Dragonfury 01 - Fury of Fire

the fact he liked Lothair’s desire to participate. The younger male made him proud. He really did.
    An echo sounded in the corridor, the heavy footfalls coming closer by the second.
    Ivar grinned at his XO, then wiped his expression clean. Forge didn’t need to see that he was jazzed; that he loved the fact that a freak turn of events had provided the very thing he needed to get the powerful male on his side.
    “Ivar?” The deep bass came from the other side of the door.
    “In here.”
    With a forceful shove, the door rocketed inward, banged against the wall and…stayed there, door handle buried in the Sheetrock. Ivar didn’t care about the damage to his wall. He was more interested in the male coming over the threshold. Amethyst eyes aglow, Forge dipped his head beneath the doorframe, then stopped short, standing just inside the room. The male always did that…came in, but never committed to sharing space with him.
    The indecisiveness annoyed the hell out of Ivar. The distance was like a physical manifestation of Forge’s mental state—of his inability to commit to the Razorback cause.
    Always direct and to the point, the male said, “What the fuck?”
    “Got some news.” Holding the warrior’s gaze, he stood and moved around to the front of his desk. Expression appropriately grave, he sat on the edge and crossed his arms over his chest. “I wanted to tell you myself.”
    Forge tipped his chin, telling him without words to let it fly.
    So, Ivar did. Got down to the nitty-gritty and explained exactly what had gone down with his female. He left nothing out, neither scent nor sound; retelling the female’s brutal death with perfect recall. But more important than the how was the why. And as Ivar talked, he laid the blame on thick, putting Bastian in the hot seat.
    “No.” Forge shook his head. Unsteady on his feet, he backpedaled and, as his shoulders hit the wall, fumbled for his cell phone. The one he’d bought to keep in touch with the female. “I just saw her…shared a meal with—”
    “I am sorry,” he said, surprised that he meant it. The pain in Forge’s eyes was too real too deny. Jesus, the male had actually loved Caroline what’s-her-name. “But we’ll get your son back. Lothair and I have already started searching…we’ll hunt the Nightfuries down and find—”
    Forge went off like a bomb, the agonizing roar unlike anything Ivar had ever heard. As the male went ballistic, magic surged and furniture flew, spinning around the office like a tornado had just touched down.
    So much for Ivar’s matched-set office furniture. His desk was already in two pieces, and the chair? Nothing but kindling. Not that it mattered. Forge could tear the place apart for all he cared, because after months of work, Ivar had the male exactly where he wanted him.
    Mad with grief, burning for revenge, Forge would do what he’d never been able to…track Bastian and make him suffer before he died.
    Ivar smiled as he and Lothair took cover in the hallway.
    Yippee-ki-yay. Let the games begin.

Chapter Eighteen
     
    His radar up and running, Bastian walked into the Gridiron with Wick on his heels. Music thumped, the heavy metal vibe rolling up hard as he paused on the edge of the crowd and scanned the interior of the nightclub. Kitted out Goth style, everything was black and mirrored with stainless steel accents. Not that he cared. He hadn’t flown all the way downtown for a lesson in interior design.
    The enemy was here. Or had been. He could smell them. Trace amounts of brimstone cut through the sharp scent of alcohol and…huh. Bastian took another whiff. The scent was upscale, posh with a capital P—a fancy oil some dragons liked to rub on their scales.
    Bastian stifled a snort. Freaking pansies and their nasty spa treatments. Wicked vain, all of them.
    Not that he was complaining. The scent trail made his job easier. Made tracking them a softball pitch in a hardball game. Every once in a while, though, Bastian wished the idiots would grow an imagination and try something new. The club scene was getting old. But predictable was just that… predictable . The Seattle strip was prime hunting ground. An environment fit for blending, for finding females with the best energy.
    Which got his crank on.
    He hated the downtown core and the cloying sweetness of the clubs. All the female perfume sloshing around in a vat of human sweat and stale alcohol. Not to mention the overcrowding. Man, that was the worst,