Staying hidden, and off the human military complex’s radar, was key to Dragonkind’s continued good health. The system had worked for centuries. No need for anything to change. So Grizgunn killing humans—females more often than not—didn’t make any sense.
After being cursed by the Goddess of All Things, Dragonkind’s ability to connect to the Meridian—the electrostatic bands ringing the planet, source of all living things—lay shattered. No hope of the connection ever being repaired. If not for human females, his kind would starve to death. Being skin-to-skin with a female allowed a male to enter the stream and absorb the energy he required to stay healthy and strong. A necessary process, vital to his species.
Which led him back to the original question. Why the hell were the Danes targeting human females?
Eyes on the night sky, Rannock growled. Liquid bronze puffed from his nostrils, then turned to metal flecks in the air. Surrounded by glittering blowback, he leapt from one ledge to another. His claws punched through solid rock. The scrape and claw echoed. Shale rattled down the cliff. Rock smashed into rock. As sound ricocheted, bouncing around the canyon, sailing into the vale beyond, he called on his magic.
Ions in his blood sparked, amplifying his unique bio-signature. The signal throbbed around him, then rushed over the Cairngorms, painting a bigger target on his hide. A blatant show of disrespect, one most Dragonkind warriors would refuse to abide. Only an arrogant male unmasked so completely, sending the message that he believed himself unbeatable. Invincible. Better—stronger, faster, smarter—than those hunting him.
A smart male would shut it down. Smother the signal. Conjure a cloaking spell and get out of the area.
Crouched on a high ridge, Rannock send out another ping instead. Dragon senses aligned, powerful magic frothing, he waited for a reaction, for a sign that signaled imminent attack. For the stalemate to be over. Nothing came back. No show of aggression. Zero movement at the three-mile marker. Just the provocation of a pack that had no intention of giving him what he wanted—claw-to-claw combat, the chance to rip into rogue flesh and break enemy bones.
Wings tucked tight to his sides, he stayed at it, allowing the tips of his razor-sharp claws to click against uneven stone. The wind whistled against the deep crevices, moaning over jagged mountaintops. His gaze cut to the ground. A nineteen-hundred-foot drop.
The urge to let go and tumble into free fall twisted through him. After hours of climbing, somersaulting into the void would feel good. The release, the rise to flight, would soothe the disquiet crawling beneath his scales. Inaction didn’t suit him. He needed to stay busy, was built to hunt and kill. And when he wasn’t doing that, he spent time inside his hangar, rebuilding the helicopters he sold to private buyers all over the world.
Though he should probably tack a second item to the list. The she-devil—Cate Biscayne.
A female he’d never met, but spoke to every single day.
Clenching his teeth, Rannock stopped climbing. Unease chased a shiver down his spine. His spikes rattled, throwing glowing streaks across the night sky as he closed his eyes. Goddess, her voice. Sultry. Sweet. On the upward curve of melodic. So soothing she helped him drop into a deep sleep every day. Which made him a first-class fool—a male who turned his back on right in favor of tumbling straight into wrong.
He should’ve broken off contact weeks ago, after his first conversation with her. A complete accident on his part. He’d answered a phone he should’ve left in its cradle. But answer he had, and now he was screwed. So addicted to the sound of her voice, he’d forgotten an indisputable fact—no matter how hard he worked to ignore the truth, Rannock knew he wasn’t good enough for her.
He wasn’t a worthy male.
The nightmare he lived with Heather was proof enough of that.
Hopping over an outcropping, Rannock landed on a narrow shelf and, dragging his mind from the female he longed to touch, but never would, got back on track.
Head low, night vision sharp, he sent another ping rocketing over the range. A stronger challenge. More aggressive, less inviting. The equivalent of a Dragonkind warrior calling another a coward from a long way away. The signal echoed inside his head. Nothing came back. No return volley from the enemy pack. No movement in the distance.
Resigned to his fate, Rannock fired up mind-speak. Magic knifed through his veins, then funneled into a crackling hiss. Breaking radio silence, he spoke into the void. “Got nothing, lads. The Danes ghosted the second I flew in.”
“Playing keep-away with me here tae,” Kruger said, voice full of gravel, conveying supreme annoyance. A bad sign. Of all his packmates, the male was the most even-keeled. It took a lot to make Kruger angry, but once past the tipping point, he went from zero to sixty in a millisecond, losing all calm. “The yellow-bellied bastards.”
“So much for using you and Kruger as bait,” Cyprus said, frustration in every syllable.
Rannock grunted, feeling his commander’s pain. “Should’ve worked.”
“Didnae,” Levin said, frosty tone clipped, ice dragon attitude coming through the line.
“No shite, Captain Obvious,” Rannock said, frowning so hard his forehead hurt. Pain bloomed behind his eye, moving from annoying ache to hardcore gnaw. Gaze trained on the jagged peak overhead, he ignored the discomfort and started toward the summit. Pebbles tumbled, pinging off the outcropping before bouncing over the edge and disappearing into the gloom. “I’m alone out here. Easy pickings. No way the bastards should’ve run the second I flew into range.”
“Mayhap.” Positioned to the north, long grass rustled as Wallaig moved through the grasslands. No click of claws on frozen ground. No bio-signal detected. Just the soft rush of scales in a farmer’s field from miles away. Kind of eerie. Weirdly reassuring as Rannock listened to his pack’s first-in-command navigate terrain occupied by humans north of the Cairngorms. “The bastards might not be able tae detect us, but they know we’d never leave one of our own unprotected. Not difficult tae guess the rest of us are waiting outside the three-mile marker, ready for the arseholes tae attack. They arenae that stupid.”
Vyroth sighed. “If only wishing made it so. Would make things easier.”
“A lot more fun, too,” Tempel muttered, American accent flat with impatience. “I haven’t gotten my claws bloody in weeks.”
Cyprus blew out a long breath. “We need a new plan.”
“This was the new plan,” Tydrin said, fire hissing through mind-speak.
“All right, then,” Cyprus said. “A better one. Almost three months of this bullshite. Three bloody months we’re out here, hunting Danes, without results. I’m tired of chasing the arseholes around our island. I want the bastards dead, but more, I want tae know what’s going on. Grizgunn wants our territory, but refuses tae fight for it. There’s a bigger game afoot. I donnae like it.”
“You think Rodin’s got enough balls?” Rannock asked, returning to a familiar argument… to an ever-present suspicion. No one wanted to believe it, but facts kept stacking up, pointing to the possibility. “Is the Archguard really that far gone?”
“Probably,” Tydrin growled.
“No doubt,” Vyroth muttered.
“Could be,” Wallaig said, sounding pissed off. “Rodin’s a slippery bastard. Power plays are part of his make-up… as natural tae him as breathing. He’s bold enough tae mess with the Nightfury pack, so I donnae think the arsehole has any lines he willnae cross.”