back at Wick. He shrugged.
Hopping out of the passenger side, Forge met his gaze over the SUV’s roof.
Lucky him. The wonder twins were at it again, backing each other’s play.
Wick didn’t bother to razz the pair for it. The mentor/apprentice thing was serious shit. A bond not unlike the one he shared with Venom: unbreakable, intense, the kind of friendship that lasted a lifetime and made males sacrifice for one another. That Mac and Forge fell into that category so quickly after meeting was a good thing. No sense getting bent out of shape about it. Or their dumb-ass choices.
Especially with a squadron of Razorbacks flying in hot.
Now that he was outside, Wick could smell the acrid burn in the air. Add that to the static buzzing between his temples and… yeah. There were multiple rogues in the area. Minutes away probably.
Footfalls hammering the quiet, Wick ran toward the only way out. Moments before he reached the tricked- out SUV, Mac swung the rear door wide. Wick pivoted mid-stride, spinning into a 180-degree turn. Ass-planting himself on the edge of the backseat, he slipped inside with Jamison in his lap and inchwormed until his boots cleared the cushion edge.
The truck doors slammed.
Forge met his gaze over the top of the passenger seat. Purple eyes drifted over the female asleep in his arms, then snapped back to Wick. The Scot raised a brow, the look on his comrade’s face all about “are you, okay?” Wick stayed silent. What could he say? No, not even close to okay? Yes, totally fine? Neither answer seemed adequate. Or anywhere near truthful, so instead of answering, he told Mac to punch it, hoping the ex-cop drove like a speed demon. Otherwise, the enemy would close ranks around them, and Jamison would end up with a bull’s-eye on her back.
9
Home on his mind, Nian took the treads two at a time. The rhythm of his footfalls echoed up the stairwell, bouncing off concrete and steel. The scent of stale beer and sex lingered in the narrow space, telling the tale, revealing the stairwell’s secrets, highlighting the truth of club goers’ amorous pursuits in dark corners. Not a problem most nights. He didn’t give a damn about what went down in his clubs. Right now, though, he thanked God for the quiet and the coming dawn. All the patrons had left, stumbling into the night, leaving the Emblem Club, and the nightclub that sat one floor above it, empty.
A blessing, if ever there was one.
After the strain of the last week, he needed a break. Could feel exhaustion settle into his bones, then reach deep to touch his heart. An unusual occurrence for him. The hustle and bustle never bothered him before. He liked to keep busy. Thrived on all the activity. Enjoyed the income his many businesses provided too. Tonight, however, proved to be the exception, not the rule. He was tapped out… tired of the constant barrage of questions from employees and the heavy load of responsibility. He needed peace. He needed quiet. He needed the Metallics to call him the hell back.
Hellfire and brimstone. What in God’s name were the pair doing? Well, besides ducking his calls and avoiding his presence. No matter how many messages he left, nothing came back. It was frustrating. Annoying. Beyond disrespectful. Something he never tolerated from anyone. His pride—and position as a member of the Archguard—disliked disdain. From anyone. But true to form, the Nightfury warriors didn’t give a damn about him.
Or what he planned.
Now he had less than diddly-squat. Nothing but all’s quiet on the eastern front. A never-ending string of stalling on Gage and Haider’s part. Nian gritted his teeth and, grasping the handrail, ascended another flight of stairs. What the devil was Haider’s game? The warrior seemed sincere enough, promising him a face-to-face with Bastian. But despite everything, it hadn’t happened. At least, not yet. Which was why he always put together a contingency plan, one for every occasion. He’d done the same for the Nightfury situation over a month ago… long before he approached Bastian’s warriors.
A brilliant strategy, but for one thing.
The male in charge of plan B wasn’t returning his calls either.
Two weeks had passed and… nothing. Not a peep from the warrior he’d freed from indentured servitude for the sole purpose of infiltrating the Seattle scene. He needed viable intel to tempt Bastian into an alliance with him. A two-pronged attack. Step one involved him. As a member of the high council and Archguard elite—head of one of the dynastic families that ruled Dragonkind—he sat at the very top of Dragonkind hierarchy, able to collect insider information Bastian wouldn’t be privy to on his own. Details of which he would share with the Nightfury commander to win his trust.
And step two? Plant a spy inside the Nightfury camp.
A risky proposition? No question. But success required calculated risk, and Nian needed an edge. One that would allow him to keep an eye on Bastian and the Razorback situation. The best way to accomplish that was from inside the Nightfury pack. The plan held tremendous promise but wasn’t without problems. Bastian didn’t run an adoption agency. The male was too guarded to accept a new pack member without vetting him first. So the chance of planting an ally loyal to Nian next to the Nightfury commander was slim to none. But if his warrior proved useful to Bastian—figured out a way to exist on the fringes of his pack—it would be enough. Enough to feed him information. Enough to help him keep his thumb on the pulse of Bastian’s mood. Enough to give him the advantage while he furthered his own agenda in Europe.
But only if the bastard he’d sent to Seattle did his job.
Impatience beat on Nian as he reached the last landing. With a snarl, he upped his pace. His gaze on the Exit sign, he hammered the security bar. The door swung wide, flying back to slam into the building facade. The violent bang pinged off brick and mortar, raging across the cityscape to touch the heart of Old Town. Sidestepping, he avoided the backlash of reinforced steel and strode across the roof.
Five stories up. Not a lot of height to get airborne. Nian didn’t care. He needed to fly. To shift into dragon form, feel the rush of frigid air and experience Prague in the predawn hours.
Arms and legs pumping, Nian sprinted toward the edge. Street lights flashed in his periphery. His magic flared, swirling in the center of his palm, warming the air around him as he transformed and leapt skyward. The burnished gold of his interlocking dragon skin glimmered in the gloom. With a growl, he unfolded his wings and rotated into an ascending spiral. Pushed south by the north wind, frost rushed over him, stripping away the city filth. The tri-headed spikes running along his spine rattled, shivering down to touch the tip of his barbed tail. Baring his fangs, he hummed, reveling in winter’s sweet smells as urban lights fell away beneath him.
Oh, so good. Better than
Fast flying took him out of the city, over thick forests and rocky terrain. Nian sighed. Almost there. Another few minutes, and he’d be where he yearned to be… home. Safe within the confines of his mountain lair. Away from the demands of his many businesses and all the Archguard tripe.
Fine golden mist rising from his nostrils, Nian shook his head. Something needed to change, and quickly. He couldn’t stand much more of Rodin’s foolishness. The leader of the Archguard was out of control: arrogant, overconfident, infected with idiotic notions driven by twisted ideology. So blind. So stubborn. So very foolish. The depravity—the female slave auctions… the fight clubs with ten-year-old boys playing gladiator—turned Nian’s stomach, driving him to the point of rage.
Not good. Or the least bit productive.
Showing his cards too soon wouldn’t get him what he wanted. Neither would anger or grief. Only deliberate action and a clever plan would achieve his end. He wanted so much better for his race. But change would never occur with Rodin at the helm. Fact, not fiction. He’d watched and waited since ascending to his position, searching for a light at the end of the tunnel. It hadn’t come. Now—after three months of enduring the Archguard’s corruption—Nian knew it never would.
Disgust settled deep. Frustration followed, tightening his chest.
