Chapter Two
Heart pounding like a motherfucker, Mac bared his teeth on a snarl. “Goddamn it, we’re losing him.”
Fear for his friend made his throat close and the words fade. He couldn’t help the vocal lockdown or stop his mental slide into panic. Forge was in serious trouble. Flaming out. Unconscious. In agony from the torque and tear of mind regression.
Working to stabilize him, struggling to hold him down, Mac gathered his magic. The spell sped through his mind. His water dragon half zeroed in—a kind of X marked the spot—before unleashing the magical torrent in a raging rush. A cool wash splashed through his veins. Rain gathered inside the clinic, coating the pale walls, flowing up instead of down. Mist settled on his skin. The waterworks focused him. He tunneled deeper, trying to connect with Forge through mind-speak, his voice spiraling into his friend’s psychological space.
Nothing.
No answer. No change in Forge at all.
The male plummeted into physical free fall instead, muscles seizing, heavy frame rattling, the slam-bang of his spine hammering the seat back. The chair shook, bouncing across the floor. Metal feet shrieked against concrete. The leather shackles restraining Forge groaned as he flailed. Mac cursed and dug in, tunneling deeper into Forge’s mental landscape. The tattoo he didn’t want, but couldn’t ignore, throbbed. Pain clawed over his shoulder. He shoved the discomfort aside. Not now. He couldn’t quit now. His friend needed him and—
He pumped more magic into Forge.
His mind bled energy, forcing everything he had into his friend. The heavy chair frame shuddered. “Come on, buddy. I’m here. Grab hold, let me pull you out.” The words spun out of his skull to invade his friend’s. Forge gasped in agony. He arched in the chair, head thrown back, a silent scream locked in his throat. Mac held the line, but . . . holy shit. He needed help. A miracle or something to stop the onslaught and save his friend. Not an easy task as a seizure shoved Forge toward cardiac arrest. Exactly what he promised his friend wouldn’t happen.
Motherfuck. It was a nightmare. A goddamned nightmare. He’d given Forge his word nothing bad would happen. Now everything was upside down and backwards, with his mentor one breath away from a heart attack.
Tightening his hold on Forge, he snarled at Bastian. “Unhook, B. Let him go.”
“I’m trying. If I exit his mind too fast, I’ll damage his brain.” Both hands cupping the sides of Forge’s head, fingertips pressed to the base of his skull, Bastian bared his teeth. Magic whiplashed, howling through the room, buffeting medical machinery. Fluorescents flickered overhead. The electrical buzz amplified, whipping into a high-pitched whine. “Rikar—he’s overheating. Cool him off while I get the hell out.”
A death grip on Forge’s legs, Rikar murmured.
Frost rose in a crisp swirl.
Arctic air blew into the clinic, freezing the raindrops hanging in mid-air. The temperature dropped. Ice spread over the walls, cracking the plaster, frosting the sliding glass door. Mac breathed out, frigid air puffing between his lips as B withdrew—tentacle by mental tentacle—from Forge’s mind. The seizure downshifted from catastrophic to chaotic. Forge shuddered, and Mac went to work, monitoring his vitals, dousing the psychological burn, keeping his heart beating and—
Thank God. It was working.
Little by little, Mac infiltrated the mental cage protecting Forge’s mind. Snow swirled overhead. The chill slid like a knife over his nape. Still unconscious, Forge relaxed a little more, accepting Mac’s presence inside his head. His friend calmed, then settled, collapsing against the chair, muscles trembling but no longer seizing. One hand pressed to Forge’s nape, Mac attacked the leather cuffs, unshackling his wrists. “Rikar—get his ankles.”
Hands working fast, Rikar undid the ankle shackles.
The second the last buckle gave way, Mac rolled Forge onto his side. Recovery position, a CPR move, the same one a lifeguard would use after saving a drowning victim.
Breathing hard, worry in his eyes, Rikar stared at Forge. “Jesus Christ.”
“Fuck,” Bastian whispered, the strain in his voice unmistakable. Big hands clenched into fists, he tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling.
Rikar blew out a long breath. “Anything new, B?”
“No. Same images . . . a woman, his mother, I think, and him flying. The blur of rough landscape beneath wing tips.” Pale eyes aglow, Bastian dropped his head and rolled his shoulders, combating his tension. “Same as before. I can’t move into new memories. His dragon half won’t let me.”
Mac glanced at his commander. Upset clouded B’s expression, the toll of trying to extract the information he needed from Forge written all over his face. Mac understood. Bastian didn’t like the mind regression sessions any more than he did.
“B,” he said, a soft undercurrent in his tone. Bastian responded to the warning. Fierce green eyes narrowed on him. Holding his gaze, Mac cranked his hands into fists and pushed to his feet. “That was the last time.”
Regret in his gaze, B shook his head. “We need to know what happened in Scotland, Mac. It’s important. If we can prove Rodin was involved, we can bury the bastard for good.”
“I don’t give a fuck about Rodin right now.”
“Settle down,” Rikar murmured, playing mediator, throwing him a back-the-hell-off look. “B’s right. It’s the only way to—”
“It isn’t working,” Mac said, feeling sick to his stomach. Forge might be desperate to remember—to give the Nightfury pack what it needed—but he couldn’t stand any more. Couldn’t handle seeing his friend suffer night after night, so it was done. Finished. No more. No fucking more. “We’re killing him. Forge isn’t going to remember this way. We need to change tack . . . look for another solution.”
Bastian sighed. “What kind?”
“A simpler one. A gentler one.” Grabbing a pillow off the floor, he settled it under Forge’s head. His friend groaned. Bastian winced, and Mac examined a new possibility. It could work. Might be exactly what the doctor ordered. Which meant . . . now or never. The faster he got what amounted to a crazy idea in Dragonkind circles out into the open, the better for Forge. “A human one.”
Rikar blinked in surprise. “Are you serious?”
Mac nodded. “We need to do something. He won’t survive another round.”
Bastian rubbed the back of his neck. “What do you have in mind?”
“A hypnotherapist.”
“You know one?” Rikar asked.
“Yeah. A consultant for the SPD and the DA’s office,” Mac said. “She’s good.”
Bastian paced to the other side of the room, then pivoted, and came back. “How good?”
“Best I’ve ever seen.”
“So, what?” A thoughtful look on his face, Rikar crossed his arms. “We bring her here?”
“Yeah.” Eyes narrowed, Mac examined the variables. “Under controlled conditions.”
Running down the list of complications, he searched for problems in the plan and headed for the bank of cabinets across the room. Set above a stainless-steel countertop, iced-up cupboard doors gleamed in the low light. He reached out and flicked one open. Frost burned his fingertips. Hinges squawked, working against frozen metal, sounding loud in the quiet. Finding what he needed, he grabbed a washcloth and whispered a command. Water bubbled from his palm, soaking the cotton. He wrung it out with his mind and returned to Forge. Brows furrowed, trying to be patient, his buddies watched him place the cold cloth on Forge’s forehead. Still unconscious, the Scot muttered something in Gaelic. Mac spoke low, reassuring his friend before turning back to the other males in the room.
“Here’s how it’ll play out.” Making a checklist, Mac ticked off the necessary boxes. Ones called cover-your-ass in the human world and . . . all right. His idea wasn’t perfect, but hell, it was better than nothing. Better than putting Forge in the hot seat again. With a little foresight, he could control the outcome with a few concessions. The first? The entire Nightfury pack—females included—must agree to the plan and toe the information line. The second? Once inside Black Diamond, the therapist would be locked down, no contact with the outside world. “No talk of Dragonkind. We tell her we’re a covert military outfit sanctioned by the government. That she’ll be working on-site and off the grid to help one of our own retrieve a memory. No more, no less.”
“Keep it simple.” With a quick pivot, Rikar ass-planted himself on the countertop. Combat boots banged against the lower cabinets. “Control the variables. Dress it up, sell the story by making her sign a confidentiality agreement.”
“In other words—lie our asses off.” Bastian’s mouth tipped up at the corners. “No need to mind scrub her afterward.”
Mac nodded. “Exactly.”
Rikar’s eyes narrowed. “Could work.”
“It’ll work,” Mac said. “One small problem, though.”
Bastian raised a brow, asking for clarification without words.
“I’ll need Ange with me when I talk to her . . . to sell it properly.”
“No,” Rikar said, a lethal undertone in the denial.
Mac eyeballed his first in command. “Rikar—”
“My mate is not going out after dark.” Frost gathered over Rikar’s shoulders, misting the air around him. He shook his head. “It’s too dangerous.”
“She’ll be armed with twin Glocks,” Mac said, unleashing logic. Not that it helped. He knew what worried Rikar. The male would protect his mate at all costs, but well . . . hell. Talk about overprotective. Angela was ex-SPD. A sniper with serious skills and enough moxie to kill rogues with nothing but bullets and a long-range rifle. “I’ll be with her. The Razorbacks are in hiding, so—”
Rikar growled at him. “No. Fucking. Way.”
“You sure you need her, Mac?” His gaze locked on Rikar, B went the reasonable route, treading carefully. No one, after all, wanted a pissed-off frost dragon roaming around the lair. “The therapist won’t come with you willingly?”
“It’s a gamble. Hope Cunningham is smart. She’s always been leery of me.” He shrugged, telling the truth even though it pained him. He’d never done anything to make Hope fear him, but she did. Maybe it was the lethal vibe he carried around like luggage. Maybe it was his height and size. Could be he reminded her of someone in her past. Who knew? He’d never asked, leaving the chitchat to his partner whenever they’d needed the therapist on a case. “She knows and trusts Angela. Has worked with her countless times with violent-crime victims, so getting her to ask Hope is our best chance. She’ll listen to Ange.”
Silence swirled as Bastian considered him. “You really think she can help? That Forge will respond better to her?”
“I know it,” Mac said, hoping he was right.
Arms crossed over his chest, B glanced at his best friend. “Ange goes.”
Rikar cursed.
Mac exhaled in relief.
“But everyone goes,” Bastian said, setting the ground rules. “The whole pack flies out. Mac—you and Ange take the Denali. We’ll set up post around you . . . total protection detail. Myst will stay with Forge while we retrieve the female.”
A muscle jumped along Rikar’s jaw. “I don’t like it.”
“I know, but it’s worth a try.” Bastian pushed away from the back wall. Strides even, pace sure, he crossed the room and stopped beside the chair. Eyes closed, chest rising and falling at regular intervals now, Forge lay on his side. Unconscious. Vulnerable. So unlike his usual vicious self Mac’s chest tightened. Staring down at the Scot, B reached out and cupped the back of his warrior’s head. Forge’s eyelashes flickered an instant before he fell into a deep sleep. An ache in his voice, Bastian murmured, “Better than this shit. Better than hurting him again.”
Mac nodded. Fantastic. He had a consensus along with a preapproved game plan.
Now for the tricky part—precise execution. The kind of implementation he prayed Angela could pull off. Hope Cunningham wasn’t a pushover. She ran a thriving practice. Had a busy life helping all kinds of people. Mostly trauma victims. Not an easy thing to abandon for a couple weeks. But Forge needed help, so like it or not, the hypnotherapist was coming to Black Diamond. Even if the use of duct tape and caveman tactics became necessary.