SAVANNAH, GEORGIA
T-minus seven days
Her cell phone rang, dragging Cate Biscayne from a fitful sleep.
Tangled in the top sheet, sprawled in the center of the double bed in her crappy studio apartment, she raised the cotton edge just enough to see. Her gaze cut to the milk crate doubling as her nightstand. Red digits on the alarm clock read 6:03 a.m.
Ringer set to low, her phone chirped again.
Unearthing her head from cotton cling, she shifted across the mattress in the near dark. The glow of the screen showed her the way, spilling blue light over lopsided candles mired in puddled wax on the waffled top of her makeshift bedside table. Up on her elbow, she reached for her phone. Cool to the touch, the new Samsung settled in her hand. A gift. From him. The package had arrived almost a month ago. After their first contact. After she’d heard his voice for the very first time.
She smiled as time ticked over.
6:04 a.m.
Late.
He was four minutes late. Not something that had ever happened before. Not once in the weeks she’d been answering his calls. In secret. On the down-low. All very hush-hush.
Her sister would never approve.
She didn’t plan on telling her.
The early-morning calls had become her lifeline. The only port in her storm. And right now, after months of upheaval, Cate needed to hear his voice more than she wanted to be safe. Which left just one thing to do—ignore her sister’s advice and reach for the security he offered. Starting her day with him in her ear was worth the risk. Any risk. Everything. Even if it meant she lost her life in the end.
Some secrets, after all, were meant to be kept.
And sometimes, big sisters didn’t need to know.
2
CAIRNGORMS MOUNTAINS—WEST OF ABERDEEN, SCOTLAND
T-minus three days
The night began as it always did, with him waiting in the weeds. Or as tonight would have it, hanging off the side of a cliff in dragon form. Nothing new for him. He enjoyed the high places. Spent most of his time soaring in open skies along the Cairngorms, playing in vicious updrafts between jagged mountain peaks.
Tonight, however, didn’t count as one of the highlights.
What started out as a brilliant plan had gone to hell, bringing whole new levels of frustration.
Claws curled deep in rock crevices, Rannock re-checked his position. Right out in the open. Completely visible. A sitting duck as he climbed the craggy outcropping. The hard ridges of his interlocking dragon skin brushed over uneven stone. The clicking scrape-and-claw rolled into the canyon, echoing into high and low places.
Places he’d spend his youth exploring.
Place he knew by heart and loved more with each passing year.
Places he now hunted the enemy. Males who had no business flying over territory he and his pack protected.
With a growl, he ripped a chunk of rock off the mountainside. Stone shrieked against his battle-sharpened claws. He tossed the boulder over his shoulder and, swinging his spiked tail like a baseball bat, hammered it with the barbed tip. Hard swing. Solid strike. A home run by any standards as the shattered mess sailed into the chasm.
Rannock grinned as shrapnel slammed against the cliff on the other side of the canyon. Rock exploded into smaller pieces. Shale rained down. He didn’t bother to quiet the cacophony. The whole point was to be heard. Tracked. Targeted. And attacked.
A suicide mission, some might say.
Rannock didn’t agree.
After weeks with little to show for the hunt, he was done waiting. Forget caution. Toss the usual strategies into the nearest trash compactor. A new approach was needed, and putting a bull’s-eye on his shiny hide seemed the best way to get the results he wanted—blood on his claws and the sound of rogue dragons screaming.
Angling his scales, he used the high-polish metallic surface like a mirror. Moonlight struck the bronze spikes riding along his spine. Light beamed through the darkness, acting like spotlights as fast-moving clouds opened and closed.
Moving at a steady clip, Rannock kept the glow-show going. He climbed up a sheer rockface, then over another ridge. As he stepped onto the ledge at the top of the rise, snow whipped off high peaks, dusting him with flurries. The icy swirl melted on contact, making him glisten against dark rock.
Excellent.
Now he was even more visible. A shining beacon of come-and-get-me.
He suppressed the urge to cross his fingers. Stupidity wouldn’t help him. Nothing short of a bone-grinding brawl would, but…
It seemed unlikely.
The enemy pack never engaged.
A normal Dragonkind warrior would’ve taken the bait by now. Mark him as an easy target. Attempt to blow him off his perch. Call it a night and head for home. If only. For freaking once.
Lamenting the rogue’s strategy, Rannock shook his head. The Danes didn’t play by the rules, never mind conduct business in normal ways. Normal had flown the coop when the bastards invaded Scottish territory, then all but disappeared.
The vanishing act sucked.
For him, sure, but also for his brothers-in-arms.
An aggressive group, his packmates enjoyed a good fight as much as he did. The whole thing was bizarre. Grizgunn’s refusal to allow his pack to engage turned a simple mission into a difficult one. Had Rannock been able to find the idiots, the bastards would already be gone. Crushed beneath his paws. Ripped to shreds by his claws. Nothing but dragon ash dusted over inhospitable mountaintops. Instead, he suffered through boring nights with no one to fight while struggling to understand the enemy’s end game.
Gaze on the valley below, Rannock tilted his head and refined the search parameters. The tips of his horns tingled as his sonar pinged, dragging a net across the sky. The signal whiplashed. Information came back like a boomerang.
He bared his tri-pointed fangs.
Six Danes flew around the periphery. Two full fighting triangles watched him from afar, skimming over the end of a far-flung mountain spire. Less than three miles away. Close enough for him to detect, too far away for him to do much about it. The second he moved into a more aggressive position, the rogues would bug out and deny him the fight he craved.
Why?
No bloody clue.
The moment the Danes flew into his territory, the odd games began. The weird tactics threatened his control. After weeks of nothing, he felt the pressure building inside his head. The headache throbbed behind his left eye, annoying him as he continued to provoke the males lighting up his radar. His disrespectful stance should’ve provoked a response. Made the least patient warrior in their group say screw the rules and attack, but…
Nothing.
No progress on the arsehole infestation front.
“Bloody hell,” he growled, as the ache behind his eye intensified.
It really shouldn’t be this difficult.
Too bad Grizgunn (commander of the Danish pack) didn’t care what he thought. The bastard never fell into Rannock’s traps. He kept his warriors on a tight leash. “Hunt and peck” seemed to be the plan du jour. Fly in, attack villages under the Scottish pack’s protection, then disappear into mist.
Dishonorable conduct at its brashest. Evasion at its deadliest.
Why the bastards bothered to hurt humans was anyone’s guess. It wasn’t normal. Was, in point of fact, counterproductive.
Rannock frowned. Most Dragonkind avoided humans. Not an ironclad rule. More of a suggestion. One that ensured the survival of their species.