Coreene Callahan: Fury of Desire

Oh baby. Imminent attack. Not much better than that.

Wings spread wide, he banked hard as the other two rogues attacked. Timing it to perfection, Wick rolled into a somersault. Meathead number one tried to adjust. Too late. He was already in position, poised to strike above the male’s spine. Wick didn’t hesitate. Coming out of the tuck, he fisted the rogue’s horns. The enemy dragon screamed. He twisted, snapping the fucker’s neck, and swung around. His eyes narrowed on the last rogue. In full panic mode, the male wing flapped for a second, no doubt trying to decide. Take him on. Or run and hide. Wick banked wide right, hoping for the first, but…

No such luck. Wick growled in disgust. Aw, come on. Was the idiot really going to—

“Shit,” he muttered as the Razorback turned and fled in the opposite direction.

Increasing his wing speed, Wick chased after him, slicing between two skyscrapers. Glass rattled in steel frames. Refusing to lose the male, Wick banked around the bend, his wing tip inches from a building corner. His sonar pinged, narrowing his senses. Street lights blurred into streaks beneath him. He hummed as he came within range of his target.

Less than fifty feet away. Excellent. Right in the sweet spot.

A bull’s-eye locked on the rogue’s back, Wick drew a deep breath, filling his lungs to capacity. A fireball gathered at the back of his throat and… yum. He loved the taste. Couldn’t get enough of his arsenal’s cause and effect either.

Deadly. Efficient. Incendiary. The trifecta of nastiness was a gift that kept on giving.

One the Razorbacks underestimated all the time. The enemy never saw it coming. Not that Wick lamented the fact. The chemical complexities of his exhale elevated his game. Had all kind of layers: blue flame on the outside, the ooey-gooey goodness of lava on the inside, a layer of poisonous gas between the two.

Sweet and sour with a hit of hot sauce.

The rogue zigzagged, dodging between buildings. Wick hopscotched a smokestack. Time to head the asshole off at the pass. Magma splashed over his back molars. Whipping into a tight turn, Wick bared his fangs and started the countdown.

Three…

Fire licked over his tongue.

Two…

Lethal gases combined, rising up his throat.

One…

Wick pulled the trigger. The ravenous ball shot from his throat. Heat went cataclysmic. The inferno sucked the oxygen out of the air, hellish tail streaking behind it, hissing through the darkness, obliterating the chill. The Razorback yelled and scrambled, trying to get out of the way…

Boom!

The rogue screamed in agony. Wick dodged to avoid the splash-back of lava-infused fireball. Smoke billowed upward. The smell of burning scales and scorched bone putrefied the air, and—

Mission accomplished. One roasted Razorback plummeting out of the sky.

Wick watched him burn a second, then wheeled around, looking for his next target. Huh. None in sight. Which could only mean one thing. He’d flown far afield, chasing the rogue out of the kill zone… where his brothers-in-arms still fought. Leaving the rogue to dissolve into a pile of cinders, he stayed low and rocketed over an apartment complex.

The blow back from his wings rushed over the neighborhood. Treetops swayed. Vehicles rocked on their tires. Car alarms started to shriek. A few lights came on. Wick tightened the cloaking spell, strengthening his magic. Invisibility was an absolute must. Scaring the neighbors, after all, was never a good idea.

Neither was showing up on the evening news.

Night vision pinpoint sharp, Wick scanned the sky. Nada. No one in sight. He sent out an exploratory ping. “Venom.”

“What?”

Wick swallowed a snort. Wow. His friend sounded pissed off… and out of breath. Looked like he’d arrived just in time. “Four down. I’m free and clear.”

“Bully for you.” Scales rattled. Venom grunted. “I still got three on my tail.”

“Should be a walk in the park for you, Ven.”

“Screw off, Sloan,” Venom growled. “Get your ass over here and help me.”

Sloan huffed. “If you want my help, move the hell over. I’m coming in hot.”

“About frigging time.”

Following his buddies energy signal, Wick rocketed over a rooftop. A yellow Razorback came at him out of nowhere. Collision inevitable, Wick put the brakes on and ducked. The bastard streaked past, clipping him with a wing tip. The burn streaked over his shoulder. Holy shit. That had been close, and… he blinked, plucking the cause of the male’s hysteria out of thin air. Well, all right then. The enemy dragon had good reason to haul ass.

Right on the rogue’s tail, Rikar’s white scales flashed in the gloom. Frost swirling in his wake, the Nightfury XO glared at him. “Good of you to join us, hotshot.”

“I was a little busy.” His XO “uh-huhed.” Wick grinned, enjoying the artistic blast as Rikar blew by him.

“Wick,” Bastian said, a snarl in his voice. Wick’s focus snapped right. Scanning the horizon, he spotted B. Deep in combat, claws gleaming in the moonlight, his commander lashed out. A male screamed as B applied pressure, cracking the enemy’s spine in half. “Help Mac and Forge. Get an angle and take a shot. Down Ivar, but don’t incinerate him. We need him alive.”

Good plan. Ivar the Asshole had a nasty agenda. One that included a breeding program and a stable full of unwilling HE females. So yeah. Taking the rogue leader alive made a ton of sense. The problem? Ivar wasn’t stupid… or alone. He’d armored up and buttoned down, keeping a scaly wall of muscle between him and the wonder twins.

Which meant tactical advantage time. He needed a solid one. An approach the enemy wouldn’t see coming.

Eyes narrowed, Wick looked for an avenue. He needed a window just wide enough to slip through while Mac and Forge kept the rogues busy. Not a stretch by any means. The warriors were doing a good job of it already, hammering Ivar’s front line of defense. Wick hummed as Forge exhaled. Fire-acid shot between the male’s fangs, lighting up the night sky. Hamersveld countered, throwing up a wall of water. The stream of fire hit the barrier with a popping hiss, then flickered and went out like a lightbulb. Mac growled and unleashed his magic. The tidal wave evaporated, throwing mist toward the clouds like confetti.

“Heads up,” Wick murmured, keeping a low profile, slithering in like a snake. “Get ready to bug out.”

Elbowing a rogue, Mac spun around and fed him a mouthful of water spear. As the male went poof, he growled, “Line it up.”

“Say when.” Flipping sideways, Forge took out another sentry.

“Give me a second…”

Sneaking in from behind, Wick rolled in on a smooth glide. His gaze narrowed on Ivar, painting a target on red scales. Three hundred and fifty yards out. Not close enough yet. Just a little further. Just a little longer. Ten seconds tops before he entered the kill zone. The optimal distance to ensure he singed Ivar’s wings. The second his exhale reached Ivar, burning the vulnerable webbing, the bastard wouldn’t be able to fly. And once on the ground? He’d hit him hard. Make him hurt. Exact the toll, keeping him just alive enough to answer B’s line of inquiry.

Answers. Wick wanted them as much as his commander.

The enemy was hurting those most vulnerable. Females like his own. It didn’t matter that he refused to mate her. The claiming was irrelevant. He needed to know when he let her go, Jamison could walk out of Black Diamond into a safer world. One in which Ivar didn’t exist, and the code most of Dragonkind lived by held sway.