“Jesus,” he murmured, rocketing across the treetops toward open ground.
“Told you.” Steady on his wingtip, Hakon cut through the snarl, flicking off the other warriors’ magic. “Powerful sons of bitches.”
Another round of unease hit Grizgunn. The trio didn’t make sense: three males, all skilled fighters. No need for them to join an already established group. Warriors who wielded the kind of power he perceived could draw other Dragonkind to whatever sector they chose and start their own pack. Which raised an important question—why in the hell were the males in Scotland?
Instinct warned him alternative motives were afoot. He should turn around and fly away. Now, before things went from slightly off to totally fucked up. He didn’t need the added risk or headache, but…
He clenched his teeth.
The warriors below presented a unique opportunity. If the males really were homeless, he could sway them, turn them—forge them into a fighting unit so lethal, Cyprus wouldn’t know what hit him. A big risk with a serious upside, one Grizgunn refused to let pass him by. Despite the danger, he was curious now. The urge to solve the riddle—to smooth out the inconsistencies—pushed him forward…into the unsafe territory with the potential of a huge reward.
Not smart, but…
Six against three were good odds. Whatever the trio’s motives, he had enough firepower at his back to discourage a direct attack.
Rocketing over the residential area backing onto a manicured lawn, he put on the brakes. The dark blue webbing vibrated as he cleared the thick fringe of huge trees. He folded his wings. Gravity yanked him toward the ground. Damp air whistled over his scales. His paws slammed down. He turned toward a sprawling oak, sharp claws cutting through the top layer of turf. The smell of loam and fresh-cut grass sliced up, tickling his nostrils as he leveled his gaze on the males standing deep in shadows.
Three pairs of eyes were on him. One the blue-gray of the north Atlantic, the second the color of ice, the last a flat, shimmering silver.
Already in human form, the largest male stepped from the shadows.
Grizgunn swallowed a curse. Yes. Absolutely. Fucking powerful. Tall, six foot eight, maybe six foot nine, with a huge frame. Thin twin scars marked a face set in an intense expression. His shoulders were squared as though prepared for a fight. The lethal vibe ate through the gloom around him. A leader who understood his own strength. A commander who demanded the kind of respect Grizgunn refused to give anyone.
Shit.
It was all going to shit.
One look, and Grizgunn knew he didn’t want this male anywhere near his warriors. He would try to oust him as commander of the Danish pack. It was simply a part of his nature. Easy to read in the line of his—
“Grizgunn?” Feet planted beneath stout branches overhead, the male crossed his arms over his chest.
Shifting out of dragon form, Grizgunn conjured his clothes. “Ja. And you are?”
“Callas.” With a flick of his fingers, the male indicated the others standing behind him. “My wingmates—Beauregard and Rune.”
A weird accent, difficult for Grizgunn to place. Greek, maybe. Or—his eyes narrowed—Northern Africa, perhaps. With undertones of British colonialism.
He raised a brow. “You’re a long way from home.”
Callas shrugged. “Needed a change of scenery.”
“And you found it here?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Who you’ve got in your stable, and whether or not we get along.”
Smart. Careful. Callas was both, and yet Grizgunn didn’t like the feel of him. The male talked a good line, but smelled all wrong.
“You looking to own?” he asked, testing Callas’s boundaries, trying to unearth his intentions.
“I’m looking to settle.”
Settle, his ass. The male hadn’t flown into Scotland to put down roots. Callas was after something. Or—Grizgunn’s instinct clanged—perhaps someone. “You don’t have the look and feel of a settler.”
“Not gonna lie,” Callas said, rolling his shoulders. “I’ve led a pack. Been there, done that. Got my brothers-in-arms out of it. Don’t feel the need to repeat the experience. And I like the feel of this island.”
“Enough water for you.”
“Mountains and streams, too.”
“Best of both worlds for a water dragon.”
Callas inclined his head, answering without really confirming. No need to put a finer point on it—the strong smell of brine in his scent gave him away. Staring at him, Grizgunn took a moment to marvel at the male. Water dragons were rare. Aggressive, unpredictable—and completely untrustworthy.
By all accounts, Callas’s subset of Dragonkind was fickle, loyal to no one but themselves. Self-interest always won out in the end. Which made Callas a terrible gamble. The males standing at the water dragon’s back might refute his assertion, but Grizgunn didn’t care. Less than five minutes, a couple of words exchanged, and he knew deep down Callas and his wingmates needed to fly away.
Now. Before dawn crested the horizon.
The sooner the trio moved on—to Ireland, maybe, given Callas’s affinity for islands—the better for the Danish pack. Allowing the trio to stay in his territory was a bad idea. One that would no doubt get him killed and the warriors he commanded—
“Shit,” Callas growled, glancing skyward. “Please, tell me that’s one of yours.”
Grizgunn frowned. “What—”
Shock waves rippled over the lawn. Hurricane winds slammed into the treetops. Branches splintered. Shrapnel cut across his skin. Blood running down his face, Grizgunn snarled a command through mind-speak, warning his warriors as the ground rumbled beneath his feet. The turf cracked open. A dark brown dragon erupted from the earth, launching dirt sky high.
Glowing green eyes narrowed on Grizgunn. The enemy dragon bared his fangs and exhaled hard.
Rock bullets the size of his fist machine-gunned over the grass.
“Earth dragon!” Callas shouted, smooth blue scales flashing as he tried to get out of range. “Beau, Rune—get airborne!”
His friends grunted, shifted, and shot skyward.
Already in dragon form, Grizgunn pressed his wings to his flank and torqued into a spine-bending spiral. Hakon rocketed into open air, taking a swipe at the enemy dragon on the flyby. The lethal barrage of sharp stones slammed into the ground beneath him. Rock and loam sprayed across his scales. The smell of dirty gasoline ripped through clear air. He unfolded his wings and burst out of the clearing. As he blasted over Holyroodhouse, he searched for his warriors in the fray. In full flight, his pack closed ranks, trying to get to him, cutting off the Scots’ attack and—
Boom!
Lightning forked overhead. A fireball split the sky, cutting through the gloom.
The burning stream of muck struck the circular driveway below him. The ground cratered. Treetops caught fire. The fountain exploded, throwing stone and water across the palace’s façade. Windows shattered. The concussive shock wave hurled Grizgunn sideways. Molten lava spewed upward, arching through the dark.
Caught in the crossfire, Callas roared in pain.
Grizgunn hissed as the fire-acid splattered across his scales. His claws started to smoke as the poison went to work, eating through his interlocking dragon skin. Pain fed his fury. Aggression made him rise.