Dragon's Kiss (The DragonFate Novels Book 2)

by Deborah Cooke

  “Maybe that was just clear thinking,” Kris said.

  “The warrior on the threshold had no chance. He stood, astonished, as the great beast raged out of the depths of the mountain, breathing an inferno of fire. He was incinerated on the spot.”

  “Wow,” Rafferty said. “No discussion.”

  “No mercy.” Bree swallowed. “The dragon seemed to slither out of the mountain, slipping through gaps that seemed too narrow for his bulk, but at the same time, there was nothing small or weak about him. His scales were thick and they were dark, almost as if he was covered by chunks of rock. But the scales slipped against each other easily, not restricting him even as they defended him. They were like fish scales or the plate armor that men would later develop. He was a mighty creature and one made to be invulnerable. He astonished even me and my sisters, and we had seen many marvels. He fried his challenger that day, but my sisters had no opportunity to claim that warrior’s soul. The dragon perched on his mountain and picked through the ashes with one long dark nail, slicing and dividing. He devoured the champion, and added his armor to the hoard in the mountain. When he retreated, there was nothing left of that bold attacker, nothing but a stain on the threshold to the dragon’s lair and a puff of ash on the wind. Red light glowed hot from within the lair after the dragon retreated.”

  “Magick,” Kris breathed and Bree nodded. “And Siegfried was there, too.”

  “And Siegfried. He stepped out of his hiding place with resolve. He wept over the loss of his comrade, and he vowed—thinking there was no one to hear—that he would avenge his fellow warrior’s death by killing the dragon himself. My sisters were disinclined to watch any more. They were sure that there’d be no chance to claim his soul either, so returned to their other interests. I lingered, because I was intrigued.”

  “You’d heard his destiny,” Kris reminded her. He was completely riveted by her tale and she wondered if he was jealous.

  “Of course.”

  “Did you tell your sisters that?” Rafferty asked.

  Bree shook her head. “No. We were competitive in those days, always wanting the most powerful warriors for our own. I wanted this one. I revealed myself to him once they were gone and he was awed by the sight of me. He recognized what I was and fell to his knees, entreating me not to claim him before his vengeance was complete. I had no intention of claiming him, not yet. I meant to help him. I wanted to build his reputation so he would be the glory of Valhalla when I did claim him. I wanted him to fulfill his destiny first.”

  “What did you do?” Rafferty asked.

  Kristofer answered before Bree could.

  “Beer I bear to thee, column of battle!

  with might mingled, and with bright glory:

  ’tis full of song, and salutary saws,

  of potent incantations, and joyous discourses.”

  Bree supposed she should have found it disconcerting that he knew the old tales so well, that he even had the passages about her memorized in Old Norse, but she was getting used to Kris.

  It was refreshing not to have to pretend she was other than she was.

  He translated the verse for Rafferty and Bree inclined her head in acknowledgement. “You’re right. I tutored him. I shared the wisdom of the runes, so he would be more than a warrior. I taught him how to use the runes to be triumphant.” She smiled. “I am not called the Giver of Victory for nothing.”

  “It’s because of Siegfried,” Kris said, his tone grim.

  “And was he victorious?” Rafferty asked, looking between them. “I have to guess so.”

  “He was. He killed the dragon. He built a refuge for himself between the rocks outside the lair, then tempted the dragon forth, taunting it as his fellow warrior had done. When the dragon raged out of the portal, there was no warrior there. Siegfried had jumped into the crevasse and dared not even breathe. The dragon scorched the earth, seeking his assailant, then landed, intent upon sniffing him out. Siegfried waited until the dragon eased over the crevasse where he was hidden: then he stabbed the beast in the belly with the blade we had inscribed with runes. He dragged it down the length of the creature and the dragon’s blood soaked him, like he had bathed in it. When the blood dried, his armor was hardened by the blood and impervious to any blade. Before the blood dried, the dragon died, flailing in his death throes.” She spun the spoon. “I helped Siegfried push the massive beast into the sea. We watched together as his body sank into the water, watched to be sure he never moved again.”

  They looked as one at the photograph in the newspaper. “Until now,” Kris said softly.

  “What happened to Siegfried?” Rafferty asked.

  “Fame, fortune,” Bree said, trying to sound offhand. She realized she cared less than she had. “All his dreams came true. He was welcomed as a hero on his return to his people, and made king. He sent parties of men to retrieve the dragon’s hoard and his kingdom prospered. He married the beautiful daughter of a neighboring king. I thought it would be years before I had the chance to claim him for Valhalla.”

  “But?” Kris invited.

  “But he remembered me.” Bree shook her head. “I should have compelled him to forget, but I saw him as my own. It was only fitting that he should recall the bond between us. I had made his destiny come true. But that was his downfall, for he whispered my name in his sleep, awakening his wife’s jealousy. She stabbed him in the back with his own knife, when he was in his bath, and the blade sank home because he was not wearing his dragon blood armor. By the time I arrived, his soul was gone. He was cold and dead and lost to me forever.” She turned the spoon again. “He lives on in the stories of men, of course, but the story has been muddled and mixed, details of it appearing in some tales and missing in others. The only reliable record is my memory of events.”

  “But what if your memory isn’t reliable?” Kris asked. “What if you only know part of the story?”

  Bree stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  “What if Kara was telling the truth about claiming him for her own?”

  “That was a lie, prompted by Maeve’s spell.” Bree wasn’t sure and she heard that in her own tone. She knew Kris wouldn’t miss her doubt.

  He leaned closer, his tone challenging. “What if it’s not? What if you loved Siegfried but he didn’t love you?” His gaze clung to hers and she knew he wasn’t just challenging her story. He was questioning the power of the love between herself and Siegfried.

  The dragon slayer couldn’t have just used her—could he have?

  “And what if there was a second dragon?” Rafferty asked quietly.

  “What happened to the magick in his lair?” Kris asked.

  “I don’t know. I thought the red light was fire burning deep in his hoard. I don’t think Siegfried took it.”

  Kris straightened abruptly. “I wonder if the dead dragon would tell you,” he said. “Since you can talk to corpses.”

  “What is this?” Rafferty asked, but they ignored him.

  Bree stared at Kris, astonished for a moment. Then she shook her head. “I can’t go all the way up there to try to talk to a dragon who’s been dead for fifteen hundred years.” She spoke with impatience. “I have to go back to Fae to save Kara...”

  “All the way up where?” Rafferty interjected.

  “It’s on the coast of modern Norway. There’s a highway across the islands that were once that dragon’s back. Like I said, he looked like he was made of rock. Maybe his scales were encrusted with rock. Either way, the string of islands survives and the highway is called the Atlantic Road.”

  “What does it have to do with Edinburgh?” Rafferty asked, clearly not expecting an answer.

  “We have to retrieve Rhys and Hadrian from Fae before we worry about that,” Kris said. “I’ll call Alasdair and ask for the stylus that opened the portal the last time.” He smiled at Bree. “And that means we’re partners again, because you won’t get into Fae to check on Kara without me.”

  “But we still do
n’t have a plan,” Bree said, ignoring the way her heart responded to his claim. She folded her arms across her chest. “Even if we can get into Fae and find Kara, Rhys, Hadrian and Theo without being caught, how are we going to escape? Does the stylus work both ways?”

  “Kind of makes you wish for a bit of magick,” Kris said, his tone only half-joking.

  “Or darkfire,” Rafferty mused. He picked up the crystal, which he’d been touching at intervals. “I wish Pwyll would talk to me.”

  “Pwyll?” Bree asked.

  “My grandfather and the last Cantor of our kind. He was the one who summoned the darkfire and trapped it in three crystals, of which this is one. The other two were broken. I used to see his ghost, when the darkfire was loosed, but since it was extinguished, he’s been gone.” He frowned. “Until this morning.”

  “But I’m not kidding. Bree can talk to the dead,” Kris said, looking between them.

  “I convince the bodies of the dead to speak,” Bree said. “But you don’t have his body, do you?”

  Rafferty shook his head. “It’s somewhere in Wales.” He hefted the crystal, which looked like it was rock crystal and of a considerable size. “But this was in his possession for a long time and it was a beacon for his will long after his death. Maybe you can reach him through the stone.”

  Bree was skeptical, but it was worth a try.

  Rafferty didn’t understand how Bree could have any doubts about her destiny with Kristofer. The two of them were wonderful together, complementing each other’s strengths. There was an energy between them that was more than the sexual heat of the firestorm. He sensed that they could have an abiding love—if Bree allowed her heart to open.

  He watched her touch the stone, running her fingertips over it as she murmured in an ancient tongue that seemed almost familiar. He knew it had to be Old Norse, but he didn’t speak or understand it. All the same, he had a sense of her will at work.

  When the blue-green spark lit within the stone and burned steadily, Rafferty was surprised.

  He stood up, then he saw Pwyll watching him from the shadows on the other side of the room. He bowed and greeted his grandfather in Welsh, then saw the flash of the older man’s smile. He was aware of Kristofer watching in awe—and admiration—of his mate.

  “Can you hear him?” Bree asked. “Because I don’t understand him.”

  “We’ve greeted each other,” Rafferty said, then frowned. “But he says he will not linger long.” He watched Pwyll raise his hands and heard the Cantor begin to hum. The sound of his voice resonated in Rafferty’s blood and his bones, echoed in his heart and made him raise his hands in echo of his grandfather’s pose. It was evocative of the songs Rafferty knew, but had a slight variation.

  Blue-green light sparked in the stone and winked out again. It could have been an illusion, it was gone so quickly, and Rafferty wondered if he had imagined it.

  Then Pwyll spoke.

  “He says there is always darkfire, even if it is scattered in corners and dispersed,” Rafferty translated. “He says when you need it, you must gather it, like this, and secure it in the stone.”

  Pwyll sang then, a chant that started from that hum and grew in volume, a tune that was unpredictable until Rafferty knew every note of its rhythm. When he did, he joined his grandfather’s song, his voice gaining in power as he became confident of his understanding.

  He heard Kristofer begin to sing with him, tentative at first, then more loudly. He was aware that the younger Pyr stood opposite Bree, just as Rafferty stood opposite Pwyll, and that the darkfire crystal was in the middle of their group. It could have been the focal point of their song, which made the floor vibrate and the chandelier quiver. The glass panes resonated in the windows and the flames of the fire on the hearth leaped and flickered in time. It seemed to Rafferty that as their song grew louder, more demanding and more potent, everything in his library was snared in its rhythm, vibrating in tune and adding to the chorus.

  When he first saw the glimmers of blue-green light answer the summons, he thought he was imagining them. They sparked at the periphery of his vision, appearing and disappearing so quickly that they could have been illusions. They flickered. They sparked. They danced—and they grew more numerous with every passing moment of the song. Rafferty saw them burn longer and travel across the room, swimming beams of light instead of flashes of lightning. They emerged from the fire, but also slid along the floor. They slipped from the spines of his books, and fanned around the edges of the doors and windows. They came through the floorboards and around the plaster elements on the ceiling.

  And they had one destination: the quartz crystal.

  Rafferty saw that the light in the darkfire crystal grew, from the faintest spark to a steady light. It was no more than a spark in the night when it first appeared. Then the light grew to that of a candle flame, still bending and blowing, still burning blue-green. It became a glow, like that of a small sun snared in the crystal, and then it brightened even more. Rafferty couldn’t look directly at it by the time Pwyll fell silent and the darkfire crackled audibly as it burned.

  Then Pwyll whispered in Welsh. “Go to the hall of the fallen warriors.” His words sounded hoarse in the sudden stillness of the room. “And when it is time, loose the darkfire again.”

  Before Rafferty could ask, the ghost of his grandfather was gone. He didn’t vanish, though, as he had before, and he didn’t fade from view. He seemed to crack and crumble, as if he was being broken into a thousand shards. Those shards gleamed blue-green, as if touched by darkfire, and tumbled toward the floor. They swirled in a spiral before they dove into the crystal on the desk. The darkfire flashed with such brilliance in the stone that Rafferty averted his face. When he looked again, the crystal had a single light in its core, burning like a pilot light. He picked up the crystal, liking that it was warm to the touch, and saw that it was clear once again.

  “Go to the hall of the fallen warriors,” Rafferty repeated, looking between Kristofer and Bree. “But where is that?”

  Melissa called out then, and the otherworldly spell was dismissed by the sound of the front door and the smell of take-out food. “I picked up lunch,” she said and Rafferty pocketed the crystal to help her. She watched his movement and her eyes narrowed. “I thought the darkfire was gone.”

  “We gathered it up again,” Rafferty said, knowing she’d want a full explanation later.

  Melissa looked between them. “And I thought I was the one with all the news.”

  “What news?”

  “I picked up a burner phone, just as I planned, and called that woman back. She’s in Edinburgh. She insists she knows that dragon whose picture is in the news.”

  Rafferty was opening take-out cartons of curry and Kristofer was handing plates from the cupboard to Bree. “Even though he’s dead?” Bree asked.

  “Maybe he wasn’t.” Melissa shrugged. “The signal was really bad. It kept breaking up. But she said something about magick.”

  The other three stared at her.

  “Really?” Bree said. “Magick?”

  “Really,” Melissa agreed. “And then she said she wanted to take me to the hall of the fallen warriors, whatever that means.” She opened the last bag. “I think the naan is still warm but we can heat it up if we need to.”

  “The hall of the fallen warriors?” Rafferty said again.

  “There’s an echo in here,” Melissa teased but they didn’t laugh. “Evidently, it’s in Edinburgh. I told her I’d catch the next express train and meet her at her hotel.” Her smile was quick. “I bought two tickets, just in case you didn’t want to miss out, and that’s why I brought lunch.”

  “What time’s our train?”

  “We leave Kings Cross at two and arrive at Haymarket at 6:30, just in time to have dinner.” She shook a finger at him. “Which means you have time to eat and tell me Bree’s story before we go.”

  “Brilliant,” Rafferty said and caught Melissa close for a triumphant kiss.
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  His mate would always be the most precious treasure in his hoard.

  Once hadn’t been nearly enough.

  As much as Bree might have hoped otherwise, Kris had been right.

  Now she had to figure out what to do about it. More sex would be just more sex, momentarily satisfying, all good but not enough. Promising to build a relationship with him could only end badly, whether or not he ever had a real firestorm.

  For the first time ever, Bree didn’t know what to do.

  She wasn’t indecisive. She didn’t have doubts. She was never torn between possibilities. She assessed, decided and acted. It was unsettling to experience such a change.

  She had until the rescue was complete to figure out a solution, which might not be nearly enough. She wanted to talk more with Kris, even though she found him far too persuasive. Just being in his presence made her consider romantic dreams.

  There wasn’t even a fake firestorm anymore, but nothing about her reaction to him had changed.

  After lunch, Rafferty and Melissa headed out to catch their train, promising to update them with whatever they learned. Kris set up a Skype call with Erik in Chicago and Drake and Alasdair in New York. While they waited for the others, Kris recited a verse about magick to her.

  “The Pyr used to get prophecies when there was a firestorm and Erik got this one.”

  “There is no firestorm,” Bree murmured, knowing he didn’t agree. He grinned at her. “Where do they come from?”

  “Erik used to think it was the Wyvern, but I’m not sure. Does it matter? We were right about different kinds of magick.”

  “And about dragons having the strongest kind.” Bree considered the verse again. Darkfire was the magick Kris knew, so the verse accounted for all of the kinds. “You were right about the red light in the dragon’s hoard. It all must have come from him.”

  “Then somehow Maeve got it, maybe after he died and ceased to command it.”

  “And now someone has snatched it from her.”