Fury of Affliction (Dragonfury 2.0)

Chapter 3

3

SOUTH TACOMA—THE DEAD-END OF EASTER STREET

S tanding in a war room designed to take males apart, Zidane allowed the silence to settle on his skin. Across his senses. Closing his eyes, he soaked in the stillness, absorbing the soothing wave of a lair gone quiet.

A tingle ghosted down his spine. Flames followed, flickering over his shoulders, then down his bare back. Heat engulfed him. His dragon half sighed and sank deeper, relaxing as he opened his eyes and turned to his new knives. Seventeen strong, encased for the moment in hand-tooled leather sheaths, the assortment of blades came in all shapes and sizes. Some cleaver sized. Others as small as scalpels.

Works of art. The tools of his trade. The last pieces in the puzzle since his move across the Atlantic. Though the collection sat next to other toys, too. Straight and hooked pliers, narrow and wide chisels, different sized bone saws and wooden blocks. All set at precise intervals on the wooden tabletop he’d spent the last couple of weeks crafting.

A much nicer set-up than the one he left behind in Prague.

Thank the goddess. He’d always hated the dank despair of the dungeon room buried deep inside his sire’s pavilion. Much preferred what he’d created here—a clean, aboveground space inside a windowless room that looked more like an operating suite than a torture chamber. Lovely lines. High ceilings. Easier to reach from his bedroom two floors up. Less electrical wiring to run too, which…he frowned…come to think of it, still needed to be done.

He’d already laid the cable. All he needed to do now was install the electrical plug that would connect the man-sized grill bolted to the only wall in the room comprised of concrete. A handmade piece, the apparatus stood ten feet tall and seven feet wide. Metal handcuffs already hung from top and bottom horizontal slats, waiting for the first visitor to be shackled in and strung up.

Anticipation shivered through him.

Impatience followed, urging him to fly out and begin the hunt.

Inhaling through his nose, he filled his lungs, enjoying the smell of new plaster and paint, then breathed out through his mouth. The need to make someone bleed downgraded from urgent to a pleasure-in-waiting. He needed to be smart. Do the research. Take his time. Ensure he won in the end by doing the heavy lifting upfront. Other males considered patience a virtue for a reason. And with renovations of the ramshackle mansion he shared with his packmates almost complete, he could afford the luxury…along with the delay.

Bastian and the Nightfury warriors weren’t going anywhere.

Neither were Ivar and his motley crew of inept fighters.

Some way, somehow, he’d cull one of the bastards from the larger pack. The second he did, the enemy warrior would find himself inside his war room. Nothing but a plaything in a place designed to separate flesh from bone. No mercy shown. Zero breaks given.

Enlivened by the possibilities, he liberated a knife from its sheath. The handle settled in his palm like an old friend. He hummed. Perfect weight. Perfect length. Perfect weapon with which to?—

A clang sounded.

Hinges creaked behind him.

The heavy steel door swung open.

Cradling the blade, fighting his need to throw it, Zidane glanced over his shoulder.

Blue eyes with yellow flecks narrowed on him. “You throw it at me, I gut you with it.”

His mouth curved. “Tempting to put that to the test.”

“Try me,” Yakapov growled. “I’m begging you— try me .”

Pivoting to face his first-in-command, he planted his ass on the table edge. With a flick, he tossed the knife. He watched it rotate above him. On revolution number three, he snagged it out of the air. Satisfaction struck, pushing bliss through his veins. A state of being Yakapov didn’t share given the sour look on his face.

“Always so grumpy. What’s wrong now, zi kamir ?” he asked, calling his best friend “brother” in Dragonese. “Was the female not to your liking today? Not accommodating enough?”

“No stamina.” Reliving the event, Yakapov scowled. “She didn’t last through round two. I had to send her home in a cab.”

“You mind-scrub her first?”

“Da,” he said, thick Russian accent rolling. “Always. We don’t want the females Montgomery finds to service us knowing where we sleep, but that’s not the point.”

He raised a brow. “What’s the point?”

“I need more exercise. Fucking all day’s fun, but it’s getting old. I need blood on my claws.”

“I’m working on it.”

“The Razorbacks give up anything else?”

“The warriors Ivar loaned us don’t know much. Three of the four are clueless, but one thing for sure…” Spinning the blade, he flipped it again. The perfect blend of craftmanship and beauty, the razor-sharp tip stayed upright, balanced on the pad of his index finger. “Blakmor knows more than he’s saying.”

“You going to take another shot at him?”

“Maybe,” he said, then shrugged. “Though going toe-to-toe with him again might be a mistake.”

Invading the Blakmor’s mind had proven fruitful once, allowing him to steal the direct mind-speak link Ivar used to communicate with his pack. The connection allowed him to cherry-pick Razorback messages out of thin air every time Ivar started a new conversation. Very useful. A definite advantage. One he didn’t want Ivar to know about, which meant being patient. He refused to play his hand too soon.

“Blakmor’s smart, Yakapov. He’s got a mind like a steel trap.” Frowning, Zidane tilted his hand. The knife hilt collapsed against his palm. “His memory is coming back. I think he suspects he got more than just a blow job from the server at The Lucky Dog. If he figures out that I stole the Razorback link from him, he’ll run to Ivar. The risk of what I might find during a second go at him isn’t worth the reward.”

His friend grunted in agreement.

“For now, we stay on track,” he murmured. “Continue to build the shipping business. Sell the guns. Distribute the drugs. Acquire the wealth necessary to avoid the long reach of my sire.”

“Rodin.” The corner of Yakapov’s lip curled, exposing a sharp canine. “Can’t stand the meddling asshole.”

Zidane huffed.

He understood his friend’s reaction. Experienced a similar one whenever he spoke to his sire. Rodin, after all, was a taste most males never acquired.

As leader of the Archguard, his sire wielded a tremendous amount of power. The kind that spanned oceans and reached across continents. Nowhere was out of reach. No Dragonkind male was immune. If Rodin spoke, warriors listened or suffered the consequences…usually at Zidane’s hand. But no longer. No fucking more. He’d put distance between himself and his sire. No way would he ever go back.

Agreeing to hunt Bastian after the high counsel labeled him a traitor by reinstating Xzinile (the ancient practice of exile, and the inevitable death of the warrior who refused to comply with an Archguard decree) had gotten him out of Prague to America.

An opportunity Zidane refused to squander.

After he killed Bastian and his merry band of bastards, he planned to stay. To eliminate the competition and clear the skies. The warriors he handpicked in Prague to follow him across the pond were part of the plan. A powerful group of males. Fierce. Smart. Loyal. Each possessed the kind of nasty streak he not only admired, but needed to succeed. The foundational pieces of a dragon pack he’d build into a dominate force on the West Coast of America. Not just among Dragonkind, but in human circles as well.

Rodin wouldn’t be happy.

Zidane didn’t care.

He had ambition and drive. And honestly, it was time. Time to actualize. Time to optimize. Time to embrace his destiny and fly free without his sire’s constant interference.

Raking the hair out of his face, Yakapov retied the blond strands into a man-bun at the back of his head. “One other thing.”

“Yeah?” Gaze on his friend, Zidane returned the knife to its sheath.

“The boys’ve been talking…” his friend hesitated, then said, “we need a name.”

His brows collided. “A what?”

“A pack name. Something other than Rodin’s Death Squad .” Holding his gaze, Yakapov crossed his arms over his chest. “Bastian labeled his crew Nightfury. Ivar’s got the Razorbacks. We need to define our pack in the same way, Zidane. With a new handle—one that tells outsiders exactly who we are.”

The suggestion struck him as odd.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

No sense shutting down the idea without thinking about it first. He refused to fall into old patterns. The habit of pleasing his sire—of leaning away from self-sovereignty—was self-defeating. Unworthy of a commander. Though, the long-instilled programming was difficult to override.

Rodin was clever…and deliberate in his coercion. He’d spent years obliterating any sense of individuality. In Zidane. In the warrior packs living close to Prague. In the upper ranks of the Archguard, too. As leader, his sire ruled with a clenched fist and an iron will. In that world, what Rodin wanted not only trumped community needs but also those of the individual.

But that was over now.

Fate had dealt him a good turn by landing him in Tacoma. By giving him a new start, so…

What Rodin wanted for him and his squad no longer mattered. Despite the orders coming from the Archguard in Prague, Zidane possessed the power to choose.

Heart beating hard, he stared at his friend.

A pack name.

The first building block that would help him form an identity. A platform he could stand on while he seized control of his life, differentiating himself from Rodin and the high counsel. By naming his pack, he sent a clear message, making it plain he couldn’t be manipulated…or forced to play Rodin’s games—unless, of course, he chose to enter the arena.

Excitement skittered through him. Zidane tipped his chin. “Any suggestions?”

“A number,” Yakapov said, looking as though he wanted to kill someone. “They’re all shit.”

“What about…” he paused. A plethora of possibilities tumbled through his mind. He settled on his favorite. “Emberclaw. Or maybe…Stormfire. We could add Dominion or Legion to the back end.”

“Emberclaw Dominion. Stormfire Legion.” Pursing his lips, Yakapov tilted his head. “Not bad.”

“We’ll bring it to a vote.” Pushing out his lean against the table, he nodded. “See what the others think, then?—”

Static attacked his temples.

Zidane jerked upright. His boot soles rasped across concrete as the hiss intensified. Pain tore his senses open. His dragon half responded, rearing inside him, slamming against the limits of its mental cage. Hanging on by a thread, Zidane shut his beast down and turned inward to track the signal.

Jagged spikes smoothed into a steady blip.

A link into mind-speak opened.

Rapid-fire chatter came through the line.

A single voice cut through the chaos. As the clarifying force expanded inside his head, Yakapov left his position by the door. The heavy thud of boots came at him. A hand clamped down on his shoulder. Grounded by his friend’s grip, Zidane listened hard, concentrating on the orders being communicated through the link.

“What?” With a growl, Yakapov shook him. “What is it?”

“Ivar.”

“He on the move?”

“Something’s happening south of Portland.”

“Oregon?”

He nodded, so focused on the signal his vision wavered. He lost sight of Yakapov in the blur, staring at his friend without actually seeing him. “The entire Razorback pack is flying out.”

“Nightfuries in the mix?”

“Unknown.”

“Sun’s down. Sky’s clear,” Yakapov said. “We going?”

Dragon half frothing, Zidane refocused on his first-in-command. Bright blue eyes full of hope collided with his. He bared his teeth as aggression cratered his control. Magic slipped his net. Fire broke through the surface of his skin. Zidane welcomed the burn, loving the feel as flames raged down his spine. Heat blasted across the war room. His eyes sparked, bathing Yakapov and the white walls in citrine glow.

Yakapov released him before fire scorched his hand.

With a snarl, Zidane pivoted toward the exit.

“Fantastic,” his friend muttered, reading the intent driving his actions. “About time. Can’t wait to sink my claws into someone.”

The scent of smoke trailing behind him, Zidane cranked the door wide and crossed the threshold. He turned right into the main-floor hallway. His destination—the kitchen to gather his pack, then the back porch. No time to waste. He needed to shift into dragon form and get airborne as fast as possible.

The Razorbacks were already in full flight. Storming south. Crossing through territory he and his pack claimed, in search of someone driving up I-5.

He needed to know who.

He wanted to know why. Only then would he know who to kill and how many prisoners to take.