Dragonfury 02 - Fury of Ice

neglect had wrought. Built in the 1950s, the fire hall had sat empty for years. Decay liked it that way, but things were about to change. Right now the underground lair had priority, but soon Ivar’s worker bees would turn their attention to the brick structure sitting on terra firma.
    Lothair could hardly wait.
    The underground lair—while comfortable with its bedroom suites, modern kitchen, computer center, and Ivar’s lab—didn’t have a game room. Cards. Pool. Foosball. Ping-Pong. Video games. Whatever. The game didn’t matter as long as he got to play. And kicking his comrade’s asses? Hmm…yeah. He liked that best of all.
    Skirting a jagged hole in the wooden floor, he headed for the elevator. Hidden behind a wall of paneling, the modern wonder waited, the hum of powerful magnets barely audible above the street noise. He reached out with his mind. The lock disengaged with a snick, and the hum got louder. Floor-to-ceiling wainscoting pushed into the room, then slid sideways, steel glinting behind polished mahogany in the dimness.
    The double sliders retreated, opening into the Otis. His mouth curved into a satisfied smile. Beautiful. Excellence in a steel box.
    Lothair stepped inside and pressed the solitary button. Closing his eyes, he leaned against the back wall, arms crossed over his chest, reengaging the security system with his mind as the elevator descended. The soft beep told him the wainscoting had closed, sealing the entrance to the underground lair tight.
    An unnecessary precaution? Probably.
    Denzeil and the females were no doubt right on his ass, but…well, a male could never be too careful. Not with a new home to protect.
    The Nightfuries were a clever bunch: well organized, skilled warriors, tenacious with a shitload of vicious sprinkled on top. A lethal combination, one he didn’t want anywhere near Ivar. The male had taken a hit at the shipyard. Was still recovering from Rikar’s ice daggers and—
    Fuck, he hated that prick. More than Bastian or any of the others. Tonight’s dance on the beach only cemented the feeling. The pale-eyed, white-scaled male had taken his prize, and because of it, he was headed into an unpleasant conversation. One that would end with him making concessions.
    Lothair growled. He’d rather chew his own arm off than admit failure…or give up an ounce of power. But Ivar would take his pound of flesh. No sense putting it off.
    The double doors slid open, dumping him into a high-ceilinged, double-wide corridor. The smell of wet plaster and fresh paint hung in the air as he strode toward the lab. Ivar spent most of his time there, at the farthest recesses of the lair. With project supervirus in full swing, the male practically slept in the antechamber.
    Not good on any level.
    He turned the last corner and punched through a set of swinging doors. White from floor to ceiling, the lab’s antechamber was Ivar’s domain. The space suited the male, showcasing his preference for all things neat and tidy. Lothair almost snorted. Neat and tidy? Jesus, it was more than that. Call it OCD on steroids, but whatever you labeled it, normal wasn’t one of the choices. Neither was colorful. The only things with an ounce of flash were the computer screens running down the left-hand side of the room and the fruit basket sitting on the table beside his commander.
    One shoulder propped against the wall, one arm supported by a sling, Ivar glanced away from the one-way window into another chamber.
    Lothair tipped his chin. “How’s it going in there?”
    “They’re not dying fast enough.” Black wraparounds in place, Ivar shook his head. The sunglasses slipped, sliding down the bridge of his nose, exposing pink irises and a visual load of pissed off. “Two aren’t even sick yet, and it’s been five days.”
    Moving away from the entrance, Lothair crossed the room. “So superbug number one is a bust?”
    “A total fucking failure.”
    “Then gas ’em.” Slowing his roll, Lothair stopped beside his friend. He looked through the glass into the hermetically-sealed chamber/apartment. Decked out with the best, the suite boasted everything a human could want: high-tech kitchen, comfortable bedrooms with en suite bathrooms, a kitted-out living room with modern furniture, and a sixty-inch plasma TV complete with every video game console known to mankind. Why Ivar bothered with the luxury when the humans inside were nothing but guinea pigs, he didn’t know. A quirk of