by G. A. Aiken
Pyrs let out a breath, nodded. “We do.”
Not needing to hear anything else, Brastias headed back to his home and his mate.
Chapter Four
A door slammed somewhere deep in the castle and Celyn put his claws over the back of his head and prayed for death. Another door slammed, followed by raised voices and more door slamming.
When death did not come—the bastard!—Celyn rolled to his back and opened his eyes to look around. For a few moments, he had no idea where he was. He looked at his claws and realized they were hands. Lifted his head a bit and realized he was in his human form, dressed, and on a bed.
Letting out a breath, he slowly lowered his head back to the pillow and moved just his eyes to look around.
A castle. He was in a castle.
Celyn raised himself up on his elbows, but then he had to stop because he was afraid he’d end up tossing whatever was in his stomach all over the room.
This was his fault. His fault. He knew better than to go drinking with his sister.
Foolish dragon.
The door to the room he was in slammed open, and he gasped at the pain that sound caused in every part of him.
“We need to get out of here,” his sister told him.
Branwen the Awful was Celyn’s younger sister, but with only two decades between them, they were considered almost twins by dragon standards. Plus, they looked a lot alike with their black hair, black eyes, and square jaws like their mother’s. But Brannie was more Cadwaladr than Celyn. She drank like their kin, fought random beings like their kin, and loved war like their kin. Understanding Celyn’s happiness at being a member of the Queen’s Personal Guard eluded her.
“What’s wrong?” Celyn asked as he slowly placed his feet on the floor and his poor, throbbing head in his hands. No more drinking. Ever, he promised himself for the millionth time.
“Annwyl killed some guards or something, and no one is very happy about it. And Fearghus isn’t here.”
“Dammit.” Their cousin Fearghus had a way of controlling his mate that no one else had. Especially important when she began killing things because she got in a bit of a mood. “Who did she kill?”
“Not sure. But Dagmar was sent for.”
Dagmar Reinholdt. The Northlander who’d become steward to Queen Annwyl and Battle Lord to Garbhán Isle although the human female had never lifted a sword or axe once in her life. A good thing since she had no skill with weapons. But what she did have was a potent skill with war strategy and a bone-deep love of plotting.
“You’re right,” Celyn agreed. “We need to go.” Unless, of course, they wanted to get caught in the middle of one of Annwyl’s misadventures, which he did not.
Forcing himself to stand, Celyn asked, “Did you bring me here last night?”
“I did. You were too drunk to shift back. I was afraid you’d accidentally wipe out the town.”
Once standing, Celyn swayed, but a steadying hand on the bed’s headboard kept him from falling to the floor.
“You never could handle your liquor, brother.”
“Shut. Up.”
“Because I, as always, speak truth?”
“No. Because your voice is typically loud and grating.” He rubbed his brow. “Why do I ever let you talk me into going drinking with you?”
“Because I’m your sister and you adore me?”
“No.”
Brannie laughed. “Come, brother. Before we get trapped by one of our kinsdragons’ stupidity.”
His sister was right. More times than he cared to think about, Celyn had ended up in the middle of his royal cousins’ problems and dramas. And, as a Cadwaladr, he was obligated to help in any way he could. Because a Cadwaladr always protected family. Even when family was a bunch of bratty royals who seemed to find reasons to argue with everyone.
Celyn took a few tentative steps, stopped, and asked his sister, “I am dressed, right?” Because he honestly couldn’t remember.
“You are. You passed out in your clothes last night and sadly I didn’t have time to take them off so that when I sent the maids in to clean the room, they could find your naked ass waving at them and scream in human terror. You know how I love that.”
Celyn glared at his sister. “What is wrong with you?”
Brannie shrugged. “Nothing. Why?”
Celyn went to the bedroom door and eased it open, peeking into the hallway.
“Well?” his sister whispered.
“It’s clear. Let’s move.”
Together, the siblings rushed down the hallway, down one set of steps to the second-floor hallway, and another set of stairs toward the Great Hall.
Celyn worried he’d start vomiting, but he was determined to do that only once he was outside and far away from whatever drama was about to erupt among his royal cousins.
But as he and Brannie cut between two long dining tables, Celyn was hit in the face with a . . . well . . . a human head, forcing him to stop.
Celyn stared down at the head he now held in his hands.
“Quick hands,” his sister noted.
“Not quick enough not to get hit in the face with a human head.”
Before Celyn could toss the head away and make a run for it, Annwyl the Bloody stormed into the Great Hall. Briec, in his human form, wearing only leggings and boots, stalked right behind her.
“I fail to understand,” Briec snarled at Annwyl, “how one woman could do so many stupid things at one time.”
“I don’t owe you, Briec the Annoying, any explanation whatsoever about the decisions I make about my kingdom.” She walked over to Celyn and snatched the head from his hands so that she could add it to the others she held. “And stop throwing my heads.” She lifted them so they were right under Briec’s nose. “I’m putting these on spikes outside the walls.”
“Because you want to declare to the world that you make stupid decisions?”
“Are you under some delusion that you rule here, dragon? Because you don’t.” She turned in a circle, shaking the heads and spraying blood as she yelled, “I answer to no man and no dragon! And I definitely don’t answer to you!”
Celyn had just managed to clear the blood from his eyes when Briec slapped the heads from Annwyl’s hand, knocking them into Celyn’s defenseless face.
That was also when the slap fight broke out between the pair.
Disgusted, Celyn pushed his way between them and shoved them apart.
“Stop it! Both of you! You’re acting like hatchlings!”
“She started it!”
“He started it!”
“Shut up! ”
Both royals stepped back and glared at Celyn.
“Who do you think you’re speaking to, Low Born?” Briec demanded of Celyn.
“I am queen,” Annwyl spit at Celyn.
“And I am a Dragon Prince,” Briec added.
“And I am one of the chosen of Her Majesty, Dragon Queen of these lands! Which makes me more important than either of you!” Celyn placed his hand to his forehead. “Oh. The pain.” He dropped back into a chair and Brannie rushed to his side. “My head hurts so, sister.”
“What have you two done to my poor brother?” Brannie demanded while petting Celyn’s head. “You bastards! Do you care for no one but yourselves?”
Briec shrugged. “I don’t know about this ridiculous woman, but I don’t care.”
Fearghus the Destroyer, first-born son to Queen Rhiannon and future Dragon King of the Southlands unless he could find another sucker to take such an oxen-shit job—Maybe I can talk Morfyd into being the next queen . . . no. She’s not that stupid—landed in the courtyard and shifted to human.
“Brother! Good day to you!”
Fearghus let out a long sigh and turned to face his younger sibling. “Gwenvael.”
“You’re missing a fight.”
“I don’t care.”
“Between Annwyl and Briec.”
At his brother’s words, Fearghus glanced off.
“I’m trying to figure out if Mum will forgive Annwyl for taking Briec’s head.”
“She might, but Talaith and the girls never will.”
“True,” Fearghus sighed. “And I do like Talaith and my nieces.”
Fearghus caught the clothes that Gwenvael tossed to him and put them on. As the brothers headed toward the stairs of the Great Hall, the ground shook beneath their feet as their mother and father landed in the courtyard.
“By the power of the most unholy of gods, this party’s getting better!” Gwenvael happily cheered.
“Stop it,” Fearghus told him, but he wasn’t exactly surprised. Gwenvael loved to stir shit and had been doing so since he’d hatched from his egg and managed to start a fight between their parents. Fearghus still didn’t know how Gwenvael had managed it since he’d been too young to speak . . . but he had.
Rhiannon tossed her white hair off her face and greeted them. “My handsome sons!”
“Mum,” they both replied.
Their mother shifted to human and, with arms wide open, walked toward them.
“Clothes!” their father barked. “Clothes, female!”
Rhiannon stopped, her arms dropping to her sides. “These tedious humans with their insecurities. Who has time for all this?”
Bercelak threw a burgundy velvet robe around his mate’s shoulders. “Five bloody seconds. It takes all of five bloody seconds to cover yourself.”
After putting her arms through the sleeves, she knotted a belt around her waist to hold the robe closed and impatiently waited while her mate tugged on black leggings and boots.
“Why are you here, Mum?” Fearghus asked.
“Éibhear called to me. Said to meet him and Izzy here. They should be along shortly.”
“What’s happened now?”
“Nothing any of you have to worry about. Good gods, what is that?”
“What is what?”
“That giant, phallic-looking building.” She pointed at the tower Annwyl had been having built for quite a few weeks now. The stonemason was hurrying to finish his project before the harsh snowstorms of the winter season began to hit.
“That is Annwyl’s tower.”
“Tower? What does she need a tower for? Does she plan to torture a lot of people?” Rhiannon frowned. “Gods, she plans to torture a lot of people.”
“Mum,” Fearghus said. “You left your mountain fortress for a reason. Why not just tell me rather than giving me a lot of horse shit. What is it?”
She stroked her hand against Fearghus’s cheek. “Always so smart. You make me so very proud.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“I know.” She grinned and walked around him. “I know.”
Boots on, their father stood beside Gwenvael. “Why are we just standing here?” he demanded.
Fearghus frowned. “We were waiting for you.”
With a grunt, the dragon pushed past his sons, but before Fearghus could throttle the mean bastard, Rhiannon caught one of Fearghus’s arms and Gwenvael caught the other.
“Why is he always such a rude bastard?” Fearghus growled.
“Only to you lot,” Rhiannon reminded him, patting his arm. “He adores me.”
Celyn and Brannie neared the open front doors of the Great Hall while the arguing between Briec and Annwyl continued.
The siblings had only this one chance to escape and they knew it. But just as they reached their last step to freedom, they were suddenly blocked by the Dragon Queen and more of their royal cousins.
“Brannie! Darling!” Rhiannon called out happily, her arms opening wide to grab Brannie in a smothering hold.
Celyn eased past his queen, more than ready to leave his sister to fend for herself as she would have done to him if their positions were reversed, but a large hand gripped him around the throat and pushed him back.
“Cousin!” Gwenvael falsely cheered. “How wonderful to see you! It’s been . . . days. At least.”
Celyn pushed against his cousin’s chest, but tried his best to hide his desperation from his queen and uncle.
“Come!” Gwenvael continued. “Join us!”
“Let me go, you bastard!” Celyn snarled softly at his older cousin.
“No, no! You’re family! You must join us!” Gwenvael’s voice lowered to a mean whisper. “I insist.”
It had been years—bloody years!—since Gwenvael had warned a very young Celyn not to go near his adopted niece, Iseabail the Dangerous. A warning Celyn had promptly ignored. And a few years later, when it had come out that Celyn and Izzy had become lovers, Gwenvael had made it his business to torment his cousin. Celyn didn’t know why. Chasing after unrelated, beautiful females was something Gwenvael had always done himself before he’d mated with Dagmar. And, according to Annwyl, Gwenvael had definitely at least tried with her before Fearghus had properly Claimed Annwyl as his.
Surprisingly, though, Gwenvael was shockingly sly about his small bouts of revenge. Never making a big deal of it, or involving his brothers. It was as if he wanted to hide the fact that something so minor bothered him so much. He was considered the jovial one of the royal siblings, after all.
But none of that changed the fact that the golden-haired bastard was currently making Celyn’s throbbing head that much worse.
Gwenvael reached out and grabbed Celyn’s shoulder, spun him around, and shoved him forward.
“Mum!” the bastard cheered. “Look who’s here to escort you home once you’re ready to go? Our wonderful cousin Celyn!”
With her arm tight around Brannie’s shoulders, her grin appearing as plotting and unholy as her son’s, the queen said, “Wonderful! And dear, sweet Brannie can stay, too! I simply adore family time!”
Gwenvael’s arm looped around Celyn’s neck and his chin rested on Celyn’s shoulder. “So do I, Mummy. So do I!”
Chapter Five
Éibhear the Contemptible shifted to human and quickly pulled on leggings. He had to drag on his boots while following an angry, stalking Izzy. The only thing keeping her from completely outpacing him was that she wasn’t running and he had longer legs.
“Izzy, wait!” he yelled after her, even though he knew she wouldn’t listen. Not when she was this pissed off. “Iseabail!”
But it was no use.
Éibhear got the last boot on and ran after his mate. He’d just cleared the last step when he saw Izzy, in front of everyone, walk boldly up to Rhiannon, point an accusing finger, and say, “What have you done—?”
“My lovely granddaughter!” Rhiannon exclaimed, cutting off the rest of Izzy’s words. Then she grabbed Izzy about the neck and yanked her into her body, hugging her tight. So tight, Éibhear was sure Izzy couldn’t breathe; her arms desperately flew out from her body, trying to push Rhiannon away.
“Oh, my dearest girl. How I’ve missed you! It’s been what?” Rhiannon asked. “Days? Weeks? Since I’ve seen you last?”
Éibhear ran over to extricate his mate from his mother, but then, suddenly, his idiot cousin Celyn was between him and his goal.
“Move,” Éibhear snapped at him.
Celyn the Charming—yeah, right, bloody “charming” all right—gave a bit of a smile before turning to Éibhear’s brothers and asking, “Aren’t you all glad to see your little brother returned to the safety of your collective bosom?”
“Not really.”
“I hadn’t thought about it.”
“Who?”
Éibhear was about to move Celyn himself since the black dragon couldn’t seem to get out of his way with any speed, when Éibhear stopped, and faced his brothers. “Wait . . . what? You don’t care I’m home?” he asked his brothers. “To the big, fat, disgusting warmth of your collective bosoms?”
“Yes, because we definitely want the Mì-runach in our home,” Briec said on a bored sigh.
Éibhear’s lip curled a bit. He was aware of how his brothers felt about the Mì-runa
ch. They were considered vile, vicious bastards who took orders from no one but their queen and killed only those no one else would go near. They had also been the only group of Dragonwarriors willing to take Éibhear on as one of their own. His time with them had made him a better dragon and definitely a more worthy soldier. But the reputation of the Mì-runach seemed to mean more to his brothers than what they’d done for the youngest of their siblings.
Typical!
“Now, now, you lot,” Gwenvael unhelpfully cut in. “Let’s not blame the boy for being worthless and irritating. Let’s blame our father. It’s his fault poor little Éibhear is like this. Sad. Pathetic. With bones tied in his strangely colored hair as if he were still on the cold, barbarian mountains of the Northlands.”
“Strangely colored hair? Our grandfather was a Blue,” Éibhear reminded them.
“His was more of a hearty navy blue that sparkled in the moonlight. Yours is a flat, boring blue. Kind of like yourself.”
Suddenly Fearghus focused on them all as if he’d never seen them before and snapped, “Who are we talking about?”
That was when Éibhear threw the first punch. . . .
“In here,” Annwyl said as she led Rhiannon, Dagmar, and Talaith, into the library, the sounds of the brothers’ fighting fading as she closed the door behind them. “They never come in here.”
“Nicely handled, dear Celyn,” Rhiannon told her nephew who, along with his younger sister, had followed them here. Celyn had always been one of her best guards, knowing exactly what she needed without Rhiannon ever having to say a word.
“You’re welcome. But I think you should let Izzy go now. She might be passing out.”
“Hmmm?” Rhiannon glanced down at her adopted granddaughter and saw that the warrior had slumped in her arms. “Oh, dear!”
She dropped the girl and Izzy fell into her mother’s arms.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Talaith chastised while she and Morfyd worked to awaken the girl.
