Fury of Obsession (Dragonfury Series Book 5) (7 page)

No one could agree.

Or understand why he refused to become High Chancellor of Dragonkind. But the truth remained the same. His answer too—

He’d given his word and promised his sire.

Which put him in the middle of a mess, didn’t it? Front and center, playing a lethal game of tug-of-war. One that went something like—keep those who supported him happy enough to accept his refusal to seize the throne while thwarting Rodin’s attempts to claim it at the same time. By no means easy. Particularly when Rodin turned the political wheel, threating the Nightfury pack with
Xzinile
. Bastian growled. Fucking Archguard. The pansy-ass idiots didn’t have a clue. His refusal to assume his sire’s role didn’t make him weak. If anything, it made him more dangerous. Toss the threat of
Xzinile
into the pile an
d . . .

It spelled trouble. For those on the high council, not him.

Exile—being labeled an outlaw—would unleash him. Give him the freedom to discard the law, follow his sire’s example, and go after the Archguard. Eliminate them all. Dismantle an archaic system that no longer served Dragonkind interests and replace it with something better. So bring it on. Let the Archguard declare him a traitor. Bastian hoped Rodin proved to be that stupid. He really did. The second the high council voted, signed the paperwork, and put a bounty on his hea
d . . .

Holy fuck. He couldn’t wait to see what happened.

Not many males would be brave enough to come after him. Or any of his warriors from half a world away. His reputation was solid, and his methods, well known. Toss in the fact his allies would rally to support him an
d . . .
little doubt. Rodin was headed into dangerous territory. Was risking it all to assuage his pride instead of playing it safe to keep the status quo. Which would lead to one thin
g . . .

War on a global scale. A chance at significant change.

“Hey, B?”

Bastian glanced at his best friend.
“Yeah?”

“How’s it going with Forge?”

“Nothing yet.”

“He still doesn’t remember?”

“I’m working with him.”
Bastian rolled his shoulders. His scales clicked together. Ice chips peeled from interlocking dragon skin, blowing behind him as he adjusted his wing speed
. “No details of that night yet, but his memory is coming bac
k . . .
slowly.”

Par for the course. And Bastian understood.

Forge didn’t want to remember, never mind relive the attack. Or the resulting anguish of seeing his sire and older brothers killed. Compartmentalizing to isolate the pain, the Scot had locked the memory away inside his mind. Now he couldn’t access it at all. He’d had no reason to either. Until now. Bastian wanted to know what happened that night. So cue the mind regression techniques along with the magic. He was using it all, trying to regress Forge enough to stimulate recall. It was slow going, no question, but fortune favored the patient. He refused to push Forge too hard, too fast, and damage his synapses in the process. Piecing memories together took time, and Bastian had faith. The Scot would remember—eventually—and give him what he needed.

More information. All the nitty-gritty details.

The real reason Rodin wanted the Scot dead.

But first, Bastian needed to know the
why
behind the smoke screen. The secret holding up the network of lies surrounding the leader of the Archguard. Was the bastard targeting his warrior to cover up a crime? Like oh, say, his involvement in the murder of Forge’s sire—commander of the Scottish pack—years ago. A good guess. Rodin hadn’t always been so careful. The bastard might like to pull strings behind the scenes, but every once in a while, he screwed up. Maybe the murder of Forge’s family was one of those times. Maybe Rodin had made the trip to Scotland to coordinate the attack. Mayb
e . . .
just
mayb
e
. . .
Forge could place the bastard there—flying as lead dragon in the death squad.

Pure conjecture. Assumption without a shred of proof.

Bastian hummed in anticipation anyway. The theory made a certain amount of sense. It explained everything, in fact. Rodin’s fixation on Forge. His willingness to risk reinstating
Xzinile
to not only hide the truth, but eliminate the only witness to his crime. A misstep that would topple Rodin and see him convicted in a Dragonkind court.

A little snippet. One jagged piece of information. Confirmation that Rodin had been there. Bastian knew what the bastard looked like in dragon form. All he needed from Forge was a description of the death squad—all the males who attacked that night. Valuable intel that could even now be locked away inside the Scot’s mind. His eyes narrowed on the treetops, Bastian went over his strategy again. Slow and steady. Mind regression at its most patient. He must help Forge remember. Otherwise, he’d lose what he needed to take the leader of the Archguard down.

Once and for all.

“The sooner Forge remembers,”
Rikar said, deep voice rolling through mind-speak
, “the better for us.”

“I know. I might need your help with him.”

Rikar frowned.
“What—tag team him? Two is better than one?”

“Don’t know—maybe. Can’t hurt to try.”

“Yeah, all right.”
Rikar nodded.
“Whatever you need.”

“I’ll speak to Forge,”
he murmured, glad to have his friend on board.
“Get his okay before we spring you on him, then—”

His sonar pinged.

Bastian’s head snapped to the right. The tingle intensified, slithering up his spine, then shifted, colliding with the base of his skull. A prickle streamed over his horns. Gaze roaming, he searched the landscape. His ability to dissect a male’s aptitude from a distance coalesced inside his head. He held on to the power for a moment, then unleashed his talent. Magic spread like a net, rushing out in front of him, blanketing treetops and sky to feed him information. He bared his fangs. Oh, goody. Dragonkind males approached from the south end of the forest. He mined the signal. Distance to target—three miles. How many in the mix—two big males. Age, skill level, and type of exhales? Bastian fine-tuned his radar. His senses contracted. One breathed fire-acid, and the other—

Ah, hell. He recognized the lethal vibe headed his way.

Mac and Forge coming in hot.

With a sigh, he threw his XO a sidelong look.

Rikar grinned, baring huge fangs
. “Wonder twins at three o’clock.”

Bastian snorted in amusement.
Wonder twins.
He liked the nickname. The handle suited the pair, fitting the newest members of the Nightfury pack like bullets in a gun.
“I was hoping for a couple of Razorbacks.”

“Wishful thinking.”
Rikar grumbled, the sound full of frustration.
“Bad hunting lately.”

No kidding.

Fucking Ivar. The male was screwing with his happy place, keeping his soldiers buttoned up tight. Then again, maybe he needed to readjust his expectations. Especially way out here—in the middle of nowhere. The enemy rarely left the confines of Seattle. The bastards liked the cityscape. Enjoyed the cover skyscrapers and high-rise buildings provided. A shame, really. Having a clear shot at a Razorback in open air would be a whole lot of fun. Just the kind of amusement Bastian craved tonight, but—ah, well. Better luck next time. Which mean
t . . .

Time to head for Black Diamond.

Some quality time with Myst would mend his mood. His female soothed him like nothing else could—knuckle-cracking, ball-busting brawls included. He was lucky to have her. Grateful too. Nothing beat coming home to his mate every morning. Or the privilege of sleeping with her in his arms every day.

Slowing his wing speed, Bastian glanced over his shoulder. Two shadows morphed on the horizon. A steep bluff rose in his periphery. One eye on the wonder twins, Bastian flew up and over, avoiding the rocky outcropping as the pair rocketed in behind him. Growling a greeting, Forge flew in on his left, taking the wingman position opposite Rikar.

Settling into a smooth glide above him, Mac opened up mind-speak.
“Anything?”

“Nada,”
Rikar said, more growl than actual word.
“You?”

“Bloody hell,”
Forge said, Scottish accent thicker than usual.
“Nothing. Nary an arsehole to kill. And we went all the way south to Tacoma.”

Mac shook his head. “
Something’s up. The motherfuckers are hiding.”

“I know,”
Bastian murmured.
“I’m hoping Sloan has something new for us. Azrad’s supposed to check in tonight.”

Silence met his statement. Not surprising. Azrad was a touchy subject. None of his warriors wanted to broach it, never mind float the idea Azrad might not be good for the Nightfury pack. Bastian understood his warriors’ reservations. Hell, he shared them. Had a whole trunkful of concerns and more questions than he could answer.

With good reason.

Until a week ago, he hadn’t known Azrad existed. Or that his father had sired another son before his death. But DNA results left no room for doubt—Azrad was his brother by blood. A long-lost one who’d finally found his way home. An odd thing to discover after so many years on his own. Dangerous too. The connection pulled at his heartstrings. Made him want to believe in miracles and family ties. All of which clouded his judgment. Not smart or even halfway advisable. Letting his guard down before he possessed all the facts was a bad idea.

Males ended up dead that way.

One mistake led to another. Bastian knew it. And yet, he wanted to reach for the gold ring anyway. Trust instead of suspect, and invite Azrad into the fold. Which stopped him cold. Experience dictated the way forward. Caution upped the stakes. Mistrust and acceptance were opposite sides of the same coin. Flip it one way. Turn it the other. Both sides applied to the situation. Which pointed to an unavoidable truth.

He must play it smart. Ease into the role of older brother. Heed his head instead of his heart and find a way to protect his pack while doing right by his sibling. Azrad deserved a chance to prove himsel
f . . .

Particularly since he’d gone to so much trouble to impress him.

Bastian’s lip twitched. God love his little brother. Azrad was straight-up brilliant. He’d made himself useful from the get-go, providing what Bastian couldn’t obtain on his own—insider information by infiltrating the Razorback pack. A spy inside the enemy camp. What a concept. One he liked without question. No one else could’ve slid into the enemy hive with such efficiency. Azrad had succeeded where Bastian had failed. And no wonder. After years of imprisonment inside Tanzenmed—a Dragonkind prison sanctioned by the Archguard and run by Rodin—the male didn’t walk or talk like a Nightfury. No one would suspect him as long he kept his personal agenda off the table and played it smart.

A long shot. Predictability, after all, didn’t apply to his brother. So nothing to do now but wait. Cross his fingers. Hope and pray Azrad kept it together long enough to get out alive.

Baring his fangs, Bastian rocketed into the last turn. Cold air rushed over the razor-sharp points of his teeth. Mist rolled into his mouth as the waterfall came into view. Falling in a straight sheet, the cascade plummeted toward the river from three hundred feet up. Wet air frothed into full bloom, rising up like a cloud to hide the half moon. The heavy vapor screwed with his visibility. Not that it mattered. His night vision sparked, and with his sonar up and running, he saw everything. The frozen reeds on the river bank. Each frost-laden pine needle. Every grain of bark on tree trunks standing too close to the water’s edge.

Almost there.

Thirty—maybe forty—seconds until he went wings vertical, splashed through the cascade and into the narrow tunnel beyond. Hewn from solid granite, the jagged entrance lead to the LZ and into the underground lair. After that, he’d be home, sweet home. A hop, skip, and jump away from his female. In Myst’s arms. Kissing her mouth—tasting her deep, greeting her as he always did—before heading to the computer lab to get the information he needed to round out the night. Sloan would be hard at work, mining data fields, keeping tabs on—

“Bastian.”
Sloan’s voice came through mind-speak on a low growl.

“Whatcha got?”
Water wicking off his scales, Bastian leveled out and, eyes on the waterfall, set up his final approach.
“Anything from the Metallics?”

“Nothing yet,”
Sloan said.
“But I just received a message from Azrad.”

“What’s it say?”
Flying in from behind, Rikar bumped Mac out of the way.

“Motherfuck.”
Mac wobbled, seesawing mid-glide. Magic flared as the male unleashed his inner water dragon and hurled a handful of cold-wet-and-chilly at Rikar’s head. The load slammed into his XO’s face. Rikar sputtered. Mac bared his fangs.
“Watch it or I’ll drown you.”

Wearing a shit-eating grin, Rikar retaliated, throwing flurries toward Mac. Ice and snow exploded in all directions. Forge cursed, then dodged, avoiding the whiteout. With a snarl, Mac spiraled into a flip and swiped at Rikar’s tail. Scales rattled. The wind rose on a gust of icy swirl. His friend laughed at the playful attempt to maim him. Bastian sighed, then shook his head, wishing he could get in on the game. He could use the exercise along with a little stress relief right now. And a fight? Oh, man, that would feel so good. Would help release the tension before the sun chased him inside for the day. Too bad he didn’t have time to mess around. Not with dawn approaching, and Gage and Haider still in the wind. So forget kicking warriors’ asses in a friendly round of dragon combat training.

Or letting them blow off steam by playing pin the claw on Rikar.