: slick and smooth, almost soothing as it pricked across his skin. Ivar’s mouth curved. Thank God. About frickin’ time. A worthy distraction was headed his way.

Opening his eyes, Ivar glanced over his shoulder. Standing on the other side of the room, a six pack of Heineken in his hand, Hamersveld frowned at him. Ivar almost smiled back.
Almost
, but not quite. He was too busy looking for the male’s wren. A good idea on the self-preservation front. Fen was a nasty little bugger. Devoted to the Norwegian. Great in claw-to-claw combat. Not so hot to come face to face with inside the lair. Hell, the miniature dragon had nearly taken Ivar’s head off the last time he’d bumped into him.

“Where’s Fen?” Ivar asked, searching the shadows behind his friend.

Hamersveld tapped his shoulder, pointing to the tattoo hidden beneath his T-shirt. “Recharging.”