Dragonfury 01 - Fury of Fire

Once that happened, he’d lose his ability to move, becoming a sitting duck for the enemy to pick apart from the sky.
    And he’d lost his wing mate.
    In a heap on the ground, Wick still hadn’t moved.
    Molding his wing to his side, Bastian smothered the last of the flames. The gruesome smell of burnt skin rolled with the smoke, making bile rise in his throat. He swallowed it, ignoring the pain as he scanned the terrain. He couldn’t stay here. Wick needed time to shake off the strike, which meant he must get to higher ground. Find a defensive position and hammer the enemy when they flew in low.
    The fuckers wouldn’t know what hit them. But first? He needed to get his ass in gear.
    Unfolding his wings, Bastian leapt skyward. His left wing didn’t catch air, sending him sideways, flapping like an injured eagle. Jesus. He couldn’t lift off. One of his wings was fried, acid eating holes in the webbing.
    Smoke swirled as the ambushing SOB swept in from the ocean like the grim reaper. Deep purple with a blue underbelly, the dragon bared his fangs. Bastian snarled back and, crouching low, tucked his injured wing in tight. Yeah, he might be down, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t deadly.
    The Razorback circled the rail yard: one, twice, a third time. Bastian waited, conserving his energy. He would only get one shot at the big male…a single exhale of his poisonous electro-pulse. But one was all he needed. If he hit Deep Purple in the face…game over.
    “Tell me where he is and I’ll be merciful.” Carried on smoke, Deep Purple’s voice rolled on an accent. The thick brogue could only mean one thing. The male came from the other side of the pond…from the Scottish pack. What the hell was he doing in Seattle? “I’ll kill you quickly. Return your ashes to your kin.”
    “Sporting of you.” Pivoting on his hind legs, Bastian kept pace with the male circling above him.
    “Where is he?”
    “Who?”
    “The infant.”
    Bastian stifled a growl. The rogue wanted the baby…just another male to turn into a mindless Razorback solider. Deep Purple landed on the steel edge of the warehouse opposite him. Less than fifty feet away, he perched and waited, stalling for time. With a weapon like fire-acid, the male knew exactly what was happening beneath Bastian’s scales.
    Smart. Deadly. Deep Purple was a lethal opponent with the patience to match. As a warrior, Bastian admired him for it. As a Nightfury? He wanted to rip the rogue apart. Gregor Mayhem belonged to his pack now. Nothing would change that.
    “You can’t have him.”
    Deep Purple didn’t like the news flash. “Tell me or—”
    “Or what? You’ll kill me?” The spikes along Bastian’s spine rattled, chiming against one another as he prepared for imminent attack. “Not a very effective way to locate the infant.”
    Razor-sharp talons scraping steel, the male moved forward. “I’ll rip you to shreds…like you did my…” Moisture glinted in the male’s eyes as his chest heaved. Bastian’s eyes narrowed. Interesting. Deep Purple was in serious pain, the emotional kind. He recognized the devastation, the total mental breakdown, before the male hid it behind aggression. This wasn’t about Razorback business. Deep Purple was here for himself. “You murdered her…my Caroline. You—”
    “Is that what Ivar told you?”
    Wings flared outward, the Razorback snarled at him.
    “Nightfuries don’t hurt females, warrior,” Bastian said. “We tracked a nine-one-one call. She bled out before we could reach her.”
    “You lie!” With a pain-filled roar, the male breathed in, telegraphing his intention.
    Bastian inhaled, filling his lungs with smoky air. The electro-pulse rocketed from his throat, hammering the Razorback’s fireball midstream. Fire-acid sprayed backward in a blinding arc of blue-white flame. The psychochemical, lightning combo of Bastian’s strike slammed into the enemy dragon’s face. As Deep Purple roared, the poisonous gas in the air ignited.
    Heat and sound went supersonic.
    The explosion flashed bright white as it blew the Razorback off the roof. Hurled backward, Bastian slammed into parked railcars, scattering them like dominos from a box. Underneath the heap of twisted metal, shards of shrapnel cut deep into his damaged scales. Hot and wet, blood welled, running down his side and…
    God. That hurt.
    “Get up,” he growled at himself. Shit, even his voice was shot, nothing more than a rasp on thin air. Then again,