Dragonfury 01 - Fury of Fire

spiked heels and headed for the bar. He cleared a path, tapping into the collective psyche, warning the crowd out of her way. They parted like the Red Sea, opening a wide swath as she approached the stainless steel counter and high-backed stools. In under a minute, she returned, fingers curled around the neck of a bottle, hips swaying in a low-slung micromini.
    Crystal clinked as she set a matched pair of VIP tumblers in front of them. “Want me to pour?”
    Her voice was little more than a sensual purr, a hum of invitation a human male would never have heard over the throb of bass pounding through the club. But Bastian was only half-human. Like all of his kind, his senses were keen, alive with the hunt, eager for the chase. He considered her a moment. She had adequate energy, better than most. It wasn’t enough to truly feed him, but enough to take the edge off his appetite. The beginnings of hunger gnawed at the pit of his stomach.
    “I’m on break in five.” She leaned toward him, flashing cleavage as she placed the bottle of whiskey on the tabletop. “Meet me out back?”
    Wild heat and sexual inexperience rolled in her scent. The fragrance was one of youth, beautiful in its own way, but she didn’t appeal to him. He’d lived too long to be interested in the unproven. “Another time.”
    Rouged lips pursed into a pout. “You sure?”
    “I’m good,” he said, releasing a soothing spell to soften his rejection. “Leave the bottle and go.”
    With a sigh, she retreated, turning her attention to customers at the next table.
    “Can’t do it, can you?”
    Bastian’s eyes narrowed on his friend. “The Meridian won’t realign—”
    “For another five days. Yeah, I know, but a female with the kind of energy you need isn’t going to be a pushover. She won’t fall into bed with you…not like these ones.” Rikar tipped the mouth of his bottle toward the dance floor, pointing to the women. “You’re going to need every second you can get to seduce her.”
    Fuck. Like he needed the reminder.
    Bastian grabbed his friend Johnnie Walker by the neck, wishing it was Rikar’s instead. He needed some air, had to get out of the heat and the noise and the smell of the club before he exploded. “I’m going rooftop.”
    “Suit yourself.”
    He always did.
    Without a backward glance, JW in hand, Bastian headed for the red glow of the exit sign to the right of the bar. His long leather trench fanned out behind him, an unnecessary addition to his already unusual size. The human males recognized him for the predator he was and shied away, giving him a wide berth. Just as well. He was in the mood for a fight and, given his proclivities, a little encouragement in the wrong direction would send his fists flying.
    Halfway to his destination, a shimmer of sensation ghosted over the back of his neck. His stride slowed to a stop as he looked over his shoulder. Rikar was already on his feet, moving toward him, microbrew left wobbling on the tabletop.
    “ Bastian. ” The voice whispered through his mind, through the mental link he shared with all the warriors who fought by his side—the cosmic equivalent of a cell phone for his kind.
    He completed the link, his gaze trained on Rikar’s. “Sloan, what’s up?”
    “ Shit loads .” Even through mind-speak, he heard the fast click of computer keys. Sloan, their resident cyber cop, was never far from the system. Some nights, Bastian suspected he slept in front of the bank of monitors. “ Haul your ass outta there. The female’s out of pocket and in trouble .”
    “ Shit. Lay it out .”
    “ A nine-one-one call. The ambulance is rolling…headed for Route Eighteen. ”
    “ ETA? ” He set the whiskey on a table as he passed.
    “ Thirty minutes .”
    “ We’re on it .”
    Bastian was out the back door and up the first flight of stairs before the last word left his mouth. He took the treads three at a time, cold resolve settling like ice in his veins. The steel door blew off its hinges an instant before he strode over the threshold and onto the rooftop.
    Gravel crunching beneath his metal-tipped boots, he took a deep breath. Crisp autumn air and the scent of newly turned leaves registered an instant before he leapt skyward. Shifting without thought, he transformed; skin turning to blue-black scales, hands and feet to claws, wings extended in full flight. Cloaked by magic, hidden from human eyes, he banked east, soaring over skyscrapers and Seattle suburbs until