Fury of Obsession (Dragonfury Series Book 5) (12 page)

“Good.”

“Why—you scared?”

Ivar snorted.
Scared?
Not really, although he couldn’t deny his wariness. A healthy reaction driven by the need to stay alive, and yet he refused to walk away. Fen presented an interesting challenge wrapped up in a dangerous dilemma. On the one hand, the miniature dragon fascinated Ivar. And on the other? His vicious nature made him difficult to study. Less than half Ivar’s size in dragon form, Fen didn’t have an ounce of human in him. Pure dragon DNA, related to Dragonkind, but genetically distinct too. Fast in flight, deadly as hell, wrens operated on a different set of magical principles. Whic
h . . .
yea
h . . .
qualified as a scientist’s wet dream—Ivar’s, in particular. Mapping the wren’s chromosomal structure would take him years. Maybe even decades. A terrific opportunity, but for one thin
g . . .

The wren never went anywhere without Hamersveld. Why? Interesting questio
n . . .
easy answer. Fen couldn’t survive on the earthly plane without the male.

Wrens didn’t consume food. Or draw sustenance from human females like the rest of Dragonkind. Each wren bonded with a Dragonkind male, relying on his host to feed and keep him healthy. A unique process, one that required the miniature dragon to merge with the tribal markings on the host male’s skin. The magical tattoo functioned like an electrical socket. Plug into the source. Draw the right amount of current from the electrostatic bands ringing the planet. Recharge the batteries. The instant Fen’s bio-energy connected with Hamersveld’s, the arcane bond clicked into place an
d . . .

Eureka. Two merged into one.

Well, at least for a little while. Ivar didn’t know how long the recharging process lasted. It varied from week to week. Sometimes Fen disappeared inside the tattoo for days. On other occasions, for just a few hours.

Which made the wren an even more fascinating specimen.

Unable to keep his curiosity in check, Ivar tipped his chin. “How long has he been gone this time?”

“Less than a day. Five hours.” Suspicion in his eyes, Hamersveld frowned. “Are you charting him?”

“The thought’s crossed my mind.”

“Always the scientist.”

“Curiosity,” he murmured, watching the male closely. “The curse of my calling.”

Hamersveld rolled his eyes.

Ivar gave in to a grin. He couldn’t help it. Despite Hamersveld’s difficult nature, he liked the male. All right, so maybe
like
was too powerful a word. Respect might be a better one. Not that it mattered. He might not know him well yet, but Ivar had high hopes for the Norwegian. The warrior was solid, if somewhat hard to read. Accustomed to being alone, Hamersveld gave nothing away. He held his emotions in check, played his cards close to the vest, and never let anyone close.

Ivar understood the compulsion. He suffered from the same affliction. Understood the male better than most. A lifetime of mistrust took time to overcome. And friendship never came easy. Knowing that, however, didn’t stop Ivar from wanting it. He craved the connection. Liked the idea of having a friend. One he could trust to help him shoulder the burden. Someone capable of becoming his first in command. Hamersveld fit the bill, ticking all the boxes on his wish list—smart, lethal, a strong male with an impressive gift.

The kind that spelled water dragon.

A serendipitous find. An even better friend to have on his side. Particularly since most Dragonkind males feared water.

Holding Hamersveld’s gaze, Ivar raised a brow. “Back from your swim in Puget Sound already?”

“I didn’t go.”

Huh. Well, wasn’t that interesting? A deviation in routine. More than a touch odd. Hamersveld never missed his midnight dip. Lake. Ocean. Small stream or Olympic-size swimming pool. The location didn’t matter as long as water was involved. Which meant one of two things: either the male wasn’t feeling well or he needed to talk.

Hoping for the latter, Ivar glanced at the case of Heineken. “Got one for me?”

“Maybe.”

Rimmed by light blue, shark-black eyes met his. Looking a little unsure, Hamersveld hesitated. Ivar stayed silent, refusing to prompt his new friend. Talk? Refuse to confide? The decision belonged to Hamersveld, not him.

One second stretched into more before the male moved. Stepping around a stack of bamboo flooring, he strode across the room. Beer bottles rattled, shimmying inside the flimsy cardboard case. The quiet thump of heavy footfalls joined the clink of glass, then ceased as Hamersveld stopped alongside him. Cracking the top, his friend handed him a beer, took one for himself, then set the box on the floor at his feet. Finished with the buddy routine, Hamersveld propped his shoulder against the window pane a few feet away.

And Ivar waited. For Hamersveld to crack. For him to make the first move and trust him with the problem.

A furrow between his brows, Hamersveld sighed. “What the hell are you doing up here? Thought to find you in the lab.”

“Finished working an hour ago.” Grabbing his beer by the throat, Ivar twisted off the top. Carbonation hissed as foam bubbled up the bottle neck. Ignoring the froth, Ivar flicked the cap toward the garbage can across the room an
d . . .
bingo. Dead center. Middle-of-the-basket accurate. Hurrah for him. A solid two points. “I’m waiting for bacteria cultures to mature.”

“No word yet from Granite Falls?”

Ivar shook his head. “Not a peep.”

“And now you’re restless?”

“Twitchy as hell,” he said, admitting the weakness even though it left a bad taste in his mouth. Ivar swallowed the burn. Humility wasn’t his strong suit. Neither was copping to vulnerability—real or imagined. But bringing Hamersveld close necessitated a different approach. One that started in honesty and ended in trust. Swiping at the beer label with the pad of his thumb, he obliterated the water droplets and cleared his throat. “I hate waiting.”

Hamersveld hummed in understanding. “You’re impatient.”

“Always have been.”

“Give it time,
zi kamir
,” Hamersveld said, calling him brother in Dragonese, acting like a real friend, giving Ivar hope. “The superbug you cooked up is lethal. It’ll kick in.”

“I know.”

Ivar stifled a snort. So much for honesty. The false bravado in his tone said it all—he wasn’t sure. Didn’t
know
a damned thing.

Not for certain anyway.

“If it doesn’t take, though, we’re dead in the water.” Raising his hand, Ivar took a pull from the bottle. Cool and crisp, the Heineken teased his taste buds, then rolled, blazing a chilly trail down the back of his throat. “We’ll have to start from scratch.”

“Hasn’t happened yet.” Peeling the label off his bottle, Hamersveld crumpled it into a ball. A quick flick sent it flying into the open top of the six pack. “Stop dwelling on it.”

“Fuck you,” Ivar said, a growl in his voice. “It isn’t your baby out there—not doing its job.”

Hamersveld huffed. “You want a distraction while we wait for it to kill someone?”

“Please,” he said, taking another sip. “Whatcha got?”

“An idea.”

“About what?”

“The high-energy females you’ve got locked inside cellblock A.”

Oh, yeah. Nice segue. An excellent turn in the conversation.

The only topic guaranteed to help him forget Granite Falls. At least, for the moment. The human females imprisoned inside his underground lair focused his attention like nothing else could. A rare breed, the HEs were the cornerstone of his breeding program. He’d hunted for months to locate each one. Now, he agonized over their well-being. Fed them gourmet meals full of protein and vitamins. Made sure each got what she needed—exercise, sunlight, as many books as she could read. Measured fertility rates too—testing for every genetic deficiency under the sun—before injecting his pretty little test subjects with the serum he’d developed in his lab.

All he could do now was wait for the Meridian to realign at the spring equinox. One of only two times during the year Dragonkind became fertile. The realignment of the electrostatic bands triggered primal drive, forcing males of his kind into the
hungering
. A frenzied sort of matin
g . . .
a state that ensured the continuation of his species. Which meant he needed to be ready.

He had a single shot. Just
one
to get it right.

The serum was designed to alter dragon DNA. Replace the reproductive XY chromosomal pairing with an XX, breed the first Dragonkind female in over six hundred years, and break the curse plaguing his kind. A lofty goal. Incredibly difficult to achieve. He’d spent years experimenting, looking for the right sequence, the precise combination that would free him from the yoke of human dependence.

As it stood now, Dragonkind males relied on human females to propagate the continuation of his species. In less than three months, that could all change when the Meridian realigned. But only if his serum worked and he succeeded in reprogramming dragon DNA. His captives held the potential inside their wombs.

Infinite possibility. So much hope. Liberty for all of Dragonkind.

Draining his bottle, Ivar set his empty beer on the windowsill and reached for another. “What are you thinking, Sveld?”

“We should make it a competition.” His mouth curved, Hamersveld tossed the beer cap like a coin. Metal spun end over end, flashing in the low light. Picking it out of mid-air, the male threw it toward the garbage can. “Don’t handpick the males. Make them compete for the privilege of breeding one of the females.”

“What—like some kind of Dragonkind Olympics?”

“Dragonkind Olympic
s . . .
I like that.” Hamersveld grinned. “Top five win a night with an HE female when the Meridian realigns.”

“The champion gets first pick?”

The male tipped his Heineken in salute. “A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

Ivar’s lips twitched. “You entering?”

“
Hristos
, no.” With a grimace, Hamersveld threw him a disgusted look. “I don’t want any offspring. I’m still trying to kill my last mistake.”

“The Nightfury water-rat,” Ivar said, amused by his friend’s lack of paternal instinct. Talk about bizarre. Most males relished the idea of a family. Hamersveld couldn’t stand the thought. He liked his one-of-a-kind water dragon status. Didn’t want any competition, even if it came from his own son. “You sure you can eliminate him?”

“No question. But we’re not talking about that bastard right now.” Pushing away from the window, Hamersveld rolled his shoulders. Excitement sparked in his eyes, making the blue rims around his black irises shimmer. “I’ll organize everything, Ivar. Set up the parameters. Find the right location for the game
s . . .
somewhere rural with rough terrain. Lay the groundwork and invite Razorbacks to sign up for the competition. All you have to do is judge it.”

Eyes narrowed, Ivar examined the possibility. The idea possessed an infinite amount of promise. Was a real no-brainer when fit into the greater scheme. The competition would drive two important outcomes. The first—ensure the strongest warriors bred his females. And second—the games would allow Ivar to assess the abilities of each Razorback. There had been an influx of new blood lately, some males arriving from Europe, others from a fractured pack in South America. Venezuela, maybe. Or Peru.

Ivar frowned. He couldn’t remember. Never a good sign. Particularly since the Nightfury assholes picked his soldiers off faster than he could figure out who’d arrived from where. Now, he didn’t know half the new members’ names. A circumstance in need of change. He couldn’t lead, after all, if he didn’t know who the hell formed his pack. He wanted names. He wanted skill levels. He wanted to look each warrior in the eye and decide whether he belonged in the Razorback pack.

Which was why he’d scheduled another round of dragon combat training.

Not the most popular decision.

The lockdown meant his warriors must stay out of the city. No female company or feeding until they completed the qualifying round. No tangling with Nightfuries either. A great idea given the recent death toll. Excellent upsid
e . . .
no dead Razorbacks. The downside of his objective, however, let Bastian off the hook for the foreseeable future. The prospect didn’t sit well with Ivar. But despite the disappointment, he refused to lift the lockdown. Sequestering the Razorbacks—keeping the males in training mode and off Nightfury radar—was the smartest play.

At least, for now.

He had bigger plans. Ones that didn’t include his soldiers getting KO’d by a bunch of bastards with huge chips on their shoulders. His eyes narrowed, Ivar took another drink. Fucking Nightfuries. Such a major pain in his ass. He really needed to do something about the warrior
s . . .
like locate the Nightfury lair. Hit hard and fast. Massacre them all before Bastian knew what hit him.

Floorboards creaked beside him. “Come on, Ivar. Give it the green light.”

Ivar blinked and glanced at Hamersveld.

The male’s gaze bore into his. “It’s a solid plan.”

“A fun one too.”

“Endless amounts of entertainment.” Hamersveld’s mouth curved. “A total win-win.”

Anticipation thrummed through him.
Dragonkind Olympics.
A crazy concept with an excellent upside. “Set it up, Sveld. Let’s see where it leads us, bu
t . . .
”

Hamersveld raised a brow. “But what?”

“Make sure no one dies. We can’t afford to lose any more fighters.”

“Not a problem.” A gleam in his eyes, the Norwegian nodded. “I can work with—”

The hum of gears rattled through the quiet.

A second later, the elevator pinged. The sound of double doors opening followed, the faint hiss reaching him from the other side of the firehouse.

Ivar pushed away from the wall. “Denzeil?”

“
Ja
,” the male called from the back of the house. Footfalls echoed as his second in command trotted around the wall separating the future kitchen from the soon-to-be living room. Dark eyes alive with excitement, Denzeil wagged the tablet he held. “Got some news. Action in Granite Falls.”