Chapter Sixteen
Cursing his bad luck, Ivar leapt off the third-floor balcony. The violent free fall blew his hair back. Frigid air burned over his cheekbones. Focused on the ground, he bared his teeth and timed his landing. The blackness was absolute. No porch light on behind his aboveground lair. No glow from streetlights bleeding into his backyard. No moon to break through the murky thread of midnight. Just stony silence and the abysmal threat of another fucked-up night.
Suppressing a snarl, Ivar called on his magic. His night vision sparked. Frozen grass came into focus, the brown, bladed edges sharp and battle worn in the darkness. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three—
He let his fire dragon loose.
Pink flame licked over his skin. Heat blasted through the cold. His body lengthened beneath the spread of blood-red scales and the crack of razor-sharp claws. Winter wind snapped at the spikes adorning his tail. Brick facade of 28 Walton Street blurring in his periphery, Ivar spread his wings. The webbing caught air as an inferno raced along his spine and warm, humid air coiled around him. Ignoring melting icicles on newly repaired eaves, he tucked into a spiral, rising above building tops and human filth to turn north.
City lights fell away.
A thicker quiet descended.
Storm clouds rolled in as suburbia gave way to dirt roads and ancient forests. His attention on the roughening terrain, he scanned the stretch of giant redwoods, looking for threats, longing for a fight, knowing he wasn’t in the mood for either. He needed—his brow furrowed—what, exactly? Ivar shook his head. The hell if he knew. He couldn’t say with any certainty, but well . . . he needed something. Anything to quiet the unease buzzing between his temples. The swath of woodland should’ve done the job. Settled his nerves. Soothed his worry. Made him happy something on the planet remained healthy, despite humankind’s best efforts to kill everything.
It didn’t. Not much could at the moment.
Ivar growled. Fucking number seven. Turned out, it wasn’t the charm. Seven attempts, seven failures, zero relief. The answer—the cure, the antidote, his salvation—remained out of reach. Nothing he did came close to the answer he sought. Dipping low, Ivar got up close and personal with a copse of Douglas firs. His tail whiplashed. Enormous treetops rocked, swaying violently in the dark. He pursed his lips. Such bad luck. The worst, when he considered the latest failure inside his lab. He’d always liked the number seven. Even considered it one of his favorites, but . . .
Not anymore.
Seven sucked. So did eight. Perhaps nine would bring him better luck.
Gaze narrowed on the jagged peaks of distant mountains, Ivar exhaled. Sparks exploded from his nostrils, lighting up the night. Fingers crossed his latest attempt would work. Maybe it would. Maybe it wouldn’t. Time would tell—the incubation of the newest drug hours away from completion—but not soon enough. Human females were dying too fast for him to stop. And where was he—in his lab concocting the next round of antivirals? Bent over his microscope testing the supercharged immune cells in Evelyn Foxe’s blood? He swallowed a snarl. Not even close. He was seventy-five miles away from the most important scientific discovery of his life, stuck judging the first round of Hamersveld’s Dragonkind Olympics.
Frustration pumped impatience through his veins.
Ivar sighed. He wanted to rip his XO in half, but really, what would that solve? He only had himself to blame. The competition seemed like a good idea at the time. Perhaps it still was, but—Jesus. He didn’t need the added aggravation. Too many things had gone wrong in the last month. Now, he didn’t know where to turn. Or how to fix the things he’d fucked up. The list kept getting longer, which didn’t bode well for the future, never mind his peace of mind.
The realization spun him toward the only thing that ever calmed him. A picture formed in his mind’s eye, one of Sasha Cooper: blond hair messed up, gaze dark with desire, gorgeous mouth his for the taking. Floating on an updraft, Ivar closed his eyes. God. The feeling of her wrapped around him always turned his thoughts from the negative. Her presence inside his head, the very image of her, carried him toward contentment. He’d loved every second of the night spent in her arms. Despite the danger—and the fact she’d nearly killed him—he wanted to do it again. And again. Tap into the sex kitten side of her and soothe the raging side of himself. Love her over and over until all the stress and worry melted away.
He knew Sasha could do it.
Her bio-energy—the way she’d fed his dragon half—more than proved her efficiency. At least, when it came to him. Still, he hesitated to repeat the experience. Sinking inside her might be heaven, but the risks involved unnerved him. Her grip on him wasn’t natural. The intensity of his reaction to her made no sense. He couldn’t explain it, which left him wondering what the hell was going on. She wasn’t a high-energy female. Would never draw males with the power of her connection to the Meridian or cause warriors to fight over her.
Excellent argument. Perfect logic. No need to explore further.
And yet, she drew him like a magnet to metal.
His yearning to see her caused him to stare out the window of his aboveground lair, eyes fixed on the house across the street. Day after day. Night after night. He couldn’t stay away from that damn window. Or quell his relief when she pulled her beat-to-shit Jeep into her driveway, arriving home safe every evening. Wheeling around a steep cliff, Ivar frowned. What was it about her? Why was he still thinking about her? What would it take to expel her from his mind?
The questions circled.
No answers arrived to snuff out the mystery. Which meant one thing. He must brave the effect Sasha had on him and see her again. Wings spread wide, Ivar rocketed over a narrow valley and toyed with the idea. Touching her again carried risks. The kind a wise male wouldn’t ignore, but he couldn’t subdue the idea. Or stop the excitement skittering down his spine. Eagerness followed, lighting him up from the inside out.
He huffed in exasperation. Guess that answered that. No reason to doubt what his dragon half wanted—the blond temptress living across the street. Primal need wasn’t something he could ignore. Neither was curiosity. Both demanded he approach her again. Screw the danger. Fuck all the questions. The only one that mattered was how Sasha would react when he banged on her door a second time and—
“Ivar.” Edged by a Norwegian accent, the voice vibrated through mind-speak. “About time you got here.”
Jarred by the interruption, Ivar refocused and . . . realized two things at once. First, he’d arrived at his destination. Second, he had no clue how he’d gotten there. He couldn’t remember a thing about his flight north. He stifled a curse. Talk about stupid. He needed to pay more attention. Otherwise, he’d end up dead, without ever having registered the threat.
Flexing his talons, Ivar cracked his knuckles, enjoying the snap as brisk winds died between the rise of serrated mountain peaks. “Had things to do in the lab.”
“Any progress?”
“Nyet,” he said, but he was close. So fucking close. A whisper from unlocking the viral sequence and killing the disease for good. “I’ll know for sure by morning.”
Night vision sharp, Ivar fine-tuned his infrared and flew over the last rise. The forest retreated, giving way to sheer granite faces before dipping into a deep V between mountaintops. Snow blew from the ragged peaks as a nasty northeasterly picked up again. Ice crystals melting on his scales, he scanned the rocky ledge to his left.
His gaze narrowed on the waterfall cascading over the cliff face.
Steam frothed into the frigid air.
Ivar resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Of course. He should have known. A perfect paradox—hot, flowing water in the heart of winter. The equation wasn’t that complicated: water times an unexpected place equaled Hamersveld. Every. Single. Time.
Ignoring the wet chill, he went wings vertical and circled back around, searching for his XO in the mist. Nothing. No ping. No nasty water dragon vibe. Zero visual aids. Ivar scowled and searched the outcropping again. “Where the hell are you?”
Hamersveld chuckled. “Here.”
Like a theater curtain opening onstage, the waterfall parted.
Ivar blinked. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“Now, why would I do that?”
Ivar didn’t have a clue, but well . . . shit. Finding his friend in human form, shoulders deep in a hot tub dug into solid rock—steam rising, hot water bubbling around his bare chest, an unapologetic gleam in his black, blue-rimmed eyes—surprised him. Why? Ivar huffed. The hell if he knew. Hamersveld didn’t follow rules of any kind. If anything, the male excelled at breaking new ground . . . literally, judging by the uneven edges of the stone whirlpool.
Slowing his flight, Ivar hung above the ledge. His back talons touched down, scraping over granite. Pebbles jumped, then rolled, somersaulting over the cliff edge. Stone cracked against stone, echoing across the valley as he folded his wings in a fast tuck. Air rushed from beneath the webbing. The blow back ruffled one side of the cascade. Water sprayed upward, splashing over wet rock. A snarl reverberated, bouncing off the cliff face, joining the pitter-patter of falling water. Raptor-sharp white teeth flashed in the gloom. Ivar’s eyes narrowed and—
A flinty, yellow-eyed glow sparked in the low light.
Ivar clenched his teeth. Lovely. Just perfect. Foul-tempered miniature dragon at one o’clock, perched in the jagged rock above the whirlpool, guarding his master’s back.
“Good to see you too, Fen,” Ivar said, sarcasm out in full force.
Fen curled his scaly lip, then looked away, dismissing him like dog shit on a sidewalk.
Ivar resisted the urge to squash the little bastard. One flick of his tail. A single thump of his talon and—bye-bye birdie. No more singing for miniature dragons. He imagined it a moment, enjoying the high-pitched squawk, the flow of the wren’s blood, but—Ivar quashed the impulse. Killing Fen would be the height of foolishness. Hamersveld would never forgive him for hurting his wren. His XO might thrive on violence, but he loved Fen more. A pity. Dissecting the wren—learning the subspecies of Dragonkind’s secrets one scalpel slice at a time—would almost be worth the grief of losing a friend.
Glancing away from the perpetually pissed-off wren, he refocused on Hamersveld and raised a brow. “Enjoying yourself?”
“Absolutely.” Gaze leveled on him, Hamersveld smirked. “What’s the point of being out here in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere if I can’t have a little fun?”
Ivar glanced around, taking in the terrain. Pretty desolate. One hundred percent inhospitable. Ivar tipped his head, making his horns tingle. Huh. Guess Hamersveld had a point. He eyed the hot water. Bet that would feel good. Might even help him unravel from all the time spent bent over a microscope. “Got room in there for two?”
“Hop in,” Hamersveld said, dropping mind-speak.
With a nod, Ivar shifted from dragon to human form. He didn’t bother with clothes. Instead, he stood naked in the moonlight, skin steaming, and pressed his chin to his chest. Sore muscles squawked. He gritted his teeth, embracing the pain before switching tack and rolling his shoulders. Tight knots released. Relief wormed its way into his joints as he tipped his head back. The waterfall roared from a hundred feet up, splashing down, beading on Fen’s pale scales, making the rock slick and the air cooler. Mist collected and rolled down his spine. Wiping water from the back of his neck, he walked toward his friend.
Rough stone scraped the bottoms of his bare feet.
Ivar ignored the discomfort and, reaching the edge of the tub, stepped in. Heat engulfed him as he sank into the pool opposite Hamersveld. Hot water bubbled up, frothing into white ribbons around him. Sitting on a smooth granite ledge, he stretched his legs out. Nice and comfortable. The perfect size and temperature, a magic-driven spa in the middle of nowhere. Ivar sighed and—
“Better?”
“God, yeah.” Groaning, Ivar slid deeper, immersing himself to the chin, before tipping his head back. Uneven stone cupped the back of his neck. Warm water lapped over his shoulders. The failures of the day fell away. He closed his eyes, enjoying the heat, then cracked one lid open. “Status report.”
“All set. The competitors are in place.” Stretching his arms out, Hamersveld set his elbows on the edge of the whirlpool. “Show’s about to start.”
Glancing right, Ivar looked out over the valley floor. Shaped like a bowl, the spines of parallel mountain ranges tapered, giving way to a braided river surrounded by huge evergreens. “I assume this is the best vantage point.”
“Why do you think I chose this ledge?”
Why, indeed. Ivar smiled and let the last of his tension melt away. God, it was heaven. The absolute best. He might have to tell Hamersveld he loved him.
“Now, now . . .” An amused gleam in his eyes, his XO shook his head. “Don’t go getting all gooey on me.”
Ivar laughed. “You going to get it started or what?”
With a huff, Hamersveld fired up mind-speak. “Azrad—you’re up. Get moving. The rest of you—get ready.”
Surprised poked at Ivar. He blinked. What the hell did the rest of you mean? He treated his friend to a sidelong glance. “You sending Azrad against the entire pack?”
“Nothing so harsh.” One side of Hamersveld’s mouth creased. “Azrad will have help from Terranon and Kilmar—one fighting triangle against twelve of our best fighters.”
Four to one odds. Pretty fucking harsh. What was Hamersveld trying to do—get his most skilled warriors killed? He scowled at his XO. “What the hell do you think you’re—”
A green, yellow-tailed fireball exploded across the night sky.
Singing with violence, the inbound missile rocketed across the valley. Treetops caught fire. Tendrils of smoke seethed, writhing over the river’s edge. The smell of diesel mixed with burning wood and the pungent scent of napalm.
“Ah, the sweet smell of Terranon.” Hamersveld hummed, the fireball highlighting the anticipation in his eyes as he glanced Ivar’s way. “Hold tight, brother. Here we go.”
The high-speed missile struck the cliff opposite them.
Rock shrieked.
Green goo exploded, spraying in all directions.
Expanding like lime-colored foam, the acidy-ooze raced over the rock face before catching chemical fire. An unearthly shriek ripped through the valley. Multiple dragons broke cover and took to the sky. Ivar sucked in a breath. Holy hell. Getting out of the way sounded like a great plan. He’d have done the same to avoid touching the mysterious green muck. The stuff looked nasty and smelled even worse, and as Ivar watched the carnage unfold, he couldn’t help but feel hopeful. The battle was shaping up. His warriors looked strong, ready to fight, better prepared than the last time he’d supervised dragon combat training. The improvement seemed promising. He hadn’t expected anything like—
Another fireball roared through the darkness.
More yellow than green this time, the noxious mass streaked toward the other end of the canyon. Several warriors shifted mid-flight. Flying in formation, three males uncloaked, cutting the pack off before they could regroup. Growls filled the air. The trio went wings vertical, splitting the larger pack in two. Claws shrieked against scales. The scent of blood filled the air. Males screamed in agony.
Ivar shivered. Holy shit. It was like watching a train derail—in slow motion. Gooey green fire burning across cliff faces. Rock shrapnel flying. Half a mountainside destroyed. Twelve Razorbacks in complete disarray. One fighting triangle in control.
Without slowing, the trio banked right. Azrad broke from the group. Black scales glittering, spider tattoo glowing red on the side of his neck, he went after his next target solo. He struck hard, the crack echoing off sheer granite faces as he peeled the male like an orange.
Blood spilled over pale-blue scales.
Azrad swung back around, slicing another warrior open with his quadruple-bladed tail.
Ivar’s mouth fell open. “Jesus.”
“Told you.”
“He’s going to kill everyone.”
“No, he won’t. Maim a few, sure, but he never quite kills them,” Hamersveld said, reassuring him as Azrad sideswiped another male. Ivar flinched as the warrior howled in pain. “Settle in, brother. Enjoy the show. It’s only going to get better.”
No doubt. Proof flew a few hundred yards away, making mincemeat of his pack. Gaze riveted to Azrad, Ivar watched him take on three males at once. Quick shifts. Fast spirals. Tight turns. The acrobatics were nothing short of amazing. Awe inspiring in some ways, disconcerting in others. Something about Azrad didn’t sit right. Ivar took another look, staring openmouthed as Azrad gutted another male and . . .
A strong sense of déjà vu hit him.
Ivar frowned. What was it about the warrior? He shook his head and tracked Azrad as he swung around. Shift. Parry. Strike and . . . weird. With his black scales, smooth moves, and strange markings, Azrad seemed familiar somehow. As though he’d seen the big male somewhere before.
His eyes narrowed. Azrad sent a fifth warrior spinning before latching onto another. His newest victim squawked. Covered in dragon blood, Azrad’s talons sank deep a second before he released his captive. His longer-than-usual claws pulled free of the male’s rib cage. Still alive, but badly wounded, the bleeding warrior’s wings folded. He plummeted out of the sky. Ivar leaned forward in the hot tub, wincing when his warrior hit the ground with a crunch.
Baring his fangs, Azrad chased down another.
The sense of recognition grew stronger.
Ivar tightened his grip on the edge of the whirlpool. Jesus. The male was aggression personified, an excellent candidate for his breeding program, the perfect warrior to pair with an HE female. But first, some vetting needed to be done. One way or another, he must discover why Azrad looked so damned familiar.