by G. A. Aiken
“Die, witch! Die!” How lovely. Her own “dear” husband started up that endearing chant. The bastard. She’d meet him on the other side when his time came and she’d make sure he suffered for eternity.
The noose tightened a bit and she felt more of her life slip away while they continued to pile extra wood around the stake.
Funny how one’s mind plays tricks when so close to dying.
For instance, if she didn’t know better, she’d swear that was a giant silver dragon ambling out of the forest. An enormous, amazing creature, with a silver mane of hair that gleamed in the morning sunshine and nearly swept the shaking ground at its feet. Two massive white horns sat atop its head and a long tail, with what looked to be a dagger-sharp tip, swung lazily behind him.
Silently, he stood behind the townspeople. So focused on her, they were completely unaware of his presence. Who knew I could be so fascinating as to distract an entire town? Of course, they could also be ignoring the dragon because it was simply a figment of her imagination. A dream of a grand rescue that would never come.
Her fantasy dragon leaned forward and nudged Julius the baker with the tip of his snout. Julius glanced behind him, nodded and turned back to her. Then he froze where he stood…just before he pissed himself. That’s when his wife glanced at him and behind him. She screamed, grabbed her son, who had been seconds away from throwing a rather large rock at Talaith, and ran. Soon after, the rest of the townsfolk caught sight of her fantasy dragon, screamed and bolted away.
She frowned. Perhaps she still had enough of her power so she could conjure the image of the beast, but somehow she doubted it.
The dragon shot out a few flames at the retreating humans, but nothing to do any real harm. Finally, it stared at her for several moments, turned and walked off.
Unbelievable. Even my rescue fantasies are disasters.
But as she wondered if her afterlife would be as pathetic as her current life, the dragon’s tail whipped out. The tip cut through the rope that hung her from the tree, and she dropped.
Expecting her ass to hit the unforgiving ground at any moment, she tensed in surprise as the tail wrapped itself around her body and held her.
Now that the noose was not so tight, her senses slowly came back to her. That’s when she realized a tail really did have her. A tail attached to an enormous dragon casually walking through the forest. She tried to move out of its grasp, but the tail pinned her arms—with her still bound wrists—against her body. And her noose still tight enough she couldn’t call for help.
Of course, who would she call? Her husband? Probably not. Lord Hamish, ruler of these lands? If she had the strength, she would have laughed at that.
No. It looked as if she was going to be the breakfast of a monster.
As the dragon made it into a clearing and suddenly took to the air—with her still wrapped up in its tail—Talaith had only one thought…
Typical.
LAST DRAGON STANDING
G.A. AIKEN
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
“LORD RAGNAR, MAY I ASK YOU A QUESTION?”
“If you’d like.”
“Do you not like me?”
Unsure where this might be going, Ragnar simply stated, “I thought our relationship was decided two years ago, princess.”
“But that was such a long time ago. There’s no reason for us not to be friends now.”
“Friends? You and I?”
She stroked her claw along his shoulder, down his chest, her talons scraping against the scar her tail had left. Part of Ragnar wanted to break every talon she had out of pure spite. Yet another, weaker, part of him wanted to close his eyes and moan.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, her talons now concentrating on that scar. “That I’m too good for you. And, of course among some circles, you’d be absolutely right. But I’m a very progressive royal and I don’t let little things like unimpressive bloodlines and barbaric tendencies stop me from having the friends I want.”
“That’s very big of you.”
“I’ve always thought so.” She pressed her claw to his chest, the damn scar under it angrily throbbing to life. “I’ve always thought it’s more important to have friends you can trust,” she murmured, “than friends who are merely your equal in every other way that matters.”
No. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t keep talking to this vapid, insipid female. No matter how much his body longed for her…
More by G.A. Aiken
Dragon Actually
About a Dragon
What a Dragon Should Know
Published by Zebra Books
To Kate Duffy
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Epilogue
Prologue
“The queen knows we have her daughter?”
Ragnar the Cunning of the Olgeirsson Horde nodded at his brother Vigholf’s question.
“And she told you to do what you want with her?”
Again, he nodded.
Vigholf shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
And neither did Ragnar. He didn’t understand any mother—royal or low-born—who seemed to have so little concern for her own offspring. Even one as annoying and devious as the royal pain in the ass currently plotting away in the cave behind them.
Wearing nothing but a gown two sizes too large for her human frame, shackles, and a Magickally infused collar that prevented her from shifting to her natural She-dragon form, Princess Keita of the House of Gwalchmai fab Gwyar had managed to enrapture nearly every male on this venture without doing much more than being a rather dim-witted beauty. She giggled, she teased, she tormented. To be quite honest, Ragnar had hoped the royal’s mother would demand her return this very evening so that he could be rid of the brat before she turned blood relation against blood relation. But the last thing Queen Rhiannon had said about her daughter would stay with him for a very long time: “Keep her. Let her go. Makes me no never mind.”
Ragnar could never imagine his own mother saying those words about him or any of his brothers and one sister. Although he could imagine his father Olgeir, Dragonlord of the Olgeirsson Horde, saying it.
“Well,” one of his cousins said, getting to his feet. They’d all remained in their human forms because it was easier to hide from the Fire Breathers that way while on Southland territory. “If they don’t want her, we’ll keep her then.”
Ragnar looked at his brother, and Vigholf quickly lowered his head to hide his laughter. He’d warned Vigholf this would happen if they spent another moment with that viperous female. “We’re not keeping her.”
“Why the hells not?”
Ragnar thought about throttling the young pup, but decided against it. “Because we don’t do that anym
ore.”
“But if her own mum said—”
“If you want a female, boy, you’ll have to do it like everyone else—charm her, seduce her, get her to fall in love with you.”
Ragnar’s cousins glanced back and forth between them before one asked, “And how do we do that then?”
Vigholf’s laugh exploded out of him, and Ragnar headed back into the cave, grumbling all the way.
He was exhausted, worn down, and had much more work to do before he left this overly heated land and the last thing he intended to deal with was the idiotic questions of his idiotic kin.
This had all started so simply a few days ago. News of his father having caught the foolish Southland royal on Northland territory had reached Ragnar, and with the help of his brother, he’d moved quickly. He’d planned on sneaking back into his one-time home with the help of his mother, but while on his way she’d urgently contacted him through the lines of Magick and told him that the royal had managed to escape. He’d caught the princess not far from his father’s mountain base and used the underground tunnels to bring her back to her homelands. From there, he’d planned to negotiate an alliance with the Southland Dragon Queen that would allow him to take over the Olgeirsson Horde and, should all go well, the Northland territories. Unifying the Hordes would be his first step—keeping them unified his next.
But the queen had surprised him. Not only had she known from the beginning that Ragnar had her daughter, she’d known that Olgeir had had her daughter before—and she’d done absolutely nothing about it.
Times like this he was grateful the gods had blessed him with his mother, although he did wish that the gods had given her a mate more deserving of her beauty and wisdom than Olgeir the Wastrel.
Ragnar walked down the long cavern until he reached the alcove where they’d placed the princess. He stopped right outside, his teeth gritting as he watched the oldest of his cousins, Meinhard, hold a chalice of wine up to the royal’s lips. Her dark brown eyes focused solely on the big male, Princess Keita sipped from the cup, her small fingers lying over Meinhard’s big ones. When she’d had enough, she leaned back, her tongue swiping her bottom lip, then her top.
He could hear his cousin growling from here, and Ragnar had no patience for it.
“Out,” Ragnar ordered, walking in to the alcove.
Not remotely as intimidated by him as the younger dragons, Meinhard slowly stood tall and said, “I think I’ll stay.”
Ragnar knew his kin had yet to accept him as their leader. With his father still alive and well, Olgeir’s grip tight over the Horde, it wasn’t surprising. But Meinhard, like the others, would have to learn that Ragnar brooked no disobedience.
Flicking his wrist and muttering a small chant, Ragnar sent his cousin sailing out of the alcove, the wine cup flying across the stone floor.
“You bastard!” Meinhard yelled from outside the cavern.
Ignoring him, Ragnar stepped up to the royal. He could see what had his kin so tantalized, even though it was only her petite human form they’d seen since they’d caught her escaping his father’s clutches. All that dark red hair reaching to her knees, perfectly etched cheekbones, a small nose with a light spattering of freckles across the bridge, and those amazingly full lips. But for Ragnar it was those dark brown eyes that held him in thrall. They were endless, a fathomless dark pit any male could get lost in. Too bad Ragnar had no intention of being any male—no matter how much he might wish he was at the moment.
“Well?” she asked, her voice low. “What do you intend to do with me, my lord?”
Ragnar didn’t answer right away, his mind too busy turning, wondering what the pair of them could do together with nothing more than a mattress and a week’s supply of food and water. So she yawned, using it as an excuse to lift her shackled hands over her head and stretch her entire body in one long, sinuous line. Then she smiled. The most seductive of smiles that Ragnar had ever seen. He almost hated her for that smile alone.
Ragnar waved his hand, and the shackles fell away, one of them slamming against the top of the royal’s head.
“Ow! You barbaric oaf!”
He almost laughed because there she was. The true spoiled royal, and the reason it had been necessary to shackle her in the first place. She’d tried running away several times during their journey, and Ragnar had gotten fed up with it. She had nowhere to go so far underground, so all she’d managed to do was delay them.
Ragnar turned from her and headed toward the exit. He was hungry and longed for sleep. He had a meeting with the queen in a few hours, and he needed at least a little rest.
“Wait.”
He stopped, sighed, and faced her. “What?”
She stood, pointed at the collar around her throat. “What about this?”
“It will fall off once you’re clear of this place and my kin.” The last thing he needed was for her to turn into her natural form here, now, sending his kin into new feats of stupidity once they got a good look at her tail. “Now go.”
“That’s it? But…what did you get for me?”
“Get for you?”
“From my kin? How much gold?” She lifted her chin. “I’m sure I was worth quite a lot, but that won’t protect you from my brothers when they find out what you did to me.”
“I rescued you.”
“I rescued myself. But nice try.”
Did she really think his father would have let her go? Did she really think Olgeir wouldn’t have caught her before she got off Horde territory? And Ragnar’s father did things the Old Way when challenged. Princess Keita would have lost at least one wing and been handed over to the most brutish of Ragnar’s kin as retribution for her escape. In the end, she would have ended up just like Ragnar’s mother. The only difference being that Ragnar’s mother was the epitome of class and breeding and a good mind. Princess Keita, however, was everything royals were rumored to be. Weak, silly, and a waste of Ragnar’s time and energy. No matter how gorgeous or enticing.
“Call it what you like,” he told her. “But either way, you can go.”
“Just like that?”
“Yes. Just like that.”
She went up on her toes, trying to peer around his shoulders. “Is there no one here to escort me?”
“No.” He would offer one of his cousins, but that would be a bad idea right now.
The royal studied him for several long moments until she slammed her hands on her hips. “What did that old cow give you to release me? And don’t lie, barbarian. I always know when I’m being lied to.”
She didn’t want him to lie, he wouldn’t. “She gave me nothing.”
“So no alliance?” She shook her head as if she pitied him. “You idiot.”
Ragnar blinked. “Pardon?”
“How could you be so stupid? Were you rude to her? Was that it? Gods, you really are as oafish as your father, aren’t you?”
There were no other words she could have said to cause more damage than those.
Completely oblivious, she raised her hands and said, “Don’t panic. I’m sure I can fix it. I’ll talk to my father. I’m sure I can convince him to—”
“No, no, my lady. You misunderstand.” And Ragnar couldn’t help smiling a little. “Your mother made no offer for you, but the alliance will still move forward. I meet her in a few hours to discuss details.”
Her arms fell to her sides. “The alliance is still in play?”
“Oh yes. The queen didn’t seem interested in you at all, though. Perhaps if I’d taken your sister instead. Morfyd the…White? Yes? Perhaps then things would have played out differently. But, as it is, you’ve had no effect whatsoever on the proceedings.”
The royal stared at him, her beautiful mouth opening and closing several times. Ragnar felt as if he’d struck her—and was appalled by it. Immediately he went toward her to soothe, terrified he’d see tears, and he didn’t know how to handle tears. But the royal didn’t cry…she screamed. She screamed like something that had craw
led out of a demon pit.
“That vicious cunty whore!”
Shocked, Ragnar took a step back and watched the royal pace, her arms waving dramatically over her head, while she called her own mother all sorts of vile names that even the worst pirates would never use.
His kin charged into the cavern, concerned something had happened to their delicate little princess, all of them halting by Ragnar’s side.
“I’d kill the bitch myself if I actually thought she’d stay dead! But demons live forever.” She faced them. “Don’t they?”
All but Ragnar nodded at her insane bellowing, and when she swung her arms wildly at them, screaming, “All of you—out of my way!” they all did as she bade.
She stormed out, but returned a moment later, her rage seemingly—and disturbingly—gone as she asked Ragnar, “You enjoyed telling me that—about my mother. Didn’t you?”
“Yes,” he replied. “I guess I did.” How could he not enjoy it, seeing as it allowed him to reveal the royal’s true nature to his kin? Now they’d see the dim-witted princess for what she really was: a cursing, snarling, spoiled royal with the most amazing ass ever created by the gods—No, wait. What?
“Good,” she told him. “Enjoy that feeling while you can, Lord Ragnar.”
“Why? What do you think you can do to me?” And when Meinhard punched him in the back for his rudeness, Ragnar totally ignored the pain.
She smiled—his kin sighing around him—and reached up with one hand, fingers stroking Ragnar’s jaw, his neck, trailing down to a spot on his chest. When she was done, she stepped back, gave a small bow of her head. “My lords.”