Fury of Affliction (Dragonfury 2.0)

Black Diamond Lair

BLACK DIAMOND LAIR

ALL HALLOWED EVE

M ac set the chainsaw down in the middle of the antique tabletop. The bump of steel against wood joined the crackle in the fireplace, echoing through the room as the jagged teeth of the blade bumped into a bowl of cheezies. Set up for the regular Saturday afternoon poker game, the table overflowed with the usual…an endless supply of artery clogging junk food. Not that any of his brothers-in-arms cared about potential cardiovascular implosions. Humans might’ve, but not them. Their dragon DNA worked too fast for that, healing them from the inside out, before any degenerative damage could be done.

A huge bonus for all the dragon-warriors, considering the battles fought night after night with a rogue faction of their kind.

Shoving a candy dish aside, Mac repositioned the chainsaw, going for maximum centerpiece effect, then glanced toward the end of the table. Seated at the head of the mahogany monstrosity, Wick’s gaze met his. The warrior raised a brow, his silent inquiry more effective than words.

“Leatherface…Texas Chainsaw Massacre.” Wick threw him a baffled look. Mac’s mouth curved. It figured. Trust the most violent warrior among them to be cinematically challenged. “Never seen the movie?”

Hands shuffling a newly opened deck, Wick shook his head.

“You need to get out more.” Fingering his blood splattered dress shirt, Mac loosened his tie, tugging the tattered fabric of his plaid vest to one side. “Where’s your costume?”

“Halloween is for pansies.”

Mac snorted. Classic Wick, direct and to the point, much like a steel-toed boot to the head. No surprise there. Neither was the fact their resident sociopath never deviated from his usual attire inside the lair—ripped jeans, faded, beat-to-hell T-shirts, and combat boots. So Halloween and dressing up? Nah, not really Wick’s style.

“Who’s a pansy?” Heavy footfalls playing second fiddle to the disembodied voice, the question drifted in from through the open archway.

“You are,” Mac said, trash-talking, knowing who was about to enter the dining room.

Right on cue, Venom came into view. Dipping his head to avoid getting his noggin whacked by the timber-beam lintel, the big male crossed the threshold. Mac blinked. Holy God, the guy’s face looked as though it had been put through a meat grinder. “What the hell are you supposed to be?”

“Road kill.”

“Niiice,” Mac said, reluctant admiration in his tone.

Wick rolled his eyes.

Venom grinned, and grabbing a chair back, sat in his usual spot halfway down the table.

Moments later, the other Nightfury warriors filed in. Ahead of the pack, dressed as Optimus Prime from the Transformers, Sloan threw a package of red licorice onto the tabletop. Plastic crinkled as the candy slid to a halt beside the pile of poker chips, and Mac got a load of Bastian. He frowned, taking stock his commander’s get-up. Circa Pirates of the Caribbean, B tilted his Captain Jack Sparrow hat in a rakish manner and scrubbed a hand along his whiskered jaw.

“Myst likes pirates,” B murmured, a wicked gleam in his coal-lined eyes.

Mac laughed, liking his commander’s game plan. A costume for the Halloween themed poker game with the guarantee of getting lucky with his female later on. Damned good strategy.

Knuckle-bumping B on the fly-by, Mac tipped his chin, greeting his mentor as the Scot entered the fray.

“Who’s ready tae get their arse kicked?” Forge asked, adjusting the codpiece on his Scottish troll costume. The wart on his nose quivered in protest. “’Tis all over but the crying, lads.”

“Arrogant prick.” Bringing up the rear, Rikar shoved the Friday the 13th hockey mask to the top of his head. Ice blue eyes glittering, he pointed a machete in Forge’s direction. “Get ready to lose, Scot.”

“Give over, you wanker,” Forge said. “No one beats me at Texas hold ‘em.”

“Then you’ve never played me.”

The quiet assertion slithered through the room, soft accompaniment to the hissing shift of shuffling cards. All eyes turned to far end of the table, following the deep voice. Golden gaze aglow, Wick sat with a bent-to-shit halo askew on his dark head. As far as costumes went, it wasn’t much. In terms of a threat…crazy effective. Cuz one thing for certain? An angel, Wick was not.