by G. A. Aiken
“I didn’t mean to anger you.”
“Is that supposed to be an apology?”
“No,” he admitted. “It’s not.”
“You are the most…frustrating male.”
“So I’ve been told.”
She pulled a dress off one of the wooden racks and placed it against her body. “What do you think?”
“We both know you look beautiful in anything. Will you force me to remind you of that fact constantly?”
“Would it kill you to simply say it?” She placed the gown back on the rack and continued to search. “Do you have a mate, warlord?”
“No.”
“Does this surprise you? Because it doesn’t surprise me.”
“You don’t have a mate either.”
“I don’t want a mate. Clinging, grasping males who feel the need to brand you in some ancient ritual that allows them to feel superior while ruining my beautiful human skin.” She held up her right arm and stroked it with her left hand. “Look at this skin. This is gorgeous. And I’ve managed to maintain it for quite a long time with very little effort. I’m not about to allow some pathetic male to ruin it so he can crow to his friends afterward.”
“Well, you’ve managed to turn eons of ancient and powerful mystical rituals to dragons everywhere into an ‘I hate males’ diatribe that somehow centers around you.”
“I don’t hate males.” She picked up another gown, scrunched her nose a bit, and quickly put it back. “On the whole, I adore them.”
“How can you say you adore them?”
“But I do. For short periods of time. Then again, I adore children for short periods of time and rainstorms for short periods of time and hot, sunny days—for short periods of time. But anything that goes on and on for ages just gets on my nerves.”
“Good to know.”
“So what do you look for in a female?” she asked, and Ragnar frowned a bit.
“Pardon?”
“What do you look for in a bed partner? Tall? Fat? Long tail? Short tail? Wide hips? Narrow hips?”
He held his hand up. “All right…stop.” He didn’t like where this conversation was going. “I don’t look for anything in females.”
“Ohhh.” She gazed at the dress in her hands, then said, “Well, I hope you’re not interested in Ren then, because that’s not his sort of thing.” She looked off and added, “I don’t think.”
“I’m not looking for that either.”
“You don’t have to sound so judgmental.”
“I’m not. I just don’t know why you’re asking all these questions.”
“And I don’t know why you won’t just answer.”
“Fine. I’m looking for someone nice and sweet who I won’t have to sleep with one eye open to ensure I see the next morning.”
“Good luck finding that among She-dragons,” she murmured.
“What was that?” Ragnar asked, even though he’d heard just fine.
“Nothing.” She put another gown back and headed away from the stall. Growling, Ragnar followed.
Éibhear walked up to his small group and quickly realized that it was even smaller than when he’d left. He’d only been gone for a short time. “Where did everyone go?”
In answer, the only two remaining, Vigholf and Meinhard, grunted in reply. It was something Éibhear had been forced to get used to during his time in the Northlands. By nature, none of the Lightnings was a very talkative lot. Unless they were drinking, but that only happened at night, and to be honest, Éibhear couldn’t drink every night as most of the Northerners could. Not if he wanted to be up for training by the next suns-rise.
Yet Éibhear had spent enough time around the Lightnings to know his first mistake. He waited until the Lightnings paused shoveling food into their mouths, and then he asked, “Where’s my sister?”
“Off with Ragnar,” Meinhard replied.
“Did Ren go with them?”
“Nah. He’s over there somewhere.”
Shit. Working hard not to panic, he asked, “Do you know where Keita and Ragnar went?”
“Nah.”
“Do you know when they’ll be back?”
Vigholf chewed his food and studied Éibhear. “You questioning my brother’s honor when he’s with your sister?”
Éibhear shook his head. “Oh, no, no. Not at all.” Éibhear scratched his head with the tip of his tail. “My sister, however, doesn’t really have any honor. So that might be a problem.”
The two males looked up at him, staring. Appearing faintly disgusted. “Don’t misunderstand,” Éibhear tried to explain. “My sister is a lovely dragoness. Truly, she is. But, I fear, she may try to…well…”
“Try to what, lad? Spit it out.”
“She may try to use him”—he whispered the next word—“sexually.”
The Lightnings looked at each other, and then Meinhard said to Éibhear, “I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you, lad.”
“You don’t understand.” Éibhear stepped closer. “My sister has a way about her…. Males become attached. Maniacally attached. After just one night with her. Sometimes just one hour. And that could be…bad. If my father has to get involved.”
“But I think they just went for a walk,” Vigholf said, looking torn between laughter and confusion.
“Right. Just walking. Maybe we could go look for them.”
“Look, lad,” Meinhard said, sounding tired, “I don’t see the problem here. They’re both adult dragons who went for a walk. And what happens on that walk is their business.”
“Right. I’m just a little concerned about inter-territorial relations.”
“You’re concerned about what?” Vigholf asked.
“Our alliance.”
“You think that’s at risk?”
“I know how this works. Something happens between them; Lord Ragnar becomes attached. Keita, however, does not. He pushes the issue. Keita gets our father, brothers, and cousins to push back, and before anyone knows it…war.”
“From a walk?”
Meinhard waved Éibhear’s concerns away. “You’re assuming your sister wants Ragnar.”
“Well, now that a wager’s involved…” The words had slipped out before Éibhear could stop them, and he knew immediately he’d said too much. With a nod, “I’ll go look for Ren.”
He started to walk off, but both Lightnings were on either side of him, big arms looping around his neck, holding him in place.
“Now be a good lad,” Meinhard said, grinning. “And tell us all about this wager.”
Keita happily headed to one of the jewelry stalls. Gods, she loved jewelry!
“So why did you feel the need to handle the Bampour thing yourself?” Ragnar asked her.
“I was in town.” When he frowned at her reply, she held up a necklace. “What do you think?”
“I think it looks expensive.”
“A cheap one, I see.” She sighed, putting the necklace back.
“We call it thrifty in the Northlands.”
Disgusted by that word—no dragon should be cheap or “thrifty”—Keita asked, “So when you’re ready to mate, will you kidnap a female?”
“We don’t do that anymore.”
“Your father did it to me.”
“And he’s dead now. Times have changed.”
“Good.” She moved to another stall, this one filled with crystal jewelry. “Many of my female cousins will be in attendance at the feast, I’m sure, and I don’t need you and your kin trying to take off with them.”
When the Northlander snorted, she stopped and faced him. “What’s so funny?”
“That you’d think we’d take off with a Cadwaladr female.”
“And why wouldn’t you?” When he raised a brow, she admitted, “All right, a few of them might be a wee bit…burly. But they have good hearts and are loyal to a fault.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Look, not everyone can be as beautiful as me—and I refuse to be attache
d, so you best go for what you can get.”
“How is it possible for you to be this arrogant?”
Keita laughed. “And I thought you’d met my family.”
While she devoured a turkey leg he’d been forced to buy for her—she’d already been eating it when she pointed out that she had no coin on her—they made their way back to the rest of their travel party.
She continued to talk while they walked along, and Ragnar couldn’t help but watch her human body move. Her dress was loose around her—and new. He had no idea where she’d gotten it from, considering the last gown he’d seen her in had been the dirty one she was wearing when he’d rescued her. He decided not to ask, since he didn’t want to know, and instead focused on the fact that although she made sure to get a new dress, she was still barefoot. He simply didn’t know why. Nor did he know why he was so fascinated by her feet…and those legs…and whatever else she had under that dress.
Yet before Ragnar could really bring himself to worry about his obsession with the royal’s lack of footwear, he stopped and replayed in his head what she’d just told him moments before until he was forced to ask for clarification. “You tore out your cousin’s eye?”
“I didn’t tear it out.” She licked the juice from her turkey leg off the fingers of her free hand. “I yanked it out with the tip of my tail.”
When his mouth dropped open, she quickly explained, “It was self-defense.”
“Isn’t that the same excuse you used about the guard dog you ate?”
“Perhaps. But with Elestren, it really was self-defense. She hit me with a warhammer. In the head and arm. And let me tell you, she put some force behind it.”
“Why? What did you do?”
Now her mouth dropped open. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Keita—”
“I didn’t! For once. Unless she’s still holding that time I called her a fat-ass against me. But that was years ago.”
They began walking again. “Anyway, she came at me again with that bloody hammer after she’d already broken my forearm and bashed my head in, and I panicked and used my tail…which apparently one is not supposed to do during training.”
“Training for what?”
“To fight. So the next time the likes of you and your father try to kidnap me—”
Ragnar again stopped walking, his hands curling into fists. “Don’t ever put me in the same category with my father,” he told her plain.
Eyes wide, she said, “I didn’t mean—”
“And I rescued you. And when you were safe in your territory, I let you go. With both your wings still in place. I can assure you that Olgeir the Wastrel would have done none of that.”
“All right.”
Ragnar knew he’d snapped at her, but he couldn’t help himself. Yet he felt like a right bastard when all she did in return was hold up what was left of the turkey leg and ask, “Do you want the rest?”
He should apologize to her, but he wouldn’t. Not when she dared compare him to his father. “Well…since I paid for it.” He took the leg out of her hand and tore off what remained of the meat before sucking out the marrow. When he was done, he handed her what was left—about three inches of hollow bone.
She held it up, her gaze moving from it to him. Several times.
When she said nothing, he did. “Let’s get back. We’ve got many miles to go before we can stop for the night.”
They began walking again, and Keita, after tossing aside that piece of bone, asked, “Tell me, Lord Ragnar—do you want me?”
“Like the air I breathe.”
They both stopped walking again, the royal’s eyes wide as she looked up at him.
“But that’s why I have to stay away from you, isn’t it?” he asked.
Her shocked expression faded, and that smile—the one he was certain no one else but him saw—slid into place. “Only if you’re one of the clingy ones,” she admitted. “I do so hate clingy.”
She nibbled on her bottom lip, her gaze examining him from his head to his feet and back. She giggled. “And gods, I do so hope you’re not one of the clingy ones.”
Her smile now wide, she headed back to their traveling party. “Come along, warlord, we’ve got many miles to go before we can stop for the night.”
And for the first time in nearly a century, Ragnar felt completely out of his depth.
Chapter Nine
They made good time to where they’d rest for the night despite their brief break at the fair, and were up and moving before the two suns rose the next day. By mid-afternoon, they finally landed a league outside the Southland border city of Fenella at the request of the Eastland dragon. It was supposed to be a short break, one for food and water, but then Her Majesty was walking off with her Eastland companion—as human. In another new gown. Where is she getting these clothes from?
“Where’s your sister going?” Ragnar asked the Blue.
“I don’t know.”
“Did you think to ask?”
“No.”
“Aren’t you concerned?”
“No.”
Ragnar’s claws itched to wrap around the royal’s throat, but that would be a waste of a perfectly good tree-clearer. “Get us food.”
“All right!” the Blue said happily, and headed off to raid the herd of sheep they’d passed on their way here.
“Could he annoy you more?” Vigholf asked with a chuckle.
“I don’t think that’s possible.”
“You’re too hard on him. He’s a pup. We were like that once. Well…maybe not you, but I was. So was Meinhard. He’ll grow out of it.”
Meinhard cracked his neck, the sound echoing around the glen. “You going after her then?”
“She has her little foreign lap dog with her—what does she need me for?”
“Someone sounds bitter. And you’ve been a bitter bastard ever since you’ve returned with her from the fair. Why? What happened?”
“Nothing.” And that was the absolute truth of it. Nothing had happened when they returned. Instead, the royal had spent the rest of the previous eve talking to her foreign ally, which was fine with Ragnar. He didn’t have time for the royal and her games. “And I’m not bitter. I’m wary. As you both should be. Don’t let that beautiful smile and swishing tail fool you.”
“You are such a tail dragon,” Vigholf said.
“I’m trying to give you some advice, brother.”
“And don’t forget her beautiful smile, Vigholf. I don’t remember either of us mentioning a beautiful smile,” Meinhard chimed in.
Frustrated, Ragnar demanded, “What are you two talking about?”
Vigholf patted Ragnar’s shoulder. “We understand, brother. Really we do. All of us get to a point where we start thinking about settling down.”
“Settling down? With her?” That wouldn’t happen. And not simply because she saw becoming someone’s mate as some form of excruciating bondage either. As Ragnar had tossed and turned last night, unable to sleep with the dragoness that close to him, he’d realized what a mistake any involvement with her would be. Why? Because she was up to something. He knew it. Her brother knew it. That Eastlander definitely knew it. The only ones who seemed oblivious were his own damn kin.
“But you said yourself, brother, that she has that swishing tail.”
“And that beautiful smile with those perfectly aligned fangs.”
“I said nothing about her fangs.”
“But they are perfectly aligned, and I’m sure that’s important to you.”
Fed up, Ragnar grabbed his bag and headed toward the city, shifting as he went.
“You’re not leaving us, are you, cousin?”
“If you’re going into the city, you may want to have a healer look at that chest of yours, brother. All that scratching you’ve been doing lately can’t be good,” Vigholf said.
“It might be scale-fungus,” Meinhard added.
“And your pretty princess with the beautiful smile and al
luring tail won’t like that much.”
“’Cause it spreads, it does!”
“Aww, now, Ragnar! That’s rather a rude gesture!”
Ren parted from Keita as soon as they were in the center of the small city of Fenella, which boasted some of the top universities, mage schools, and witch’s guilds in all the Southlands. It was here that the paths of both Ren and Keita had shifted dramatically more than a century ago. And where they always returned when they needed answers.
And the gods knew, they needed answers and quickly.
Ren handed the necklace the Northlander had found in Esyld’s house over to the jeweler. An old human who knew his craft very well. And while the human did his work, Ren sat back and let his mind drift, letting his energy reach out around the city to make sure all was well. He smiled a little when he saw that Keita had found their old trainer. An elf named Gorlas. Ren himself had never been a fan of the elves. Yes, they had a way with the trees and land, much as Ren’s people did, but gods, they could be superior-acting bastards. To most of them, dragons were nothing more than giant lizards that needed to be brought to heel. How Keita managed to find one of the few elves who respected almost all creatures equally amazed Ren. Although if there was one being who could find the exception to any rule, it was his Keita.
Knowing she was safe, Ren explored more, only to ram right into a protective barrier. From his spot inside the jeweler’s store, he felt around that barrier. It was a relatively small one and was moving, meaning that it protected an individual rather than a building or one of the many secret guilds that existed here. Still, he hadn’t met many who could keep him out. Keita’s mother and sister were two, but they were both white Dragonwitches. Their kind’s power legendary, even in his home country.
Using more of his power, he caused a rip in the barrier and pulled it open enough for his essence to look in. A monk? A monk managed to keep Ren of the Chosen out?
But then that monk slowly turned his head and looked right at what he shouldn’t be able to see. He looked at Ren with blue eyes as cold as the mountains this dragon came from.
It seemed Ren wasn’t the only one using Magick to hide the true level of his power, and he’d only managed to think, The Northlander, before the Lightning raised his hand and, with a flick of his fingers, sent Ren’s essence slamming back into his body.