Fury of Fire (Dragonfury Series #1)

her now. Not with Ivar catching air and his XO attacking his flank from the north. The best he could do was hold the line, keep himself between the rogue dragons and her. Yeah, that and call for backup.
    “Rikar!” Baring his fangs, he launched himself at Ivar.
    “I need you.”
    “Thirty seconds.”
    “Make it fifteen.”
    Ten would be better, but his best friend was busy. He caught the sight line out of the corner of his eye. Frosty side deployed, ice shards were flying and Razorbacks dropping like flies.
    With a quick turn, he sideswiped his nemesis. The prick roared, and Bastian smiled, baring his teeth in satisfaction. Ivar came at him again. He countered, unwrapping an uppercut beneath the asshole’s chin. As the red SOB’s head snapped back, Lothair snarled and attacked, making a grab for the horns on Bastian’s head. He jerked out of the strike zone, keeping his skull intact, awareness shimmering through him. What the hell was Ivar’s XO doing? Usually a dragon attacked head-on, never going for a glancing blow.
    And Lothair’s flyby? Yeah, there was all kinds of wrong with that attempt.
    Whipping his tail, he kept Ivar at bay and searched the sky for the black scales. Lothair had dipped low, but…
    There he was, rising fast with a harness in his claws. And snarled in the loops? Bricks of plastic explosives. Jesus. The rogues didn’t know how to fight fair. They were trying to blow his head off. Bastian’s eye narrowed. Fat chance of that. No way would he allow the rogue to get that close.
    “Heads up, boys…C-four,” he said, sending the info out through mind-speak.
    Wick answered, “Where?”
    “In Lothair’s paw.”
    “Asshole.” Coming around the crane boom, Rikar zeroed in on the black SOB.
    With the cavalry in sight, Bastian rolled right, giving his friend a clear shot. As he disengaged, Rikar growled, sending ice crystals out in a foggy wave. Visibility went from good to rat-shit awful. Using the frigid cloud cover, Bastian pulled into a tight turn. He had one shot. Just one chance to hammer Ivar. The male would adjust quickly, and when he did? His plan to grab Myst would go from difficult to FUBARed in a heartbeat.
    Lost in the icy swirl, Ivar roared for his XO. Bastian showed no quarter, coming in hard, striking with precision. The red fucker pinwheeled, spinning into the cold mist. And Bastian made his break.
    Without slowing, he flew over the shipping containers. “Myst!”
    “Here…Bastian, I’m right here!”
    His heart shuddered as he spotted her thirty yards ahead. She was on her feet—thank God—and running down the alleyway toward him. He landed hard, pushed the containers out, widening the corridor. All sound ceased and time slowed as he reached for her. Seconds felt like hours, stretching out, and Bastian started to pray. He sensed Ivar closing in behind him…knew he was vulnerable on the ground, but he couldn’t leave her.
    Not now. Not ever.
    The world returned to him, speeding into reality the instant his front paw curled around her. Ignoring her gasp, he hoisted her onto his back. She slid home, straddling his shoulders.
    “Hang on, bellmia. ” Leaping into the sky, he mind-spoke to the others, “Got her. Get out.”
    A roar came from behind him.
    Rikar cursed. “B…hard right.”
    Without hesitation, he shifted into the tight turn. Scrambling to hold on, Myst clutched at his horns as the Razorback leader circled behind him. With a hiss, Ivar exhaled. Poisonous gas and toxic fumes ignited, shooting pink flames from between Ivar’s fangs. Bastian tunneled into a spiral. Myst screamed, losing her grip, plummeting toward the ground.
    “Bastian!” Eyes wide with fear, in a freefall, she reached for him.
    Wings stretched to capacity, he dove, straining hard to grab her. He caught her on the upswing, cutting her scream short, plucking her out of thin air. Ivar roared. Pink flame streaked past his wing tip, singing his scales as Rikar swooped in. He came in like an avenging angel. White wings spread, he hung motionless a moment, poised above the spikes on Bastian’s back and unleashed hell.
    The temperature dropped into single digits. A whistling sound hit the airwaves as eight-inch ice daggers sliced through the gloom. Cradling his female close, Bastian ducked and flew under his best friend’s tail. No way he wanted to get in the way of Rikar and his arsenal.
    Ivar sucked wind, tried to compensate, drawing up short to avoid the icy knives. But it was too