Chapter Fifteen
Krkonoše mountain range—Czech Republic
Ancient treetops rocked as Zidane flew overhead. On a collision course with warriors hidden amid inhospitable cliffs and low-lying mountain valleys, he banked into a tight turn. Twin streams whistled from his wing tips. His brown, orange-speckled scales rattled. Snow spun in his wake, the mad rush matching the rise of his fury. A yellow glow sparked in his dark eyes. His gaze swept east, the citrine glow staining the washed-out winter landscape in front of him.
He needed a target. The mock battle—dragon combat training with the crew he’d chosen as his personal guard—might not be real, but at least it was something. The perfect remedy. A way to focus his rage, the promise of a fight that would leave him bruised and more than a touch bloody.
It was either that or explode.
Not a great plan considering his firepower in dragon form. An ill-advised explosion was the last thing his father’s physician would prescribe. The flammable poison he exhaled would burn him from the inside out, leaving his throat raw, his scales scorched, and him with a terrible case of indigestion. Zidane snorted at the thought. Sure. Right. Never again. He’d already done that last week, swallowing his fire along with the impatience riding him. Not that he could help it. The impulse to move before sanctioned—before being given permission to get his ass across the Atlantic—was more than he could bear.
Stupid Archguard.
The high council moved slower than snails.
Inch along. Stop to ponder. Backslide into indecision.
The political bullshit never ended. It went on ad infinitum, forever and forever amen. Thank God his sire dealt with all of the discussion and discord. No way he could handle it. He was a fighter—a killer of warriors—not a political animal. Which explained his need to break rank and fly free. A tempting thought, but not something he could do. At least, not yet. He needed the green light from his sire and the Archguard, the go that would put him and his warriors on a plane to Seattle. The second he landed in Nightfury territory, he would pick a fight . . . and the war would begin.
Zidane bared his fangs. Payback. He wanted a reckoning, a chance to even the score and take out the entire Nightfury pack. Maximum pain. Complete annihilation. Merciless extinction of the males responsible for murdering his brother. Zidane’s chest tightened. Hovno, he missed Lothair. Missed his voice. Missed the weekly calls. Missed the teasing verbal skirmishes and easy acceptance. His little brother had deserved a better death. An honorable one and a fitting burial. So had Ferland, his best friend and pack-mate for the better part of three decades. Both males lay dead now, ashed out and forever gone, two holes in his heart that would never be filled by anything but fury.
His rage grew by the day, expanding until his chest ached and his head hurt.
The delays weren’t helping.
Neither was his imagination.
Images of what he would do to the Nightfuries filled his mind. Gage topped his hit list. The insolent male deserved nothing short of brutality. The kind Zidane longed to deliver. He clenched his teeth on a growl. He wanted to shred the male. Could hardly wait to get his claws on the asshole. He’d kill Gage slowly: cut him up, watch him bleed out, enjoy every ounce of his suffering. But first, the Archguard needed to get off their asses. Grow some brains and get the vote out. One or the other. Either would do, just as long as the status quo changed.
With a curse, Zidane corrected his flight path. Frost kicked up, chilling the weave of his interlocking dragon skin. The scales along his side ruffled, clicking into place beneath a faint glimmer of moonlight. His sonar pinged. He hummed. Excellent. Contact off his right wing, three miles out and flying in fast. Night vision pinpoint sharp, he scanned a ridge of rocky outcroppings. He was seconds away. Just moments from another round of dragon combat training. From ripping his warriors new—
“Zidane.” The deep voice cracked like a whip, opening a channel into mind-speak.
Zidane grimaced. Kristus. Seriously? Now? Just when he was about to get some action? He sighed. His sire had the worst timing. “Da, Father?”
“Come back to the pavilion. I need you here.”
“Is it done?”
“Almost,” his sire said, the eagerness in his voice unmistakable. A good sign. An excited Rodin meant one thing—victory for Zidane, Xzinile (exile and sanctioned assassination) for the Nightfury pack. “We’re tallying the votes.”
“How’s it looking?”
“Five for, three against, with four more to count.”
Zidane curled his lip. Frigid air ghosted over his exposed fangs. So close. So very close to being unleashed. “On my way.”
“Make it quick. I will win this round.”
“Are you sure?”
“Da,” he said, Russian accent thicker than usual. Another excellent sign. Confidence rang in his sire’s voice. “The instant the vote concludes, I will anoint you commander of the kill squad.”
“I’m twenty minutes away.”
“Perfect. And son . . .”
“Yes?”
“Dress accordingly—ceremonial robes only.”
Excitement skittered through him.
The jagged spikes riding his spine rattled. Hmm, ceremonial robes. The words echoed inside his head. Zidane smiled. Goddess bless him, he was more than close now. He could practically taste victory. If Rodin wanted him and his warriors dressed in formal robes inside the Archguard’s sacred chamber, it was a done deal.
Success assured.
Somersaulting into a sideways flip, he hissed. Finally. At last. Real action along with a firm target. The idea took shape and form. Zidane let his imagination go, allowing the violence to expand inside his mind. Baring his fangs, he roared in triumph. His battle cry echoed through mind-speak and across distant mountaintops, signaling his personal guard. Six strong, the soon-to-be-sanctioned kill squad answered the call, shifting course mid-flight to meet him. Time to leave the wilds behind. Prague beckoned. A pavilion full of Dragonkind elite and his sire awaited his return. He must enter the real world once more. No time to waste. He had a plane to catch and a pack of Nightfuries to kill.