Fury of Fire (Dragonfury Series #1)

get was a sip. One that wouldn’t help him in the end.
    Downing the JW in one swallow, Bastian relished the burn and got to his feet. Only one male had entered the club. The other was still outside…waiting.
    Which was excellent news. He hadn’t gone up against a male rocking Scald in a while. Oh, yeah. This was going to be all kinds of fun.

Chapter Nineteen
    The Razorback backed away from the female as Bastian crossed the VIP section. His gaze riveted on the male, he kept his pace smooth and unhurried. No sense startling the jack-off. He didn’t want him to bolt.
    Running and hiding was not on the menu. Not tonight. Screaming and begging, however? Yeah, that would do. At least, for starters. The dying would come later, but right now, he needed the pair to sing like a couple of songbirds.
    With Ivar on a killing spree and the cops involved, he was after information. A whole lot of it. The kind only a Razorback could provide…like: where to find the sadistic SOB responsible for stirring Dragonkind’s pot with a shit stick. The result of all that churning? Over a century of war and a fractured community, one in which males picked sides and committed their sons to the cause…rogue or Nightfury.
    The Archguard sat on the fence, not knowing which way to jump. The council’s lack of leadership put it on the brink of sanctioning the worst genocide the planet had ever known.
    Forget the Holocaust. Forget the Congo and Darfur. Ivar’s agenda would wipe out all things human.
    At least, that’s what Bastian suspected.
    Was he 100 percent certain? No. All he had right now was a whole lot of nothing. A handful of suppositions coupled with a gut feeling that pointed to the undeniable possibility.
    What he needed now was to prove it. A tall order? Maybe. But he knew Ivar. Had trained alongside him in the Transylvanian pack before the male had gone rogue. Ivar’s obsession with science made a crack addict’s habit look like a trip to Disneyland. And like a druggie, the twisted SOB got a contact high from the destructive forces science could wield.
    Humankind was an incredibly frail species. Case in point? Cancer and HIV. Both diseases ravaged their race while nothing touched Dragonkind.
    But no matter how many times he warned the Archguard, the lofty males sat on their duffs and did nothing. It was a wait-and-see strategy that would get them all killed. Dragonkind needed human females to survive. Without them, they would all die…in an agonizing manner that made the bubonic plague look merciful.
    Ignorant fools, every one of them.
    Reaching the stairs to the VIP lounge, Bastian slowed his roll. The closer he got, the more skittish the Razorback became, like he regretted signing up as the bait-and-switch guy. Well, too bad. The pinhead had started the game and Bastian wanted to play.
    “I’m going out back.” Wick veered left behind him, heading for the narrow hallway and the emergency exit beyond.
    “Gonna take a look-see.”
    “Keep me posted.”
    Bastian watched the Razorback fade in behind the bar. Well, at least the little bugger was making it interesting.
    Putting the bar between them was an obvious strategy. The freaking thing was huge…and annoying as hell. The biggest nightmare in a place that specialized in them, the structure formed a perfect circle beside the dance floor. Three deep, humans thronged the countertop on all sides. Clad in thin, transparent stone, the marble bar face was backlit…a glowing 360-degree free-for-all of bumping bodies wrapped in the thump-thump-thump of heavy-duty bass. And that wasn’t the only problem. High stools sat around its periphery, elevating those seated into visual interference.
    The scene provided the perfect cover. If he didn’t move fast, the Razorback would be out the other emergency door before—
    Too late. Pinhead was already running.
    Unleashing his speed, Bastian gunned it for the front door. “Watch out. The little shit bolted.”
    “Your ETA?”
    Bastian jumped over the black cord stretched across the club entrance. The bouncers cursed and females waiting in line shrieked as his feet connected with the sidewalk at the bottom of the stairs. “Airborne in thirty seconds.”
    “Perfect,” Wick said and meant it, too.
    Great. Just what he needed. Wick on the warpath, playing it solo.
    Then again, he couldn’t blame him. He and Wick suffered from the same affliction: outnumbered-itis. The lethal male loved it when the odds leaned heavily in the