by G. A. Aiken
Keita lowered her eyes, her head dipping, and her body pressing into the noble who held her. Raising one hand from her waist, she pressed her palm to the noble’s face, fingers slowly trailing along his jaw, forefinger pressing against his lips until he sucked it into his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” Keita said, her voice very soft. “But I don’t like to be forced to do anything. You used to know that about me—and respect it.”
She pulled her finger out of his mouth, and DeLaval blinked down at her, groaned, took a step back. Then his entire body began to shake, and he dropped to his knees, his hands around his throat.
His men turned toward their lord, and Ragnar caught hold of the arm of the guard closest to him. He twisted the wrist holding the sword until the weapon dropped into his free hand; then he twisted harder until he heard bone breaking from the wrist straight through to the shoulder.
DeLaval’s men returned their focus to Ragnar, but it was too late now. He had a weapon and nearly two centuries more training than the ones who’d been ready to kill him on order. He tossed the man with the destroyed arm out of his way and gutted the male in front of him. Internal organs spilled on the ground, and Ragnar pulled the blade out, spun and took a head, spun back, went low—successfully avoiding the short sword aimed for his neck—and brought his blade up and into another guard’s groin. Ripping the sword out, he used his free hand to grab the throat of another guard coming toward him and crushed all those small neck bones until the man could no longer breathe.
He dropped the struggling man and stepped away, the blade low at his side but ready. There were four guards left, moving out around him. Keita stood off to the side and watched him while the noble writhed at her feet. If only the human had realized earlier that she’d lost interest in him—and accepted that fact—he probably wouldn’t be dying now.
Ragnar raised his gaze to the remaining guards. “Come for me,” he said. And, when they only stared at him, “Come for me!”
Keita jumped a little at the Northlander’s bellow. She didn’t know the snobby bastard was capable of being so…barbaric.
She liked it.
Too bad about those poor, stupid guards. Had they really been fooled by the monk’s robes? Even worse, once Ragnar had gutted and beheaded several of their comrades, they still didn’t run. Why, she couldn’t fathom. What with their lord shaking and rolling on the ground at her feet, foam pouring from his mouth—it would soon be blood, though—he’d be dead any moment now, so what was the point of continuing to fight?
Perhaps it was a male thing, because Keita never had qualms about walking away from any dangerous situation when she had to. Then again, neither did her brother—and Gwenvael was male…mostly.
And, as stupid males will do, they ignored logic and charged Ragnar. Keita, wincing a little, watched the Northlander tear into them with absolutely no mercy and no regret. A head rolled by, and Keita quickly wrapped her cape around her body to protect her gown from stray splashes of blood.
The second guard was cut in two. The third lost both his arms. The fourth got the back of Ragnar’s fist. Just once, but it was enough to completely decimate the man’s face.
With all the guards dead, dying, or incapacitated, Ragnar focused his attention on Athol.
Keita ran on her tiptoes—and around an endless amount of blood—over to Ragnar, sliding in front of him, her hands pressing into his chest.
“Leave it.”
“He did nothing to help you,” Ragnar said.
“Leave it.”
She watched the Dragonlord, covered in blood and bits of human, pull back his rage and gain complete control of his emotions. When he was calm, he nodded, and Keita motioned to the gate. He headed out, and Keita walked over to Athol.
As if nothing had happened, she said, “Well, I must be off.”
“So soon?”
Keita controlled her urge to bite the elf’s face off. “Unfortunately. I do need my beauty sleep, and we have an early start tomorrow.”
“And did you find who you were looking for, my beautiful Keita?”
“No. But perhaps I can return at another time and search again?”
“Any time you’d like, old friend. You know that.”
Friend? Really? But Keita would say nothing about that either. Someone like Athol had his uses. Plus, he wasn’t like the humans. He wouldn’t be an easy kill for her or Ragnar, not here on his territory.
Athol kissed the back of Keita’s hand, winked at her. Bastard. But Keita did give his assistant a small nod of respect because she could see the true regret in the youngster’s face. She knew he’d wanted to help, and understood why he couldn’t. He might not wear a collar and leash like some of Athol’s guests did, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t just as yoked into submission.
She walked out of the gate and onto the road. She immediately felt the loss of Athol’s power, and it shocked her that she’d never realized how oppressive that power was until now. When the gate closed behind her, she let out a shaky breath and rubbed her forehead.
“Are you all right?”
And what she didn’t need right now was for Ragnar to be nice to her. She still had no idea where her aunt was or if she’d betrayed the throne; and there was also at least another day of flying ahead and her mother to face at the end of it.
Lashing out at the Dragonlord was one option, one she briefly considered, but she simply wasn’t in the mood to do that either.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“What did you do to him?”
“DeLaval?” She raised the forefinger she’d let him suck on. “Loeiz herb. I always keep a little in my pockets.”
“To poison people?”
“When they get pushy…yes.”
Ragnar studied the dragoness before him, realization slowly creeping upon him.
She’d handled that noble and the elf without a bit of panic or fear, although she was essentially trapped in her human form. And she not only knew about the rare Loeiz herb, but had some hidden on her and understood how to use it. He knew this because putting Loeiz in food or drink made it completely ineffectual. It needed to interact directly with saliva or mucus to kill quickly, or be put in a small bleeding cut if one needed time to leave before death occurred. And very few knew the poisonous uses of the herb because it was hard to find and could only be plucked moments before blooming. Too early and it was a wonderful smoking weed. Plucked too late and it was a delicious herb on cooked meats.
Ragnar stepped closer, looked into her eyes. She was too tired to play any games. Too angry to tease or taunt him. And when he looked, he saw only the truth. Perhaps if he’d looked closely before, he wouldn’t feel like such a fool now. Because his cousin and brother had been right all this time—Ragnar had misjudged Princess Keita. He still believed she would bed any and all in her path, but this dragoness was far from stupid. Dangerously far—as that noble lord bleeding out on Athol’s cobbled courtyard now knew.
“Is there something else you want to ask, my lord?”
Hoping to open up their conversation again, he asked, “What about Esyld?”
She looked away. “I don’t know.” Then, under her breath, “But I think he knows something.”
“Who knows something? Lord Reidfurd?”
Keita began to speak, looking as if she planned to confide in him, but she stopped and forced a safe, bland smile. “It’s nothing,” she replied to his question.
And in an instant, they were back to the boring noble and the insulting warlord…again.
Ragnar couldn’t stand it.
“Keita—”
“We should get back. More travel tomorrow and I do need my sleep.” She gave a small bow of her head as royal etiquette would dictate—and it made him want to throttle her—and said, “Thank you so much for your assistance this evening, my lord. It was greatly appreciated.”
But he didn’t want to end it like this. He was, in all honesty, becoming desperate. A feeling he was not used to and did not enjoy. “
Keita, if you’d only talk to—”
But without waiting for him to finish his thought, she headed off down the road, and Ragnar was forced to follow. Again.
Keita found Ren hovering a few inches off the ground, meditating. How he did that, she didn’t know. She needed actual wings to fly.
Without her saying a word, he sensed her presence and lowered himself to the earth.
“How did it go?”
She shook her head and pulled off her clothes. She dove into the lake, shifting from dragon to human several times before settling on her human form and swimming up to Ren’s side. He’d also shifted to human and waited for her in the water by the lake’s edge.
“Athol played games,” Keita said when she broke through the surface. She had no intention of telling her friend about what had happened with DeLaval. It would only upset him, and there was nothing to be done now, was there? “I didn’t like it.”
“You think he knows something?”
“Perhaps. I don’t know. He was always a little odd.”
“Maybe he hoped you’d barter as some of his guests do.”
Keita chuckled. “I can say with all honesty, I’ve never bartered my pussy or any other orifice on my body, and I’m not about to start now.”
She rested her arms on the lake’s edge, resting her cheek on them. “Perhaps when we get home I can send word to Gorlas. Maybe he can get the truth for us.”
“Perhaps.” Ren kissed her shoulder. “What else happened there?”
“Oh, nothing much. That idiot followed me, though.”
“Good,” Ren said, surprising her. He’d been livid with the warlord ever since Keita had told him their wager was off and why. “I didn’t like you going there alone.” And Ren had been right to be concerned.
“Athol wouldn’t have trusted you, Ren.”
“But it went all right, though? With the Northlander by your side?”
“He came as a monk. So it worked out perfectly.” And, Keita realized that in the end, she’d been quite grateful for Ragnar’s presence. He’d protected her and kept her safe.
Too bad, though, he still hadn’t apologized to her. Instead he kept trying to “talk” to her. She hated that. If Keita fucked up, she said she was sorry and tried to make it right. What she didn’t do was try to explain away what she’d said or how she’d meant it or any other load of centaur shit that males like Ragnar came up with rather than simply apologizing. Until he did that, she’d have no reason to “talk” to him. No matter how pathetically sorrowful he might appear.
Ragnar found a quiet spot close enough to the campsite to deal with any problem, but not so close that the constant chatter of a big blue dragon would distract him. Once he’d settled down, thankfully back in his dragon form, he did what he always did when he felt this way—although he didn’t think he’d ever felt this bad. Ragnar opened his mind and called out. A few seconds later, came a reply.
My son.
Mother.
What’s wrong?
Ragnar sat down on the ground, his back legs bent at the knees, his elbows resting on them so he could drop his head into his claws.
I’m an idiot, he told her simply.
He heard his mother’s sweet laugh inside his head, felt eased by it. Oh, my sweet boy. There’s nothing I can do about that, I’m afraid. It’s in the bloodline. Like the lightning.
Chapter Twelve
Fragma heard the warning horn blast through her tiny Ice Land village and, terrified, she caught hold of her youngest daughter. The other women of her village all did the same thing. They grabbed the youngest of their female children and quickly took them into their homes, away from the streets, away from the danger they knew lurked hundreds of leagues behind the mountains framing the north side of their village.
But they were coming closer, down through the dangerous mountain pass and through the village, smashing all in their way that might deter them—even for a second—from their final destination. Or, even worse than that, perhaps they’d stop. Perhaps Fragma’s little village would be their final destination. Perhaps it would be Fragma’s daughter that was claimed. Or her friend’s daughter. Or her neighbor’s daughter. It could be any of their youngest girls, and absolutely no mother Fragma knew was willing to take that chance. Because once anyone’s daughter was taken—she was never seen again.
Another warning blast rang out, and Fragma ran into her home with her daughter held tight against her. She slammed the door behind her with her back pressed against it.
They’d be coming now. And all Fragma could do was pray to her gods that they’d keep riding right through—and that it would be someone else’s child they’d come for. But not hers. Please, gods, not hers.
Taking the hand of her mate, Morfyd the White Dragonwitch left their room and walked down the hall to the stairs. Before they reached their destination, Brastias stopped, and when Morfyd turned to him, he kissed her. She sighed, her mouth opening under his, her eyes closing while a fresh wave of desire coursed through her.
His big hand caressed her throat, her jaw; and when he pulled back, he asked, “Do we really have to go down today? Can’t we stay in bed?”
“We both have work to do. Besides”—she gripped his wrist, smoothed the pad of her thumb against his work-hardened palm—“if we stay in bed today, we’ll want to stay in bed tomorrow and the day after and the day after.”
“I don’t see a problem with that,” he teased.
As hard as Brastias was trying, he couldn’t fool her. She knew he wanted to cheer her up, keep her distracted. And he was doing that for one reason and one reason only—the return of Keita the Family Darling. Or, as Morfyd liked to call her, Keita the Momentous Pain in Morfyd’s Ass.
It had always bothered Morfyd how easy it was for Keita to get under her scales and pluck away at the last nerve she possessed. From the moment their mother had brought Keita back to Devenallt Mountain from the hatching chamber, Morfyd’s sister had the unmistakable ability of pissing Morfyd off at every turn. And every time she did, Morfyd was blamed for it. Keita would toss all that red hair, smile at their father as if butter wouldn’t melt and the next thing any of them knew, Bercelak the Great would turn to his eldest daughter and gently remind Morfyd that she was older and she should be taking care of her little sister—“not trying to throw her off the mountain when you know she can’t fly yet.” Which, if Morfyd remembered correctly, had only happened one time and the little brat damn well deserved it!
But they were adults now. And they would act like adults, even if Morfyd had to twist that snotty little cow into a knot and rip the scales from her body to ensure it!
Morfyd wouldn’t worry about that now, though. Not when the man she loved was smiling at her, teasing her, doing his best to make her happy. Honestly, she could never ask for more.
“You, my lord,” Morfyd teased back, “will not lure me into a life of laziness.”
“Why should we be different from everyone else in this house?” he asked, kissing her again when she laughed.
“Must,” a voice snapped, startling them out of their embrace, “you do that right here in front of everyone?”
Morfyd glared up at her brother, all gold and beautiful this morning, as he was every morning. “Must you do that every time you see us? You could simply walk away.”
“You’re my sister, Morfyd, not some whore. He’s treating you like a whore!”
“You treat everyone like whores.”
Gwenvael the Handsome shrugged. “And your point?”
Brastias, rarely taking her brothers seriously these days, pulled Morfyd around a glowering Gwenvael and toward the stairs that led into the Great Hall. As they walked down, she saw that most of her kin were awake and halfway through their first meal.
As soon as they stopped at the bottom step, Brastias released her hand and walked around so that the dining table separated them. Keeping inanimate objects between them seemed to lessen the glares from Briec and Fearghus. After two ye
ars, she’d thought her brothers would become used to her choice of mate. But for some reason they all seemed to feel “betrayed” by Brastias. She didn’t know why, and she didn’t care. The arrogant bastards would simply have to accept their union…one day. In the next thousand years or so.
“Annwyl?” Brastias asked the entire table, reaching between Talaith and Briec to grab a loaf of fresh bread.
“Training,” Fearghus mumbled, his attention on the parchments in front of him.
“My, my,” Gwenvael said, his big body dropping into a chair beside Morfyd, “she certainly does train a lot these days.”
Fearghus raised his eyes from the papers in front of him. “Meaning what exactly?”
“Just an observation, brother.” Gwenvael reached for his own loaf of bread and ripped it into several pieces before adding, “Although we never actually see her training. Not like we used to. She simply disappears for hours before returning all sweaty and looking rather used. I wonder where she goes…and who she goes with.”
Morfyd opened her mouth, a caustic reply on her tongue, but Talaith—Briec’s mate and, although human, a fellow witch—beat Morfyd to it, a big, round fruit winging its way across the table and slamming into Gwenvael’s nose.
“Owww!” he cried out. “You callous viper!”
“Sorry,” Talaith hissed with no obvious remorse to back up that apology. “But it seemed like your never-closed mouth needed something to fill it! Tragically, my aim was off.”
Briec threw his head back and laughed until black smoke snaked from Gwenvael’s nostrils. Then Briec sneered, silently daring Gwenvael to do something. Gwenvael, of course, sneered back, and then they were both reaching across the rather wide table for each other’s throats. Morfyd leaned in, swinging her arms wide to separate them.
“Stop it! Both of you, just stop it!” They pulled back—neither willing to hit her in the face—and Morfyd again wondered how much longer they could all tolerate living under one roof. As humans no less!
“Honestly!” she complained, tugging her witch’s robes back into place. “Lately all of you have been acting like fighting dogs in a pit.”