Kiss of Danger (The Dragon Legion Novellas)

by Deborah Cooke

  Ashe rolled his eyes and Drake pretended not to have heard. Ty and Iggy laughed. Peter snorted with a disgust that had more to do with his lack of success with women than Damien’s luck.

  A pair of older women came into the square at the opposite end, unlocking a door and moving in side. Late twentieth-century, Damien guessed, but the cut of their clothing.

  Then he smelled the coffee they had started to make. His stomach growled audibly.

  “It’s a bakery,” Ashe whispered. “Get ready for temptation when they get that oven going.”

  There was an almost silent-groan from the men. “If we’re still here, we’ll go see if we can buy something,” Drake said.

  “Or make a deal.” Iggy nudged Damien. “If our money’s no good, maybe Mr. Charm can get us some breakfast.” Damien smiled as Iggy and Ty began to needle him, speculating on how he could get breakfast for eight hungry warriors for free.

  “By Zeus, maybe that’s the point,” Thad said suddenly, interrupting the flow of conjecture. The others turned to look at him. “What if the darkfire crystal isn’t as unpredictable as we think? What if it’s got a plan to fulfill?”

  “Like what?” Peter demanded. “What possible reason could be behind this insanity? Every time it flashes, we get picked up and flung down somewhere else. We don’t know where we are...”

  “We don’t know when we are,” Ashe interjected.

  “I’d say Italy, roughly 1972,” Damien murmured.

  Drake peered at a church tower and shrugged. “Rome,” he said flatly.

  Peter flicked a look at the pair of them that spoke volumes then shoved a hand through his silvered hair. “We can’t eat, we can’t sleep, we don’t dare wander away from Drake and the stupid crystal, in case it lights when we’re too far away and we get left behind. What kind of plan could this possibly be?”

  Thad looked untroubled by the older man’s scathing tone. “Maybe it’s not an accident. Maybe the crystal is returning each of us to the place we belong. Scattering us like salt through the ages.”

  “But how would it know?” Peter demanded.

  “The firestorm,” Drake murmured, and the other men immediately looked at him.

  Orion frowned. “You mean that the darkfire crystal took us to Alexander’s village, precisely so he could be reunited with Katina?”

  Thad nodded with enthusiasm. “It makes sense! Darkfire doesn’t have to be irrational. It’s disruptive and it’s unpredictable, if you don’t understand what it’s doing or why, but mostly, I think it makes unlikely things happen.” He nodded at the others. “And it’s linked to us. It’s a force associated with the Pyr. Why wouldn’t it enable the firestorm?”

  “So it sent Alexander back in time more than two thousand years, to be with his wife and son,” Iggy said thoughtfully.

  “So he could keep his duty to defend his mate and son,” Iggy agreed. “Makes sense to me.”

  “If they’re there,” Peter said. “If she still wants him.”

  Another beat of silence passed. “That’s all well and good,” Orion said, pacing around the group with his usual impatience. “But what can we do? How can we guide it? How can we guess where we are and why, or control where we go next?”

  “Who else has had a firestorm?” Ty asked. “If Thad is right, the crystal will take us back to the mate.”

  Excitement now passed through the small company, along with a sense of possibility that Damien didn’t share. If that was true, he was going to end up alone with the crystal, which wasn’t an enticing possibility.

  The less plausible option was even less enticing. Damien shivered.

  “I left a wife and son,” Drake admitted, his words soft. “Theo was a little older than Alexander’s son and Cassandra...” His voice faded and he stared into the distance.

  “I don’t think you should tease yourselves,” Damien interjected, knowing he had to say something.

  “Why not?” Iggy demanded.

  “It’s better than doing nothing,” Orion said.

  “Because now one of you is thinking that your destined mate must be here,” Damien said, his tone harder than usual. “And now each of you who hasn’t had a firestorm is going to want to break rank, no matter where we end up. You don’t know what the darkfire crystal is planning, if it’s planning anything. You could just end up doing something stupid.”

  Peter gave him a hard look. “Did you have a firestorm?”

  “Yes,” Damien admitted, noting their surprise. “And no power is ever going to take us to where she is.”

  Ty nudged Iggy. “We’re right. He doesn’t have a heart because he already gave it away.”

  “You don’t know anything about it!” Damien snapped, and the rare flash of his temper silenced the two of them.

  Orion caught his breath suddenly, drawing the attention of his fellows. He lifted his hand and his eyes widened as fire began to glow around his fingertips. The flames grew, becoming a dancing halo of flame.

  “Great Wyvern,” Orion whispered in awe. “So this is what it feels like.”

  Damien got to his feet, knowing what he was witnessing. Sure enough, a woman had come into the square and was knocking on the door that the older women had unlocked. Her hair was dark and long, and he guessed she was in her mid-twenties. Her shoes were flat and her skirt short, her legs perfect.

  A spark exploded from Orion’s fingertip and arched through the air toward her. An answering spark rose from the woman, and the two sparks collided in a brilliant burst of yellow light over top of the fountain.

  She turned to look, her eyes wide with astonishment.

  “She’s the one,” Orion said and began to march across the square.

  “You were right,” Iggy whispered to Thad, whose mouth was open in surprise.

  “Not again,” Drake muttered inexplicably.

  Damien then saw the blue-green light begin to pulse out of the darkfire crystal.

  “Run!” Ty shouted and Orion did, bolting across the square, drawn to the woman who could bear his son by the heat of the firestorm. Damien saw her smile at Orion, then the darkfire became a blindingly brilliant flash.

  Once again, they were flung through the air, and lashed by a vicious wind. Damien was flung to the ground and grunted at the force of the impact, only to hear his fellows make similar sounds.

  The darkfire faded to nothing, leaving the air as dark as pitch. It was still, wherever they had landed, and it was cold.

  As cold as the grave.

  Damien got to his feet, sure that his guess had to be wrong. His heart was pounding, even as he saw the deadened trees, the starless sky, the inky black river that separated them from a land filled with shadows. His heart felt heavy in this place, burdened by sorrow as it seldom was.

  As he watched, a flat boat left the far shore. The hooded ferryman pushed his pole into the river, guiding his boat toward them. There was only darkness within the shadows of his hood and his fingers gleamed because they were bare bones.

  “Charon,” Damien whispered.

  A dog began to bark then, and was joined by the barking of two others. Damien narrowed his eyes and looked across the river, seeing the three-headed dog Cerberus on the far shore, its teeth white and sharp as it barked.

  “We’re in Hades,” Peter whispered in horror from behind him.

  “All seven of us,” Drake said.

  “That’ll be six, now,” Damien said, taking a step toward the shore. “This would be my stop.” He reached into his pocket, glad to find that he had a coin for the ferryman, and looked across the river.

  He still had a few moments to figure out how to get past Cerberus.

  Never mind how to leave Hades alive.

  * * *

  Kiss of Darkness

  Second of the Dragon Legion Novellas

  Coming Soon!

  Deborah also writes historical romances as Claire Delacroix. Read on for an excerpt from

  The Renegade’s Heart,

  the first book
in her new True Love Brides series of medieval romances.

  This series continues the story of the family introduced in Claire’s Jewels of Kinfairlie trilogy and tells of the romances of the remaining unwed siblings. The Renegade’s Heart is Isabella’s story.

  Copyright © 2012 Claire Delacroix, Inc.

  * * *

  Kinfairlie, Scotland - January 1424

  It had been an uncommonly mild winter. The weather meant less illness in Kinfairlie keep and village, which gave Isabella more time to study Eleanor’s books upon the healing power of herbs. Isabella had been tutored by her brother’s wife for more than a year and was fascinated by her studies. It suited her well to be able to make a difference in the lives of those around her, and to be of aid to Eleanor, the Lady of Kinfairlie.

  When the moon was in its first quarter of the new year, a strange wind came rattling through the hall. That wind bore down on Kinfairlie with astonishing force and cold, slipping through the chinks in the mortar, scattering spices and making the water swirl in the buckets. Darkness came earlier from that day hence, and the nights were filled with threat and ominous whispers.

  There was not a soul who did not curse the change, or the relentless buffet of that wind. It seemed impossible to evade its frosty fingers, or to ever get fully warm. Lanterns were snuffed and candles blown out by its gusts. Fires were nearly impossible to start, with that wind gusting across hearth and brazier, and tempers became short.

  Usually the coldest winds came from the sea, bearing dampness and often snow. This wind was fierce and unfamiliar. It blew from the north, chilling every soul within the keep to his or her marrow. The butter turned rancid that first night and the meat spoiled in the larder, despite the cold temperatures. There were those who said it was a punishment, a retribution for sin, or even for the comparative ease of the winter so far.

  Isabella did not believe a word of that. The wind made labor for her, for many in Kinfairlie fell ill with a persistent cough, one that began the first night of the wind’s arrival and would not abate. As well, Eleanor fell ill, leaving more labor to Isabella. Eleanor was at the beginning of her second pregnancy, though it was only with arrival of the wind that she became unable to eat.

  Isabella worked long, fearing all the while that Eleanor might lose her child.

  It was on the third morning of the wind’s wailing that Isabella strode into the chamber she shared with her two unwed sisters. Annelise, the eldest of the three, was already in the great hall, ensuring that Eleanor and Alexander’s son Roland was occupied. As Isabella entered, her younger sister Elizabeth looked up from her book. Isabella saw that it was the ledger from the kitchens. “Are you doing the inventory for Eleanor?”

  “Spices on this day. She keeps a rigorous schedule in her inventories and I would ensure that she has no need to rise from bed.” Elizabeth’s expression turned hopeful. “Is she better?”

  “She grows impatient with time spent abed, and tells me this is a good portent for a patient’s recovery.”

  Elizabeth smiled.

  “That and complaints about the fare,” Isabella added and Elizabeth laughed. “I must go to the village to check on those with the cough, then concoct another posset for Eleanor.”

  Elizabeth watched Isabella. “You enjoy this labor.”

  “I do.” Isabella paused at an unfamiliar note in her sister’s tone. “Does that trouble you?”

  Elizabeth frowned. “I am happy for you, of course. You have found some task that you love and your passion for it is clear.”

  “But?” Isabella prompted.

  Elizabeth sighed again. “I have no similar passion. Indeed, my yearnings are for things I doubt I shall ever have.”

  “Like what?” Isabella sat down beside her sister.

  “I yearn for adventure. Love. Bold deeds.” Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled. “A knight to capture me and claim me as his own. He should be valiant and handsome, and undefeated in battle.”

  “As well as wealthy and landed,” Isabella teased.

  “Of course!”

  “You want to live in a tale.”

  “And what is so wrong with that? Two years have passed since Alexander saw Madeline and Vivienne wedded, then took a bride himself. Three weddings in a year! Did you not think we would be wed by now?” Elizabeth flung out her hands. “We shall die ancient and withered in this keep!”

  Isabella laughed and rose to fasten her cloak. “I believe there is yet time.”

  “Are you not impatient?”

  “Alexander vowed we would wed at our own choice. I am content to bide my time in choosing, that I might choose well.”

  “Since when is patience one of your virtues?” Elizabeth teased.

  Isabella turned away, pretending to seek some trinket. She had seen much in assisting Eleanor, much of the matters of women. She had seen women sicken while carrying children and she had seen them die. And Isabella was resolved that if she were to take such a risk for a man, she would have to love him with all her heart and soul.

  As Eleanor loved Alexander.

  “And who shall you choose?” Elizabeth continued. “There is never a man of interest to come to this keep and Alexander will not take us to even the earl’s court.” Elizabeth lifted the ledger. “We had best be about our labors. At least you look forward to yours.”

  Isabella had not managed a reply when the sound of hoof beats carried through the window.

  “Destriers!” Elizabeth said. She raced past Isabella and flung open the shutter, admitting the chill of the morning. “Knights!” she breathed in awe. She grinned at Isabella and lowered her voice, her eyes sparkling with new merriment. “Husbands!”

  “You think of only one thing!” Isabella teased.

  “Alexander must have summoned them. Or they come to beg his favor. I must be in the hall to greet them!” Elizabeth hastened out of the chamber, her footsteps pounding on the stairs as she descended to the great hall.

  Isabella, always cursed by curiosity, went to the window to look.

  Two horses galloped along the road to Kinfairlie’s gates, their manes and tails flying in the wind. They were magnificent steeds, so large and muscled that Isabella knew them to be destriers. Elizabeth had doubtless been right about knights, for the warhorses were richly caparisoned. Isabella saw the gleam of sunlight on armor.

  The lead horse was so pale a silver as to be nearly white. Its mane and tale were as dark as pewter. It was caparisoned in deep blue, and the tabard of the knight riding it was of that same deep blue. He wore chain mail and a long full cape as dark as midnight flowed from his shoulders. As he drew nearer, Isabella saw that his tabard bore no insignia. His hair was black and long enough to curl at his collar.

  The second horse was a chestnut with a white star on its brow and white socks. It was no less handsome than the first destrier. The man riding it was older and garbed in the plaid favored by the highlanders. He wore a leather jerkin and a white shirt, and his hair was both short and grey. A seasoned warrior, Isabella sensed that he was aware of all that surrounded them, but kept his expression impassive.

  Her gaze returned to the younger man.

  They galloped directly to the gates, the horses stamping and snorting when they were compelled to halt before the gatekeeper. Their breath sent plumes of white into the air.

  “I am Murdoch Seton,” cried the man with the dark hair. He was handsome enough to make Elizabeth’s heart flutter, Isabella was certain of it. His voice was so rich and deep, his confidence so beguiling that Isabella herself thought to shiver. His manner was audacious, which snared Isabella’s interest. “I am come to deliver a message to the Laird of Kinfairlie.”

  The gatekeeper, a doughty man who seldom smiled, barred the entry with his spear. Isabella heard the rumble of his voice but could not discern his words.

  The pale horse pranced in impatience. “My brother’s request will not be surrendered to the gatekeeper and forgotten,” Murdoch Seton said, a surprising hostility in his tone.
“I will speak to the laird and tell him of it myself.” His gaze danced over the tower and Isabella withdrew slightly, fearing that he would spot her.

  There was something about him that held her gaze, though, a vitality that was uncommon among men.

  “I will send word to my laird and you will wait.”

  “I will not be deterred from this mission,” the knight said with a determination that was surprising. “I have but a message to deliver, and no man of integrity would turn such a missive aside.”

  “But...” It was clear to Isabella that the gatekeeper did not trust this Murdoch Seton.

  Why? Did he know of him? Or did he simply dislike the man’s imperious manner? Isabella drew back the shutter a little more, curious beyond all. It seemed almost that the knight expected to be refused or turned aside. Why?

  “I see you do not send word and perhaps you do not mean to,” the knight said with impatience. “ I will take word of my arrival to the laird myself.”

  The gatekeeper obviously protested, but this Murdoch Seton dismounted, casting the reins of his steed to his partner. He made to push past the gatekeeper’s spear, and Isabella saw that he was both tall and muscular. There must have been purpose in his gaze, for the gatekeeper took a step back. He kept the spear lowered, though.

  “You will not enter this hall armed!” he declared.

  Murdoch cast a wry smile at his companion, then unbuckled his belt and scabbard. Instead of surrendering it to the gatekeeper, he handed it instead to his companion, then leaned close to the gatekeeper.

  Isabella leaned out the window to hear his words.

  “I leave both steed and sword in the custody of my companion. Should he be divested of them in my absence, or should he not be here when I return, I shall take word to the king of the treachery that has claimed Kinfairlie.” Then he pushed aside the spear with a gloved fingertip and marched toward the portal.

  Isabella’s mouth dropped open. He threatened the gatekeeper? But he was the one who sought admission. Why was he so resolved?