Take These Broken Wings: A novel of the Paramortals (Destiny Paramortals Book 5)

by Livia Quinn

  Of course not, he was right. I was freaking out. And, embarrassed. Again. I’d been the leader of a fighter squadron, the sheriff of a large parish and a father. What was I doing whining? Real men—er, dragons don’t whine. I spun on my heel and stalked off.

  All I heard behind me was that deep rumble. “Verra goood.”

  Chapter 19

  Never poke a sleeping dragon.

  Montana

  My Dinnshencha was always on alert so there was no hiding the fact that Conor had left my bed. I reached across the sheets to the still warm pillow. My knight was like a midwinter furnace. I dozed briefly but was too curious about where he was to go back to sleep. I strode out into the dusky evening, my eyes adjusting quickly. There was a dark shadow in the center of my front yard. Conor’s dragon had felt squashed into my bed long enough, apparently. He needed to spread out, feel the land under his belly and the stars above. He’d told me he was connected to the elements as only someone like Tempe could understand, or one day, maybe Jack.

  The heap of black scales was motionless, like an onyx mountain. My feet squeaked on the dewy grass and landed within inches of his giant clawed foot, which he’d tucked under his chin like a big sleepy Lab.

  I got a glimpse in that moment of how he would appear in this form to an enemy; one might take him for a big volcanic rock left over from the ice age. Not in Louisiana, that would be a dead giveaway, but his stillness would perhaps make his enemies think they could sneak up on him, attack him while he was vulnerable.

  I started to jab him in the paw but his tongue shot out so fast even I couldn’t react. It pinned my arms tight against my body, dragging me toward his snout as one big golden eye opened lazily. “Never poke a sleeping dragon, Branisalava.” His favorite endearment was my given name, the one I’d hated until he told me it suited me as a “Glorious Defender.” I’ve kinda come to like it myself, ya ken? There was a world of humor in his crinkled topaz gaze. Then the look changed and for a second, I thought he might eat me. Literally. I mean, I was captured by his tongue like a bug and on my way toward that humongous toothy maw.

  I managed to get my hands on his snout and stroked. The tender area around his nose was like an erogenous zone for him, that and his ear holes. He allowed himself to be vulnerable only with me and I’d never take advantage—well, except for that first time, to prove a point and ultimately make him more careful in the future.

  The eye closed and his tongue loosened as he purred. “Conor, I’ve never heard you purr before. Just like a big twenty-ton pussy cat.” Which he was, with me anyway. I was coming to believe Conor was the mate I’d never thought I’d find. I knew he believed that. It was settled in his mind, a done deal.

  I studied him as the sounds of contentment sent vibrations through the ground under my feet and thought about the conversation I’d had at Aurora’s with Tempe and Kat. If it were possible for Conor to join with my body physically, or if I were in one of the many forms I could take as a defender, like that fog dragon, I’d jump his bones. Goddess what would that be like?

  “Yer very still, my love. What is so important that you turned away from me?”

  Had I, turned away? Nah. Maybe I’d just been afraid he’d see the pure emotion in my eyes, or the lust. He pushed up, setting his front legs on the ground near me and stretching, once again reminding me of a huge black feline, until he unfurled his massive wings and tested the morning currents.

  “Hop on and let’s flee,” the deeper version of his knight’s voice said.

  “Why are we fleeing?” I looked around for a threat.

  His deep chuckle was indulgent. “Nae, it means fly. Let’s take a wee trip.”

  I propped my hands on my hips. “Where are we going?”

  “Somewhere you’ve never been, I’d think.”

  I’m always up for an adventure especially if it involves a ride on my dragon. I leapt onto his back, gripping the handhold hidden in the scales behind his neck and yelled, “Let’s ride.”

  We flew over the city limits of Destiny, passing the fairgrounds, Harmony and the Forge. I could see the path of the great bayou as it wound toward the West end of Storm Lake. The sun set behind us creating a mirror and the impression of two moons, the one below disappearing as it merged with the island I spotted over Conor’s head.

  Fierce Winds Isle lay exactly fifty miles to the east of Destiny in the deep waters of Storm Lake. No one knew how deep but one indication had been the appearance of the Vouivre last Spring who’d travelled up from the plates in the ocean bottom to these waters.

  From a distance I saw what any human would from an airplane, a lush heavily wooded island with very little useful shoreline or land mass. It was rough, covered in tall trees and scrub, huge rocks and the shoreline was nearly obscured by a lowlying fog. Conor flared his wings gliding into a wide arc around the interior side, the side not seen from any of the lake’s shorelines.

  His deep voice came from nowhere, and everywhere. It might have been inside my head but I felt the vibration of it between my legs and under my palms. “Watch carefully below.”

  I leaned over the dragon’s head, holding on to the ridge on his neck. As we got lower in the sky, the mist that seemed to envelope the banks lifted and a large opening in the backside of the isle came into view. I watched as the mist dissipated and a big hole opened in front of us. No, it was trees and brush surrounding a large opening. “What is that, Conor? A cave?” I yelled.

  “Aye, it’s the entrance to the Moat of Morpheus,” he said.

  “What in the goddess’ name is a Moat of Morpheus? I’ve never heard of it.”

  “It is an ancient meeting place known only to those who need to know, and the elite in the supernatural community.”

  Conor dipped his wings as if signaling someone, grumbling, “Haud!” And then he shot toward the opening. My eyes widened and I held on for dear life, heart racing, my eyes going from wing tip to wingtip while I eyed that narrow hole in the side of the forest. How was he going to make this work?

  I shouldn’t have doubted Conor. After all, he’d probably done this a few times before, or a few thousand. Just before we hit the water a… runway… or a beach appeared lifting up through the waters like a submarine and Conor set his great frame down as gently as if he were a little yard bird.

  “Smooth. Where’d the runway come from?” His hand took mine as he morphed into his knight form and let me get a good look at my surroundings. A sandy area stretched along the bank about fifty yards from us and I saw a couple in the distance embracing.

  He said, “Come,” and led me to the entrance. Across the archway were six symbols each an identical image of two feathered black wings cupping a red poppy. They were shiny as if they’d been carved from volcanic rock and I got the feeling they were ancient. “What—” but he wasn’t listening. He walked ahead of me entering through the golden columns at each side of the cave. I followed looking back over my shoulder. The beach was gone. “How’d they do that? Where are we going, Conor?”

  He turned suddenly and frowned down at me. “Montana. Now would be a good time to exercise some of that formidable restraint, aye? We may encounter some unsavory um…. weel, you’ll soon see.”

  “What kind of place is this?” The words were barely out of my mouth when Conor ducked low under a lip in the cave, placed a hand on my head to make sure I ducked and then we were there. Conor walked forward, probably thinking I was right behind him but I stopped, wanting to take this scene in.

  The giant tunnel we’d entered led to a tavern or so it appeared from the long bar that ran straight out from where I stood just inside the opening for about seventy-five feet toward the back of the hall where it curved to the right and extended into another room around the corner. The wall behind the “bartender” was filled with elaborate old liquor bottles, marble boxes and vases that looked a lot like River’s amphora. What did these people get high on? Liquor… some kind of supernatural drug?

  There was a section near
the entrance that stated in several languages - Upon entering all weapons will be surrendered. A few of them, I’d never seen before.

  I was struck by the crowd’s general choice of costume. There were more cowls and capes than a Templar convention but the only knight present was Conor. I ought to consider getting a cape and hood. It might add a level of intimidation to my everyday persona, but my Dinnshencha had no need for props.

  From under the assorted snoods, I glimpsed a glaring yellow eye here, grisly misshapen teeth or scars there. But most of the riffraff sat guarded and watchful against the sidewall with distance and a row of tables between newcomers and themselves to form an emergency barrier.

  I counted three groups to my left and one solitary figure draped completely in a black cloak with a deep draping cowl. I sensed the malevolence emanating from him and my Dinnshencha’s natural alert monitor shot up to amber.

  “People”…humans… certainly didn’t belong here with beings of every species sitting at tables and “bellied” up to the counter. Bellied up certainly applied to the flabby troll staring at me with googly eyes. The female server just took in my presence, nodded curtly, and went back to filling orders.

  I identified shifters—recognizable not only because my own nature but because of their supernatural body parts. What was up with that? Most shifters in my universe could completely take on a human form or use glamour to appear human. I took a step toward Conor’s retreating back.

  The troll interrupted my inspection sliding off his stool and blocking my path. “Why does your consort leave you behind at the mercy of more powerful creatures than yourself?”

  His voice was like loose gravel running down a rocky slope and his breath created a foul cloud surrounding us. It was hard to stomach, but I stood my ground.

  “The requirement for admittance obviously doesn’t include bathing,” I said, allowing my distain to show. I lifted my chin and glared into his eyes, “I don’t need protection and if you don’t get out of my face, you’ll be the one begging for mercy.”

  Chapter 20

  Captain Jack Sparrow meets the Tasmanian Devil

  Montana

  The troll narrowed his eyes and thrust one stumpy smelly paw toward me. Matilda was between us before a command entered my subconscious. Conversation stopped once again with the prospect of a possible brawl gaining their attention. The bartender merely raised an eyebrow and went back to pouring and serving.

  The troll took one look at Matilda and eased back onto his stool. I heard the whispers of two shifters nearest me. One identified me as Dinnshencha, the other said, “That stupid troll would pick a fight with a dragon. It’s a wonder they aren’t extinct.”

  I nodded in agreement. I’d fought a few trolls, a memorable one in particular the day I’d met Conor. The shifters, an alligator, evidenced by the thick ridged tail thumping against the stained rock floor, and his companion whose furry coat and long expressive tail indicated some kind of cat, seemed friendly enough while others studied me from their strategic positions. It was clear that the tables were placed so these patrons could defend their forward positions and not worry about what was behind them. And the line of tables between me and them offered an additional shield should a skirmish take place. Smart setup.

  I directed my gaze back to where Conor had disappeared. I was curious to get some answers about this Moat. Why ‘moat’, and…Morpheus… wasn’t he the god of dreams?

  The end of the cavern held a rock and wood platform I assumed would accommodate some kind of entertainment. I couldn’t imagine the menagerie of musicians who might appear at Morpheus’ Moat—Green Eyed Trolls, Vamps on Fire, or Fierce Island Supes? Conor’s favorite rock band, Imagine Dragons, would definitely be too tame.

  There were two openings that looked like they led deeper into the underground belly of the Isle. Conor took a right where the bar circled around into another room. Drawn to the beauty of the natural wood I looked closer and saw that the bar grew out of the floor, merely a root from the ancient underground structure of the island. It was organic and impervious to decay and damage. The bar top had been carved by a skilled craftsman or perhaps it took magic to work with the petrified wood.

  I rounded the corner to see Conor speaking to a red headed giant. His back was turned to me, but the streaks in his hair and powerful upper body gave him away as Dutch Pomeroy, Tempe and River’s djinn father. Conor didn’t look like a happy dragon. Their voices were low so I couldn’t hear what they were saying. I stood where I was taking in the assortment of strangers in this darker version of the first hall.

  As my gaze traveled the wall of beings and categorized them as either variant or Paramortal, I paused at a tall quiet figure at the other end, near what I guessed was another exit. There was something familiar about him. Trying not to make it obvious I took another gander and nearly exclaimed, “River.”

  River, as in Tempe’s brother. Of course, Dutch and River were together. Think, Montana! Dutch disappeared with River, remember? Goddess but River didn’t look quite… right. He was bigger than I remembered, darker, and his expression was so unlike the laughing, good natured brother of my friend. Well, he’d nearly died at the hands of his former “girlfriend”. That probably had something to do with it. His chin rose and cold copper eyes bored into mine. After a moment, I looked away. Mother of the gods, something was very wrong here.

  The bartender leaned across the wide counter and asked, “What’ll you have?” I shook my head and looked back at Dutch and Conor. They had moved to the far wall to continue their talk, and when I turned back, intending to speak to River—he was gone.

  I searched the room and then followed through the only exit he could have taken. He wasn’t in sight, but a dim light illuminated the walls of the tunnel so I walked that way. There was no sign of River but the beach had reappeared down the length of the Isle and a woman walked ankle deep in the shallow waves that washed onto the shore. There was something familiar about her but I didn’t recognize her until she extended her hands and waterspouts sprang up like dancing partners, traipsing across the surface. Black clouds hovered the tops of the slender vortexes and lightning adorned her figure like Christmas tinsel. This could only be Phoebe Pomeroy, Tempe’s mother. My hand was in the air as I heard the drone of a plane.

  I spun around in time to see a beach “runway” rise from the lake and shed water from its sandy “tarmac”. I wondered what had triggered it and spotted what looked like an old WWII fighter plane approaching the magical beach. I moved out of the way since the pilot was coming in too fast for such a short runway, but his landing was as smooth as Conor’s in dragon form, and the pilot pulled the single engine plane up to me, leaving me to think there might be magic involved in these landings as well. Did everyone arrive by air?

  Gears ground and the cockpit rose as the pilot unbuckled his helmet to reveal shoulder length black hair. He climbed out nimbly, his slight frame revealing a dexterity and strength of movement as he dropped silently to the ground in front of me… and bowed. One shiny golden earring bearing some kind of ancient symbol dangled against his sun browned skin. Who did he think I was, Queen of the Isle?

  He could be Asian or South American, it was hard to say. He had an old world quality about him. “Madame, Alejandro Obejoyo at your service.”

  Hmm, how to introduce myself. He waited patiently, a well of tranquil reserve emanating from him. I sensed this man’s powerful core of strength, knew he possessed many lifetimes of discipline few could match. His relaxed stillness was meant to be non-threatening but the potential for serious annihilation was certainly evident. He would be a no talkie, just action kinda guy.

  Something caught his attention and he crouched near my feet, totally heedless of my abilities or any threats nearby. He studied something in the rocks by the water—a giant anthill.

  What was he doing?

  The fire ant bed rose from between the rocks at the edge of the water providing a constant source of moisture, its inhabi
tants busily going about their chores. Alejandro’s head tilted as he studied the colony. Hadn’t he ever seen an ant before? Maybe I should rethink his experience and age.

  He reached out one long tanned finger and poked the nest. Bad idea. Ants swarmed but instead of jumping back from multiple poisonous bites from the mean bastards, he allowed several of them to crawl around on his fingers, watching them closely, as if he’d forgotten my presence. He lifted one to his tongue and let it climb into his mouth, tasting the insect for a long time without chowing down.

  His eyes opened then and he spat the ant out delicately, watching it scamper back into its work convoy. Dedicated critters, ants. “Back to work,” he said, reflecting my own thoughts. He grinned at me and I sucked in a breath. The smile set his eyes aglow with golden fire. I felt the pull of his power as he explained, “Reconnaissance. One can gain important intel about a new land from the indigenous species.”

  He rose, dusted the sand off his hands and leapt back up onto the wing effortlessly. He reached in and lifted a leather belt which he draped over his shoulders slapping a beat-up brown hat onto his head. When he jumped down this time he looked less like a sensei and more like Captain Jack Sparrow meets the Tasmanian Devil. The weapons attached to his gun belts looked like a golden video game version of sawed off shotguns strapped across his bronzed chest. They gleamed against his skin where his white shirt hung open revealing a hard ridge of abs, all of which supported my initial impression—dangerous.

  “Alej,” Dutch’s voice boomed from behind me. He pummeled “Alec” on the back but it didn’t bend or cower him in the slightest. This being had serious mojo. “I see you’ve met Montana.”

  Alej bowed again to me and then to Dutch, who motioned for Conor to step forward. I expected Conor to nod or shake hands with the newcomer but Conor placed himself between Alejandro and me while they had some kind of stare off. I was close to interrupting because it was starting to seem like a bristling over territory and I felt like the property up for grabs.