Fury of Desire

first and was about to land face first in the second.

Caution yanked his chain. Something was wrong… very, very wrong.

Grabbing a chair from the tabletop, Nian dropped its legs to the floor. Wood scraped against wood. A soft thump echoed as he flipped the chair backward and, folding his arms over the backrest, sat directly across from one of the most powerful males of his kind. “What’s wrong?”

“What makes you think there’s anything wrong?”

Aw, come on. Were they really going to play this game? He didn’t have time for the sideshow. Only an hour remained until showtime, for Silfer’s sake. Gritting his teeth, Nian resisted the urge to glance at his Rolex. He raised a brow instead, asking without words. Patience, after all, was the better part of valor. And right now, silence seemed like the best policy. He couldn’t afford to turn the older male away. He needed Rodin’s trust. Had worked hard to make inroads these last few months, and the fact Rodin now sat inside his club instead of halfway across the city in his pleasure pavilion was a good sign.

Breaking eye contact, Rodin frowned into his drink. “Lothair is dead.”

“How?”

“Murdered by the Nightfury pack.”

“Ah, hell, Rodin… I’m sorry,” he said, even though he didn’t mean it. Lothair. The male didn’t deserve to be mourned. Rodin’s second son represented everything Nian wanted to change about Dragonkind. And as far as he was concerned? Bastian had done the world a favor by taking the bastard out. Not that he would ever admit it. “But Lothair knew what he was signing up for when he joined Ivar’s camp. Any male involved in that war is—”

“Bullshit!” With a snarl, Rodin slammed his fist against the tabletop. The whiskey bottle jumped, skittering across the wooden surface. Teeth bared and dark eyes aglow, he leaned forward in his seat, violent intent throbbing at his temple. “He was my son. Mine! Immune from death. Do you know how this reflects upon me? I am the leader of the Archguard… the most powerful Dragonkind male in a sea of them. No one touches what belongs to me.”

And there it was—the real reason behind the rage. Rodin didn’t care that his son was dead. His concern centered on his own reputation.

“And your plan is…?”

“To kill them all.”

The announcement sent Nian back a step. The conviction he saw in Rodin’s eyes gave him pause. The bastard might be drunk, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d thought it through. Had a plan in mind. Which meant the ball was already rolling… in nasty directions.

“How?” he asked, needing more info. Intel, after all, amounted to power. The right information fed to the right male at the right time could make all the difference. To him, at least. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about Rodin. “The Nightfuries are a warrior pack… one of the strongest and most lethal. Bastian is well loved. Many follow him… are begging him to serve as High Chancellor over the Archguard as his sire did before him. You try and assassinate him, and packs will choose sides. Dragonkind will splinter. You will start a war, Rodin.”

“Not if I reinstate Xzinile.”

Nian blinked. Oh Christ. Not good. Xzinile was an ancient state of law, a legal way to label someone a traitor. Once invoked and voted upon by the high council, the male—or pack of males—became outcasts, fair game for legalized assassination. Sanctioned execution by the Archguard put a bounty on the warrior, making him an attractive target for any Dragonkind male in need of money, prestige… or simply a way into the Archguard’s good graces.

Dangerous. Foolhardy. Brilliant in a sick kind of way.

It also endangered Nian’s agenda. He needed Bastian to support his hostile takeover of the high council. But if the Nightfury pack came under threat of Xzinile? He’d be screwed. Stuck waiting for another opportunity to strike at the upper echelon and take the power for himself.

“Who is responsible for Lothair’s murder?”

“A Scottish warrior,” Rodin said. “Goes by the name Forge.”

Uh-huh. Not even close to accurate.

The bastard lied. Nian recognized the slither in his tone. Rodin didn’t have a clue who’d killed his son. Which begged a question, didn’t it? Why pin the murder on an individual member of Bastian’s pack? His eyes narrowed. The entire thing stunk. Not surprising. Nothing Rodin ever handled came out smelling like roses. The leader of the Archguard targeted Forge for a reason. A very specific one. One Nian would bet his fangs had more to do with Rodin covering his own ass than the truth.

Shifting in his seat, Nian stared at the wallpaper above Rodin’s head. As he pretended to consider all the angles, he shook his head. “It’ll be a hard sell.”

“Not if you’re behind me.” One corner of his mouth twisted up, the bastard smirked, making Nian want to take his head off… just for the fun of it. “The other members of the high council will follow our lead.”

“You want my word I’ll vote with you.”

“I want your loyalty and support.”

Two things Rodin would never possess, but what else could he do? If he said no, he jeopardized his position. If he said yes, he condemned an innocent pack to death.

“I’ll think about it,” he said, refusing to lie down like a fifty-dollar whore. Strength respected strength. It was time he showed Rodin some. “When’s the vote?”

“Night after tomorrow, just before the festival’s closing ceremony… if I call it.”

Nian nodded. “Call it.”

“Can I count on you?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Good.” Downing the rest of the whiskey, Rodin slid out of the booth and pushed to his feet. Heavy-handed, the bastard slapped him on the shoulder, then turned toward the door. “In the meantime, see that Gage and Haider are rounded up, will you?”

Alarm bells went off inside his head. “To what end?”

“They will be held until Bastian complies and delivers the Scottish whelp to me for execution.”

Held, his ass. Nian stifled a snort. Imprisoned was more like it. “He won’t do it.”

“Exactly.” Halfway across the club, Rodin glanced over his shoulder. A terrible gleam in his eyes, he murmured, “This is a power play, Nian. When Bastian refuses to hand over Forge, all of the Nightfuries… every last fucking one… will fall under the rule of Xzinile and—”

“The Metallics become fair game.”

“Duel beheadings at the festival’s closing ceremony sound good to you?”

“Could be fun.”

“I think so too,” he said, dark voice drifting.

The handle clicked. The door opened then closed behind Rodin.

Christ help him, he felt sick. A stomach full of rotgut would be more pleasant. But as Nian pushed to his feet, automatically returning the chair to the upside-down perch alongside its fellows, he refused to acknowledge the chop and churn. He tilted his wrist and glanced at his watch, checking the time instead. So much to do, so little time. Just under an hour to reevaluate his plan, formulate a new one and… Nian swallowed… decide how much to tell Bastian. All while he tried to figure out a way to smuggle Gage and Haider the hell out of Prague without compromising his position.

Or getting caught.

15

Silence seeped from the ground, licking through chilly air to electrify the neighborhood. A good sign. The fewer humans around the better.

Wick didn’t want to be interrupted. Not while hunting Azrad.

All right. Maybe hunting wasn’t the right word. Rendezvous might be more