Killian carried Leslie back to her apartment, where he encountered an ethereal woman holding a cast-iron skillet, ready to bop him on the head. “Ma’am,” he said. “I’m bringing her home.”
Finding Leslie’s address had been easy after looking at her identification conveniently found in her wallet. There was much he and his team would have to clean up to keep tonight’s mess a secret. Even now, Beau and his men were scrubbing the apartment and the subway, correcting the narrative for the dead bodies and the derailed train.
He could only hope that bringing Leslie back here was worth it. There was truly something about her, something that Alistair might even find intriguing.
Holding Leslie, he could feel the power radiating from her. Like rays of fresh sunlight packed inside of this seemingly fragile human.
Despite the vampiric attention she’d gathered, Killian would have to extract or close the doorway, which Ásgeirr opened. Still, she’d be able to see into the other realm, as that was the power she’d had before this mess.
“What have you done to my granddaughter?” She leaned her nose in the air, and he watched her eyes glow, her head bow. “You are no regular man?”
“No, but be thankful I’ve come. Your kin used the forbidden grimoire.”
The ghost lowered the skillet she held to an antique table. Reality flashed on her heart-shaped face. Those in the supernatural world knew the consequences, even if this one hadn’t crossed over. “What is your name?” he asked.
She raised her eyes to stare at him. “I am Myrtle Davidson, but she calls me Gran.”
Some cowered under questioning, but not this one.
Killian squinted. He knew that name and of her past exploits. There weren’t too many pirates like the legendary Myrtle. “I’m not here to escort you to the other side.”
He watched her visible relief replaced by renewed worry.
“What will her punishment be? She just lost her father and—”
Killian raised his index finger, silencing her. All family worried about their family members after death, and often the emotion created chaos.
“She will forget that this ever happened, and you will be sworn to silence on the subject.”
“Surely you can’t erase the burden of grief so easily. Leslie did it only to commune with her father, who untimely passed. They were not close, and it—at least she thought—it was the only way to have one final word. Haven’t you wished to have one last goodbye?”
Killian couldn’t deny that. Over the years, he’d lost more than his share of friends, family, love even. He clenched his jaw to steel himself against the emotion of loss that came so strongly. A memory he’d stuffed so deep down.
He carried Leslie toward the room her Gran showed him.
A room said a lot about a person. Her bedroom was no different. Heavy antique furniture practically overpowered the room. Three of the four walls were covered with embossed navy-blue wallpaper, with the fourth wall accented with shiplap that aligned with the oak flooring set in a herringbone pattern. In the corner rested a desk. He thought all writers’ desks would be immaculate. This was the only area of the room where complete chaos existed. Papers messily piled. There seemed to be no order for the stack, but maybe that was how her creativity worked.
He gently placed her on her bed and covered her up with a blanket.
“I can help to keep her on the right track, but for that, I need to be able to leave this place,” Gran uttered.
“And you have an idea?”
“Yes, my mourning ring. Make it so I can travel with it. Enchant it.”
“I don’t have that type of magic.”
He heard Myrtle gasp and turned to find Freyja entering into the room.
“But I do.” Freyja moved forward. “What a grand idea. Your request is hereby granted.” Freyja’s hands glowed, and when she stretched out her cupped hand to Gran, therein rested a gold-and-onyx Art Deco mourning ring. “Place it in the safe until it is needed.”
Freyja turned her attention to him, and the room went cold. Killian collapsed to the floor, seeing Freyja pick up the grimoire, and hearing his grandmother’s order. “It is time that you all forget this night, even you, dear child. Ásgeirr is free and must be dealt with in time by the Order, but much must happen before the next skirmish.”
With Ásgeirr free, he’d have to warn Leif. A deadly rage was about to outbreak, and the Order and all of its members would need to be ready.
“Instead,” Freyja continued, “know that the seer and wielder will soon be called into the fold. Take peace, Killian. You have done your job, and a good one.” A feeling of peace settled over him, and just like he was transported to New York City, Freyja sent him back to the comforts of the Order’s castle, although remembering nothing but the peace the goddess gave.
Chapter 8
Leslie
My alarm blared to life. I shot upright in my bed. Sunlight filtered in through the blinds.
What a dream.
The last thing I recalled was my dad’s funeral.
A sense of loss hit me.
Since then, I’d been in my writing cave typing like a workaholic. Eighteen-hour days to get this book done. Even now, I felt the ache from typing in my hands from my recent all-nighter.
The deadline loomed, and maybe my muse was on overdrive.
I rubbed my eyes to wipe away the sleep. I must have been so much into writing my book that my dreams had decided I needed to stay in that world while sleeping. It was the best answer I had for the dodgy memory, like a dream quickly dissipating.
I glanced up and around.
Everything looked the same as usual, except for the man seated in my old office chair—the one gift my dad had sent me at the beginning of my writing career. Sure, I’d sent him every newspaper clipping, everything that might prove I was worthy of his attention, and his love. I needed him to know I was special, to not forget about me.
I blinked to clear my vision, but the image of him seated there didn’t disappear.
His curly black hair was cut short; his brown eyes looked just like mine. He smiled, showing off his gold tooth, the tooth he always promised would wind up in my stomach—that scared the most out of me as a kid. The memory of childhood giggles mixed with his hearty, deep laughter hit me.
I jumped out of bed and fell on my knees, hugging him.
This was my five minutes.
This was my moment of goodbye.
“Listen, Leslie,” he said. “Hear me. You have a grand destiny before you. Don’t let anyone tell you if you have a seat at the table. I might not have been the father you deserved, but I never forgot you. I never didn’t love you—I always loved you—even in my own warped way. There can never be enough apologies. You are my special child, like no other.”
He hugged me back, and I held him as tightly as I could. Tears raced down my face.
This would be our last goodbye.
“I now dare you to live and live victoriously. You deserve the best, and I am rooting for you. I wish I could be there to see you step into your destiny, but I can see it there for you. You have that optimism from me. And Gran will take care of you to keep you on track. You will be happy.
“Take your place at the table, Leslie Marie. Take your seat. No one will give it to you.”
“Goodbye, Dad,” I sobbed.
Life chaffed against me as if I wore ill-fitting clothes. I’d wanted to run away my entire life. I’d longed to be more, do better, find a tribe where I could just be me. And I thought I’d found it in the pages of my creations.
Destiny is a flame fueled by hope. It pushes us to greatness. Despite seasons changing, the metamorphosis requires discomfort until we no longer feel the need to retreat.
He couldn’t be there when I skinned my knees, when I’d broken bones, or when life became overwhelming and miserable, and love seemed cold. For years, we’d danced around each other, walking the tightrope between beloved and despised, or fire and ice.
; Crying on his lap, I realized the truth. No matter what separated us, the father-daughter love we shared would continue.
In death there is pain, life-stealing grief, but there can also be forgiveness.
The gods had given me a gift, and I wasn’t going to waste it. They’d heard my prayers, renewed my hope. They’d tossed me a lifesaver. What else did they have up their sleeves?
With one final tight hug and kiss on the forehead, Dad’s body slowly returned to its incorporeal form until all that remained holding me, was the chair he’d gifted me long ago.
He disappeared.
With a slight knock at the door, a letter was slid under my bedroom door from my literary agent, Maurice, demanding a meeting.
Could this be the destiny Dad was talking about?
Epilogue
Alistair
He’d given up on love centuries ago.
Alistair stood in the hallway of the seer’s apartment building, waiting for his grandmother to allow her the moment she’d craved—that of goodbye. Of course, so far, he’d had no dealings with this magical woman, called Leslie.
The sweet scent of old magic—that smelled of frankincense and myrrh—wafted around the wooden apartment door.
Freyja came to stand before him. Her long, wheat-colored hair floated around her, while her face shone as though it were moon-kissed.
He bent his knee.
“Rise, grandson”—the melodic voice of Freyja moved across the space—“as the path you find yourself on, is not one you will walk alone. She will remain in danger, and the Order must look after her.”
“Grandmother, I am based in Scotland, not here in the city.”
“But the wolves and all of their assets are at your disposal and must be used. You must now focus your attention on protecting the seer from all who might wish to use her.”
Alistair waited for the other shoe to drop and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His thoughts filled the pregnant silence. Surely, his loneliness could be felt by all around him. Even when he wasn’t looking, it wrapped around him like the scales of a dead stinking fish.
“I know of your pain,” she continued, “and it is not good for one such as you to remain alone.” She placed a warm palm on his shoulder. “It is time that you find the one who completes you.”
Alistair tried to reseal the dam of emotion that shook within. He cleared his throat. “I don’t have time to date, Grandmother. I am—”
“Responsible for keeping the apocalypse from occurring.” Freyja cut him off. “Yes, I know, dearest Alistair, but your fated mate will strengthen you even more than any sort of magic might. And for that to happen, it is time for you to let someone in. I have spoken with Oya, and she agrees with this alliance.”
Oya, the Yoruba warrior goddess, didn’t provide her blessings randomly, either. The eternal circle, where the gods met to discuss politics and create alliances, was also known for its matchmaking.
“I thank you for your advice, Grandmother, but I don’t need Fate to throw me a bone.” He didn’t wish to counter anything his grandmother said nor to be disrespectful, though. He sought to move around her toward the apartment door.
“When the Fates speak, even you will not be able to walk away.”
Before he could respond, Freyja disappeared, and he entered the apartment.
“Myrtle.” He nodded to the ghostly form pacing before the large window.
“You will not hurt or punish her for using the book, will you?” Myrtle wrung her hands, and her lips thinned in concern. For a ghost, she appeared tired and worried.
“I am here to ensure that the threat is over.” Alistair pulled back his shoulders. The room seemed to grow smaller the more he spoke. “Just because the book is gone doesn’t mean those who seek her will stop trying to get her, and without proper protection, she will be in danger.”
“And that is where the Order shall come in?” she asked.
“Yes, in the shadows, as directed by the gods themselves.”
The Order was the law enforcement arm of the dragons’ reign, and he, its head.
“It must be serious if they’re bringing you here.” He watched her gulp.
“Yes.” The word slipped from his lips without much prompting. “But for this to work, you must adhere to our rules, and that includes ensuring that magic stays hidden.” He didn’t want to mention repercussions. Myrtle’s file at the Order was thick enough.
“I can.” She inclined her head. “I will do that.”
He could hear the seer sniffling down the hall. A burning filled his throat as though he, too, wished to release pent-up emotions. How could this be? “Good, now show me your granddaughter,” he gruffly commanded.
He followed Myrtle toward a backroom. His heart thudded in his chest and loudly in his ears. Surely, even Myrtle could hear it. His palms became sweaty, and for the life of him, he couldn’t decide where the butterflies in his stomach suddenly came from. Parched, he licked his lips to push down the lump forming in his throat.
The door opened. The fire pushed down on him, and every fiber of Alistair’s body burned. His heart’s thudding quickly became thundering, and he stared at the woman before him, who sat on a queen-sized bed, cross-legged, holding a letter. But intuitively, he knew the envelope wasn’t the reason for her tears that fell like raindrops.
For a moment, he only inhaled the sight of her. Tight red-coiled curls framed her heart-shaped bronze face—a face he already loved?
What was happening to him?
She glanced up, and her amber-colored eyes sparkled, and kissable lips parted in an “O.” Caught in the undertow of her gaze, he forgot to speak.
“Um, I don’t think you should be here.” She eased toward her bedside table.
Gran swooshed into the room and waved her hands in front of her body. “You needn’t worry, Leslie. His lordship is here at the gods’ command.”
A look passed between the two, which he couldn’t decipher.
“Lord? And who are you?” She turned her questioning gaze his way. The air sizzled between them. His fingers longed to trail along her arms, feel her warmth on his skin.
Dragon scales flared up on the skin of his inner arm, unsummoned. A tsunami wave battered against his resolve. His dragon mentally roared the word he’d never thought to hear, “Mine.”
Keeping her safe would only be the beginning.
As quickly as the storm formed within, a calmness came, and not from him, but her. Without his asking, he felt her warm aura pushing energy his way.
“Never mind that,” he whispered in a low baritone voice filled with promises he hoped to keep. Leaning forward, he puckered his lips and blew the magical dust into Leslie’s face.
“Not again.” She coughed and collapsed back onto her bed, falling asleep. For a moment, he stood with Myrtle at the end of Leslie’s bed and watched her.
He didn’t think to ask how she’d remembered the last time the powder had been blown into her face.
“The gods give and they take away.” Myrtle tsked. “I take it this is only the beginning of the adventure, my Lord?”
“It’s best that she forgets everything that happened, even with her father’s visit.”
“But the threat isn’t over, is it?” Again, ghostly Myrtle wrung her hands.
Alistair didn’t think to respond. The fewer people who knew the rising threat of the rogue vampires, the better. And now, having seen Leslie, he wasn’t going to let her go.
Stalking away, his dragon paced inwardly and made plans.
It was not just to keep her safe, but to woo her—to become her one, true mate.
Finally, the dragon lord smiled in anticipation.
*This is not THE END.
Continue Reading with Once Bitten.*
The dragon's blood that saved her had one little unforeseen consequence—it turned her into a vampire.
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About the Author
TINA GLASNECK enjoys creating stories that combine history, mythology, Norse Gods, and dragons. Someday she might just fancy a trip to Asgard too, and find out what all the fuss is about! Read More from Tina Glasneck at www.TinaGlasneck.com
Also by Tina Glasneck
Check out these other amazing reads by USA Today Bestselling Author Tina Glasneck.
Dragons Series: Origins
Marked by the Gods: Norse Gods of War
Cursed by the Gods: Norse Gods of War
Dragons Series
A Dragon’s Destiny
A Dragon’s Desire
A Dragon’s Heart
Dragons Series Boxed Set
A Dragon’s Witch
The Hell Chronicles Series
Hellish
Hellbent
Helltown
Hellbound
Hell for the Holidays: A Lady Hel Short Story
Hunting the Undead: A Hell Chronicles Novella
The Hell Chronicles Boxed Set
Hellraiser
Order of the Dragon Series
Zero Hour
Once Bitten
Twice as High
Three Little Words
Blood Sealed
Find out more about Tina Glasneck and her books by visiting her website: www.TinaGlasneck.com.
Zero Hour: Prequel to the Order of the Dragon Series Page 4
