No. The tatted warrior who liked to hurt females wouldn’t get a free pass. Not this time. Not with him involved.
Night vision pinpoint sharp, he looked across the cityscape. Puget Sound sparkled in the distance, water rolling in to wash up on shore. The corner of his mouth curled, exposing one huge fang. Frigid air ghosted over his teeth. He relished the chill. Jack Frost enlivened him, coating his scales, prepping him for the showdown and…
Jackpot. About time too. Coffee shop at twelve o’clock.
Slithering in on a slow glide, Wick swung wide, banking into a holding pattern. He revolved into a continuous series of concentric circles, widening the grid with each pass, reconning the area, searching for hostiles within the target zone while avoiding the airspace above Starbucks. No sense tipping the bastard off. Better to arrive undetected. And if he flew directly overhead? He risked alerting the enemy to his presence.
Not advisable. Particularly while planning a sneak attack.
Eyes narrowed on the city below, his sonar pinged. Alive with magic, the cosmic net spread, molding over rooftops to flow unrestricted into the street. Or rather… the avenue. First and Pike, a veritable hub of activity during the day. Completely deserted at night. Nothing but tidy street corners, stone-clad buildings, and wide, pedestrian-friendly sidewalks. Charming with its old style, three-globed lampposts and inlaid-brick intersection, both throwbacks to a simpler time and place.
The golden age of wholesome.
Wick snorted. Wholesome. Jesus. Where the hell had that comparison come from?
It took him less than a second to figure it out.
Jamison. Despite her past, she embodied innocence with her big blue eyes, smooth as silk skin, and innate beauty. Wick shook his head, told himself to stay on task, but… God. It was hard. She was so damn pretty, her dark hair so long and straight he wondered what it would feel like wrapped around his fist. Or sifting through his fingers, caressing his palm in a sensual sweep. The visual made him swallow. The imagined sensation drew him tight. His muscles flickered in reaction, forcing a shiver down his spine.
Killing the twitch mid-shudder, Wick flexed a talon. The tips of his claws met the center of his palm. Pinpricks of pain nicked interlocking dragon skin, setting him straight. He needed to get a grip. Fast. Obsessing about her wouldn’t change the facts. He wasn’t built for connection, never mind the intimacy that went with it. And yet, he couldn’t deny his curiosity. For the first time—ever—he allowed himself the possibility. Wanted to follow the trail of bread crumbs to its conclusion, maybe get closer to her and see what happened.
Damned strange. More than a little bent too, considering his phobia. And the fact he never touched anyone or fed… unless forced by desperate need and Venom’s pain-in-the-ass prodding. Wasn’t inclined to modify his behavior either, except…
Shit. He’d done a lot of touching in the past twenty-four hours, hadn’t he? Caring for her. Holding her. Waking up with his hand pressed to the softness of her skin.
With a frown, Wick swung around a chimney stack. Smoke swirled in his wake, dancing with the frosty air. He watched tendrils curl, then drift, disappearing against the dark sky and—
“Wick,” Bastian growled. Sensation swirled against his temples, turning his attention back to the mission. Thank fuck. He needed his head in the game, not on Jamison. Thinking about her distracted him, splitting his focus in two directions. Never a good thing when headed into a potential firefight. “How close are you?”
“Thirty seconds out.”
On point, five minutes ahead of the pack, he played lead male tonight. Although, maybe bait described his role better. Venom had balked, not liking the plan. He’d insisted. No way he wanted his commander on-site—or anywhere near Azrad—until he assessed the situation. An ambush? Could be. Probably was too. Wick huffed. Hell, the meet and greet inside the human-owned coffee house had bait and switch written all over it.
Which made him the best male for the job.
The most maneuverable in flight, stealth was his specialty. Good at covering his tracks—able to camouflage the unique energy signal he left in his wake—most males never saw him coming. Unless, of course, he wanted them to, which… truth be told… happened nine times out of ten. He couldn’t abide a quick kill. Liked the claw-grinding, muscle-stretching challenge of a good fight and engaging one-on-one. Or in his case, three-to-one odds. Being outnumbered equaled fun on a grand scale. A way to test his skill each night while out on patrol.
Not that it ever amounted to much.
The rogues were woefully inept. Unskilled. Lily-livered. Inexperienced. A damning combination that amounted to even less satisfaction.
More’s the pity.
“Heads up.” Flipping into a slow spiral, he went head-to-head with an apartment building. The angle gave him a clear shot down Pike Street, and in turn? The Corner Market building situated across the street from Starbucks. All clear. Nothing to be alarmed about… at least not yet. Banking right at the last moment, he circled behind a skyscraper. “Making a final sweep.”
“Watch your six.” With a curse, Venom growled long and low. “No screwing around. You see anything hinky, bug out first, holler second.”
Hinky? Wick frowned. What kind of word was that? Not a very good one considering he wanted hellish, not hinky. Nasty sounded good too. And fatal? Even better… as long as it referred to the enemy. Hell, he hoped he got that lucky. With his dragon half itching for a fight, he craved scale-splitting calamity. Wanted to sink his claws deep. Watch rogue blood flow between his talons and splatter, warm and wet, up his forearms.
Only death would do.
The natural born killer he kept caged agreed, humming in anticipation. Oh-so-much promise. The next few hours held loads of bright and shiny hope: the kiss of possibility, the probability of foreplay, the skills required in an assassin’s game. As he made one more pass, the spikes along his spine rattling, Wick could taste the potential. He felt it in his bones too. Smelled its stench on the night air, allowing it to invigorate him as he picked his spot.
The perfect insertion point.
One that would put him close to the target, yet allow for some wiggle room.
Tucking his wings in fast, Wick set down hard. His talons thumped against the ground. Windowpanes rattled in their frames, and momentum took up the cause. Slick with recent rain, the blacktop sent him into a sideways skid. Gritting his teeth, Wick bore down to control the slide. Friction burned the pads of his paws. The tips of his claws bit, ripping narrow grooves in the asphalt. Chunks of rock flew. Sound rippled like a wave, ricocheting off glass and steel, undulating down the avenue to reach the waterfront.
With a silent curse, he slid to a stop in the middle of the street.
Alert, ever watchful, tail flicking back and forth, he crouched like a cat poised to strike, ready to kill, magic feeding him information. Like gaping wounds in a pale face, the windows stared back at him. No reflection. No surprise. Cloaked in magic, invisibility didn’t allow for detection. Sound either, and as Wick searched the perimeter, looking first left, then right, quiet stroked over building facades to tumble down the empty street.
Nothing and nobody. Two thumbs up so far.
“Just landed on Pike.” Lifting his forepaw, Wick shook tiny bits of gravel from between his toes. A repeat performance on the other side freed his other foot of debris, and switching gears, Wick transformed, shifting into human form. Without thought, he conjured his clothes. Leather settled against his skin. Protected by his fighting gear, he veered into the shadowed enclave of a building. “I’m going to walk the block. No one moves without my say-so.”