Dragonfury 02 - Fury of Ice

now?
    Bastian pivoted, planting himself between him and the door. “Anything?”
    A dark silhouette crossed the threshold, shook its head. “Lothair went to ground…found a wormhole or something. And we ran out of time.”
    “Fucking rogue.” With a growl, the second guy walked into the loft behind the first. The lock clicked as the glass slid closed behind him, shutting out the sun. Thank God. Now all Mac needed to do was clear the dots floating in front of his eyes. As he blinked rapid-fire, guy number two said, “We’ll find him come nightfall. Send his balls back to Ivar in a basket.”
    Surprise lit across Bastian’s face. “Good to know, Wick.”
    “Jeez, man,” the blond guy said, staring at his buddy. “More than three words strung together…what’s up with you?”
    Black hair glinting blue in the dimness, Wick flipped his friend the bird.
    “Oookkay…back to normal on the no-talking front.” The blond grinned. “I’m relieved.”
    Silence met the pronouncement. A pause followed, like everyone was readjusting, and as the quiet pounded through the loft, the vibe shifted. Mac went on high alert and got ready. For anything, because whoever had linked peace with quiet had been out of their minds.
    “Looky-looky, Wick.” Decked out in leather, the blond guy slowed his roll beside the kitchen island, red eyes narrowed on him. “Blockhead’s up.”
    The name-calling flipped a switch in Mac’s brain. Oh yeah…Dickhead (aka Venom). The one he didn’t like. Mac growled as Dickhead planted his hands on the countertop, jackknifed into a turn, and ass-planted himself on the island top. Shitkickers dangling in midair, the guy grinned at him, baring his teeth in blatant challenge. Mac snarled back, wishing for a fist instead of claws so he could pop the SOB again.
    “Venom,” Bastian said, planting a hand on Mac’s chest. He pushed against his scales, sending a clear message that said, Stay where you are, buddy, or else . “Back off. We don’t need that shit right now.”
    “What…like I need to worry?” He swung his legs, boots flashing black in the gloom. Funny thing, though? Now that the dots had cleared, Mac saw everything with perfect clarity: the individual threads of the bastard’s bootlaces, each stitch sewn into the leather, the smirk on Venom’s face as he looked him over. “Hell, I could eat the pissant fledgling for lunch in human form and not need a toothpick.”
    Bastian growled, the sound one of warning.
    Mac bared his fancy new fangs, his mind supplying more links in his memory chain. Each one rattled his cage, filling his brain like water pouring into a jar. Something about a woman. The bastard had tried to touch the one that belonged to him.
    Rage flexed its muscles and, as Venom laughed, Mac lost control and hissed. Something nasty shot from his throat. As he choked on the bad taste, Dickhead cursed, ducking as slimy liquid sprayed the wall behind him. Brick exploded. Small chunks went airborne, flying up and out with a sizzling pop. Mac blinked. Holy shit. Despite the disgusting aftertaste, that was cool. The slime was eating through the masonry and burning holes in the wooden floorboards.
    “Awesome. Did you see that, B?” Venom sat up and glanced over his shoulder. “Wick, come look at this shit.”
    A look of delight on his face, Wick jogged over as the crackle-n-pop of whatever had come out of Mac’s throat got louder. A little horrified, but mostly intrigued, Mac craned his neck to get a better view of his handiwork.
    Sliding to a stop, Wick inspected the damage. “Cool. Water-acid.”
    “Wicked lethal.”
    Leaning in, Wick smelled the slime. “I think it’s flammable, too.”
    “Gonna have to test that theory.” Hopping off the counter, Venom nudged a chunk of brick with the toe of his boot. “Take the new boy out for a spin—”
    “Or two,” Wick said, finishing his buddy’s sentence. With one last whiff, Wick glanced at Mac with golden eyes full of speculation. “That’s gonna be fun. Big damage.”
    “Huge.” Venom retracted his foot before the slime—water-acid…whatever—ate through the sole of his boot.
    Mac’s brows collided as instincts hopped on his it’ll-be-a-cold-day-in-hell bandwagon. No way he wanted to go anywhere with those two. Venom couldn’t wait to kill him. And Wick? Jesus, the guy’s eyes told the story. Flat. Cold. Hard. He possessed all the warmth of a frickin’ psychopath.
    He glanced at Bastian. “What the