Dragonfury 01 - Fury of Fire

Caroline flatlined. She started CPR, blowing air into the girl’s lungs between palm presses to her chest. But it was no use. The girl she’d tried so hard to help was gone.
    Save my baby.
    The whispered words rolled through her head. An urgent plea from a dying mother.
    Bile trapped in the back of her throat, heart pumping like a freight train, Myst ransacked her bag. She came away with a fetal heart rate monitor. The handheld unit clicked on with a twist of a button. Wrenching the cotton shirt out of her way, she squirted ultrasound gel onto the skin, set the wand to Caroline’s rounded stomach and searched, rolling right then left.
    A faint thump came through the speaker.
    Her hands shook as she tossed the monitor aside and reached back into her bag. She must have something sharp. Anything that might…
    Goddamn it! She didn’t carry scalpels. Had never needed any.
    Lunging toward the island, she wrenched open the nearest drawer. Nothing but butter knives. She pulled open the next. Black-handled carving blades, some narrow, some thick, stared back at her. Steel clanged against steel as Myst grabbed a fillet knife and turned back to Caroline.
    There was no choice. She could do it. Obstetrics was her specialty. She’d assisted in more C-sections than she could count. It didn’t matter that she could lose her job and go to jail. The baby mattered more than all that.
    “Dear God in heaven, forgive me,” she whispered, losing a piece of her soul as she put blade to flesh and made the incision.

     
    The smell of fresh blood propelled Bastian up the porch steps and through the open door. Broken glass crunched beneath the soles of his boots as he crossed over the threshold into the small house.
    He was too late.
    The Razorbacks, the rogue band of dragons that hated humankind and their dependence on females, had beaten him to the mother and child. He didn’t care that the infant had been sired by one of them. None of the bastards deserved to be fathers. To leave the female defenseless and alone—without any understanding of what was to come—then take the baby a month early? Christ, it was beyond unthinkable.
    The enormity of his failure hit him like a body shot.
    He should have come sooner. Two days ago when the results of her blood work popped up on Sloan’s system. Tentacles deeply embedded in human databases, his comrade could find anything, from medical records to homicide reports.
    Fuck . It was Bastian’s fault.
    Not her death—that had been inevitable the moment one of his kind impregnated her—but the manner of it. The violence in it. The needless suffering. Had he done his duty, the female would have been comfortable in the end.
    With grim resolve, Bastian followed the scent of death down the narrow corridor. He inhaled deep and listened hard, sifting to find any trace of the enemy’s trail. He would honor the woman and then hunt the rogues down; take the child back before he became polluted by hatred. The last thing he and his warriors needed was another soldier in the Razorbacks’ ranks.
    He spotted the blood pool on the tile floor from the kitchen doorway and—
    “I’m so sorry…so sorry,” a female said, an agonized hitch in her voice. “Look how beautiful he is, Caro. All ten fingers and toes. Look how beautiful.”
    The sound of an infant’s cry answered her, rising from behind the island.
    Sucking in a quick breath, Bastian stepped around the edge of the gold-flecked countertop. He stopped cold, boots rooted to the floor, gaze riveted to the light-haired female. Pale green hospital scrubs covered in blood, she sat in devastation, a dead body next to her, a small, coat-wrapped bundle in her arms. Medical supplies lay scattered around her, the black bag by her side overflowing with gauze, rubber gloves, and plastic-wrapped packages. But it was the butcher knife that made him ache for her.
    She’d saved the baby, knowing she couldn’t save the mother. Remarkable. She was undeniably remarkable. A female with the heart of a warrior.
    Bastian swallowed past the lump in his throat and ditched his leathers, conjuring an EMT’s uniform. As a nurse, she would respond better to a paramedic, someone of common skill and experience. He didn’t want her to freak out, but time wasn’t on his side. The Razorbacks would track them quickly, and he needed her in the ambulance and rolling before that happened.
    He watched her rock for a moment, head bent over the infant, wondering how best to