Fury of Obsession (Dragonfury Series Book 5) (13 page)

Thank God. Some results. It was about time.

“What kind?” he asked.

“A cluster of nine-one-one calls,” Denzeil said. “Five humans have been admitted to Cascade Valley Hospital so fa
r . . .
symptoms vary, but the notes in each file indicate the humans don’t have a clue what kind of infection is causing the problem.”

Hamersveld hummed. “Looks like your baby’s on the move, Ivar.”

Meeting Denzeil halfway across the room, Ivar accepted the tablet. He tapped the screen. The first nine-one-one call became audible. He listened to the message. Total panic in the human’s voice. Complete chaos in the background. A terrified husband calling on behalf of his wife.

Relief hit Ivar like a closed fist. He sucked in a quick breath. “It’s working.”

“Tip of the iceberg, boss man,” Denzeil said, grinning at him. “It’s just begun.”

“Wanna go take a look-see?” Palming Ivar’s shoulders from behind, Hamersveld gave him a congratulatory squeeze. “We’ve got a couple of hours before sunrise to—”

“Not yet. Let’s give the virus more time to incubate.” Twelve hours should do it. Would be long enough to monitor the activity and see how many humans became infected. Returning Denzeil’s grin, Ivar listened to the next call and thumped Hamersveld with the side of his fist. The love tap connected just above the warrior’s heart, making the Norwegian smile. “We leave at sundown tomorrow.”

“Fantastic,” Hamersveld murmured.

No kidding.
Fantastic
barely scratched the surface.

Fisting the front of Hamersveld’s shirt, Ivar jostled his new friend again. God. The sweet,
sweet
taste of victory. His science hadn’t failed. Wasn’t flawed, after all. Which meant phase two needed to be kicked into gear. He hummed in anticipation, ’caus
e . . .
to hell with dragon combat training. His warriors and the training op in the Cascade Mountain Range would have to wait. Tomorrow night promised excitement of another sort. He had somewhere else to be—smack-dab in the middle of a hospital, collecting samples from the infected humans who called Granite Falls home.

Chapter Eight

Head bowed, still strapped to the rack, Gage tried to be patient. Fine mist fell, mixing with his blood, trickling down his chest, toying with his willpower. Fuck. He wanted to move so badly. To unleash hell and unload on the male tormenting him. He gritted his teeth instead. Waiting it out was the better option. The second he moved, so much as twitched, Ferland would grow a brain and get a clue. And tipping his hand? Not a great idea, bu
t . . .
God. It was hard to stay still while the prick took his time unlocking the cuffs holding him against the steel grill.

Metal flashed in his periphery.

Keys jangled on the large ring.

Anticipation made his heart pound harder. The chaotic thump pushed adrenaline through his veins. Now he couldn’t hear a thing, just the blood rush of cerebral burn and the threat of sensory overload. His dragon senses flexed. The magical warp skewed perception, upping the intensity. His focus narrowed. Pain gouged at his temples. Gage pushed the agony aside, refusing to feel anything, and listened to Ferland flip through the assortment of keys.

He was so close. Almost there. One shackle already open. Three more keys, two ankles, and one wrist away from complete freedom.

Long odds in a dicey game.

Gage didn’t care. Unworkable situations were his specialty. He never avoided difficult assignments. Or shied away from the near impossible. Easy bored him. So did inactivity. Intrigue coupled with a healthy dose of challenge added more flavor. Like a hit of hot sauce, the promise of action jazzed him like nothing else could. The Nightfury warriors understood his propensity for violence, accepting his maniacal lean toward lethal without question. But the prick about to uncuff him? Gage cracked his uninjured eye open. He smothered a smile. Excellent. The jerkoff still didn’t have a clue.

Finding the right key, the brainless wonder fit it to the lock next to his right hand an
d . . .
umm, baby. One step closer to liberation. His quick reflexes coupled with the enemy’s distraction. The perfect storm. An epic shift in circumstance. A beautiful gift in a dark place—thank God. Despite the lockdown, Ferland’s ineptitude gave Gage the upper hand. Which meant he must stay still and act weak. The instant the male realized he wasn’t half-dead, he’d be finished. Done. Game over. No way off the vertical rack bolted to the wall. No chance of shattering the shackles. No prospect of getting out—or helping Haider—at all.

The thought rooted him in purpose.

The threat of failure made him play the game.

With a groan, Gage sagged in the shackles, acting like a pansy too weak to hold himself upright. The move left a bad taste in his mouth but, wel
l . . .
screw it. Who the hell cared? Playing possum was a necessary evil. It would make his enemy’s task more difficult. Gage’s attempt at theater more convincing too, so—

Ferland cursed under his breath.

Gage swallowed a growl of satisfaction. Perfect. Right on time. His plan was working. And Ferland was officially screwed. So distracted by his weight on the rack, the prick had yet to notice his alertness. Or the fact he’d cracked his eyes open—to watch and wait. Lids at half-mast, his gaze slid to the other male in the room. Osgard stood to one side—hands folded, head bowed, shoulders hunched instead of squared—looking petrified.

Without so much as a twitch, Gage sized the kid up. Tall and gangly with too-big hands and feet, Osgard had yet to grow into his body. Sixteen—maybe seventeen—years ol
d . . .
at least three years from his
change
and first shift into dragon form, he wore vulnerability like a scent. An awful one soaked in fear, hopelessness, an
d . . .

Ah, hell.

The fledgling was out of his league. Completely boxed in too. Particularly since his body language indicated more than just uncertainty. It screamed abuse. The kind of beaten down and broken most males didn’t come back from, never mind survive.

Regret punched through, hammering Gage like a closed fist.

Talk about unfortunate. So unlucky. For Osgard, sure, but for him too. He wasn’t in the habit of killing Dragonkind infants. But then, life-threatening circumstances called for brute force driven by unerring fury. He couldn’t spare Osgard and hope to get out of the death squad’s underground lair alive. Everyone he encountered in the subterranean labyrinth would die. Pure and simple. Safer for him. Better for Haider. The sooner he found his friend, the more distance he’d put between them and the Archguard. The quicker he’d get word to Bastian too. A couple of hours at most before Zidane came back from the morning meal. Which meant he didn’t have time for bullshit. Not an instant for mercy or the rise of a rusty conscience either, so—

A loud click echoed, bouncing off scarred stone walls.

The shackle swung open, liberating his right ankle. Both feet free, one wrist cuff to go. Gage sagged a little more, allowing his knees to dip. Ferland turned toward the last shackle. Metal scraped metal as he fit key to padlock. Another snick sounded. The Mastercraft released with a pop. The lock scraped against the steel bracket holding his arm over his head.

Gage tensed, getting ready to move.

He forced strength into his limbs. Muscles tightened over his bone. His fingertips twitched. The involuntary action signaled eagerness. Gage shut it down. He couldn’t afford a single mistake. Not now, just moments away from freedom. Seconds ticked past, sliding into more. Boots rasping against the floor. Ferland shifted next to him. Gage started the countdown. Three. Tw
o . . .

With a flick, Ferland swung the last shackle wide.

One and—

Go!

His bare feet landed on the concrete floor with a thump. Gage exploded off the rack. His skin peeled off hot steel, making pain receptors squawk along his spine. Anguish clawed around his rib cage. He ignored the sharp jab to focus on his prey. Ferland’s head snapped up. Eyes widening in alarm, the male cursed.

Gage cranked his hands into twin fists.

The prick backpedaled in a hurry. With a panicked spin, he vaulted toward the wall full of torture tools. Gage snarled and lunged after him. No way. Not going to happen. A fair fight wasn’t part of the plan. Neither was giving Ferland a chance to reach any of the blades laid out on the tabletop.

Rage murmured his name.

He attacked. Ferland squawked as Gage caught hold of his shirt. Cotton ripped, shredding in his hand. With a snarl, he tightened his grip, raised his fist and—

Bam!

His knuckles slammed into the side of the asshole’s skull. Ferland’s chin snapped to one side. The smell of blood infused the air. In a panic, the male lashed out, trying to land a punch. Gage countered and, with a yank, dragged the enemy full circle. His eyes narrowed on the torture rack. An idea sparked, hammering his temples, obliterating restraint. The fucking bastard. He’d kept him pinned for hours. Helpless in the face of pain. Locked down by electrical current. And enjoyed every second of it.

One step. A quick shift to his right, and—

Gage rammed Ferland’s head into the rack.

Bone met steel. Once. Twice. A third time an
d . . .
crack! The prick’s skull split wide open. Blood gushed, splattering across the grill. Gage hammered him again. Ferland sagged in his grip. A death gurgle spilled from the male’s mouth. Chest pumping, Gage loosened his hold. Matted with blood, the male’s hair slid between his fingers. With a snarl, Gage twisted. Another pop echoed, reverberating against stone walls as he snapped his enemy’s neck.

A quick death. Faster than Ferland deserved and Gage wanted, bu
t . . .

Time was of the essence.

So was a quick getaway.

As Ferland’s heart stopped beating, he disintegrated, muscle and bone dissolving into ash. Gray flakes floated, swirling on stale air, rising up to surround Gage. Silence descended. Relief took hold, rushing fatigue back to the forefront. His body throbbed, making him feel every cut and scrape, burn and bruise. Gritting his teeth, Gage turned toward the exit.

Pale faced, Osgard took a step back.

His gaze narrowed on the kid. “You run and you’re dead.”

Osgard flinched at the sound of his voice. Staring at the ash pile on the floor, the kid swallowed. As his Adam’s apple bobbed, he released a shuddered breath. “I won’t run. Or raise the alarm, bu
t . . .
”

“But what?”

“Take me with you. Please, my lord, take me with you.”

Fear in his eyes, Osgard met him head-on, standing tall in the face of brutality. Hope mingled with terror, making the youngling’s pale eyes shimmer. Gage’s chest went tight. He bit down on a snarl. Goddamned son of a bitch. Of all the rotten luck. Just what he didn’t nee
d . . .
a tagalong wrapped up in a kid in need of rescue. But as the kid bowed his head and knelt on the cold concrete a few feet away, Gage knew he was in trouble. He despised bullies. Disliked seeing others mistreated, and always championed the underdog. A flaw in his nature, he knew.

Too bad he couldn’t seem to help it.

Every time he tried, he ended up neck-deep in dangerous territory—like now, facing off with a youngling in desperate need of help—and little hope of a better future. Whic
h . . .
just kill him no
w . . .
set his protective nature ablaze. As the inferno got going, Osgard threw more fuel on the fire, trembling in front of him, whispering another
please
, begging Gage until his heart clenched. Now he hurt for the kid. Not a good sign. He tended to do stupid things when—

“I will be useful, I swear it,” Osgard whispered, desperation in his voice. “I will serve you well if you but give me a chance to prove my—”

“I don’t need a servant.”

“A son, then.”

A son.
Gage blinked, surprise spinning him full circle.

“All warriors need a son. I know I am not of your blood, but I am strong and willing to learn. I will be a good son to you, I promise.” Lifting his chin, Osgard hammered him with pleading eyes. “I know you are a worthy mal
e . . .
that you come from an honorable pack. Please, my lord, do not leave me here with Zidane.”

Well, shit. A sucker punch. An excellent one too.

Smart little whelp. Osgard knew what he was doing. Particularly since his hatred of Zidane cranked Gage’s need to help the kid into overdrive. Despite the seriousness of the situation, amusement streamed through him. His mouth curved. Good for Osgard. The kid played dirty. Possessed his fair share of brain
s . . .
a truckload of potential too. Something akin to pride punched through, warming the center of his chest. Gage killed the reaction—along with the sentiment—and smoothed his expression. He didn’t have time to mess around. And standing in the middle of a torture chamber chatting with a kid? Yeah, that qualified as stupid. So only one thing left to d
o . . .

Get a move on.

Favoring his right side, Gage tucked his elbow against his rib cage and, shoving aside discomfort, limped toward Osgard. His bare feet brushed the uneven floor. Silence expanded, throbbing through the room as he came alongside the male. Still on his knees, the kid tensed, but stayed true, allowing Gage’s proximity. Uncertainty took hold, making him hesitate. He shoved it aside, then reached out. Grabbing the back of Osgard’s shirt, he hauled the whelp to his feet.

Osgard’s chin came up.

Gage drilled him with an intense look. “Do you know where my friend is being held?”

He nodded. “I brought him a meal an hour ago. They have him caged not far from here.”

“Show me.” Done with the chitchat, Gage spun the kid around. Palming his shoulder, he pushed Osgard toward the door. “We don’t have much time.”

“Does that mea
n . . .
” Osgard trailed off, bright and shiny hope in his expression. “Are you—” He swallowed, the bob of his Adam’s apple telling. “Taking me with you, my lord?”

Folding like a windblown reed, Gage growled. “Don’t call me that. It’s Gage. Call me
my lord
one more time, kid, and you won’t be going anywhere. I’ll rip your head off instead.”

Moisture in his eyes, Osgard treated him to a wobbly smile.

Gage quelled the urge to cringe. He recognized that look. Relief times a gazillio
n . . .
pure, unadulterated happiness. The kind that used hero worship as a launch pad. He shook his head. God, he was so screwed. Fucked six ways to Sunday. Up shit creek without a paddle. Whatever. The metaphor didn’t matter. The mess he stood in the middle of, however, di
d . . .
a whole helluva lot. Meant everything, in point of fact. Now only one truth held sway. Being injured, deep in enemy territory with fatigue gnawing on him—and a youngling to protect—wasn’t optimal. But as he gave Osgard a gentle shove, limped over the threshold and into the corridor behind his new charge, Gage refused to reverse course. He’d made his decision.

And sealed his fate.

Osgard was coming with him.