by Ann Gimpel
“Maybe what’s it?”
“You could be from the past, and not just a few years back, but perhaps hundreds—or more. I’m not old enough to recall what human speech sounded like then, but some Selkies are.”
“Fine.” Frustration tightened his chest, like it always did when the mystery of his origins became a point of discussion. “My first memories are when the god of the dead dragged me out of a time-travel portal when I was fifteen.”
“I’m sorry.” She draped a hand over his hip, cradling it. “I’ve upset you.”
He started to protest, but she silenced him with a look. “Don’t insult me with a lie, Angus, but you don’t have to talk about it, either. Such a pretty man.” She stroked hair back from his face. “With your deep brown hair and amber eyes. Did you know they shade to dark gold when you’re angry?”
She was trying to divert him with flattery, but he wasn’t buying it. “You have no idea what it’s like not knowing—” He shook his head, and the rest of his words died unspoken. It didn’t matter what she knew or didn’t know about him. She’d never be more than an occasional lover, and both of them knew it.
“It could be more,” she said softly, obviously having been in his mind.
Angus took her hands in his and gazed at her. “You get more of me than anyone, and you see how pathetically little that is. There’s nothing more to give.”
“There could be,” she persisted. “You could refuse next time they send you on—”
He bent toward her and laid a hand over her mouth. “I’m not free. Not now. Not ever.”
“I don’t understand.” She pushed his hand away and closed very white teeth over her full lower lip.
He smiled crookedly. “Not sure I do, either. Every man has a life’s work. No matter how I feel about it, maybe this is mine.”
Even though it wasn’t wise, he started to ask what she knew about his current assignment, but a flash of unusual energy drew his gaze skyward. He leapt to his feet. A copper-colored dragon circled to land not far from him. Maybe the Ancient One had seen him with Celene and decided to be considerate.
Not very fucking likely. Dragons were a force unto themselves.
“I have to go,” he said. “Let me walk you to your skin, so I know you’re safely on your way home.”
A sad expression crossed her face, creasing the skin around her eyes into a network of fine lines. “It’s right here.” She scrambled to her feet and gripped both his upper arms, forcing him to look at her. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Being you.” She brushed her lips over his and moved to a marsh grass thicket. In moments, she’d dragged her pelt over her human body. Transformed into a seal, she waded into the surf.
Before it engulfed her, she turned to gaze at him. “Be careful, and think on what I said.”
He didn’t answer, just watched her head bob in the waves before turning toward his clothing. It wasn’t far from the place Celene had led them. His body felt vibrant, alive, and he still tingled from her touch. He longed for a woman of his own, children, a home, before he stuffed the impossible so deep under wraps he couldn’t mourn the loss.
Angus moved the large rock he’d placed over his clothes to protect them from the wind. He pulled a ragged dark blue fisherman’s knit sweater over his head and stepped into thick, black woolen trousers. Settling on a log, he pulled on socks and laced up stout leather boots. Though the breeze was raw, he’d worn neither hat nor gloves.
Ready as he figured he’d ever be, he covered the fifty yards to where the dragon had settled up the beach. He didn’t recognize this one, but he’d only met a bare handful of the hundreds living in Fire Mountain and on other worlds as well. When he drew near, he bowed his head respectfully and waited.
“I don’t like this any better than you do,” the dragon muttered. “Come close enough I don’t have to broadcast our business to the world.”
Angus walked closer. He could’ve suggested the dragon use telepathy since all the Ancient Ones were conversant in the technique, but he kept his mouth shut. The dragon was smaller than many he’d seen. Copper scales shaded to burnished gold on its chest, and dark eyes with golden centers whirled so fast they held a hypnotic quality. Lethal, six-inch-long red claws tipped its stubby forelegs. The dragon stood upright on hind legs tipped with the same sharp claws and kept its gaze averted, not saying anything.
What the hell? Every other dragon he’d met was proud, imperious, and quick to remind Angus of his inferiority. This one seemed young, but was it? After another long few minutes, Angus tossed respect—and caution—to the winds.
“What’s your name? And what are we supposed to be doing? All Ceridwen told me was to meet you here.”
The dragon opened its mouth, and a gout of flame landed scant inches from Angus’s boots.
He frowned and drew his brows together. “If we’re going to work together, I need to know what to call you.” He sent a speculative gaze across the air between them. “If you annihilate me, they’ll just assign you a new partner, and I’m a hell of a lot easier to get along with than any of the Celts.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” the dragon rumbled and belched smoke.
Frustration in its voice struck a note in Angus’s soul, and he gestured with both hands. “You may as well tell me who you are and what we’re supposed to do together.” He infused his words with subtle persuasion. If the dragon didn’t care for the Celts, either, they’d likely get along well enough.
“Why? What I should do is leave.” The dragon sounded sulky—and scared.
“If you could, you’d already be gone.” Angus was as certain of that as he was of anything. The dragon needed him for something, and whatever it was, the Ancient One wasn’t particularly proud of it. “What happened? Am I some sort of punishment for you?” Tension settled like a steel bar across his shoulders, and he curled his hands into fists before he realized what he’d done.
“Oh I’d be gone, would I?”
The dragon ignored Angus’s questions, and it mimicked his tone with eerie precision. It furled its wings and flapped them a time or two. Dirt swirled; small pebbles slapped Angus in the face. The creature belched steam and looked so distraught, he felt sorry for it.
“My life’s not exactly a picnic, either,” he ventured, on a hunt for common ground. “I’m a permanent mercenary, with no time off and no possibility of parole.”
That got the dragon’s attention, and it focused its whirling gaze on him. The golden centers of its eyes deepened with fiery motes that looked like little shooting stars. “Why would you want a respite from being a warrior?”
Good question.
“Because I’m tired. I’d like what most men have.”
“What’s that?” The dragon raised its brows, and its scales clanked against each other in a dissonant tinkling.
He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. The sooner you spit out whatever you need to say, the easier it’ll be. The worst part about holding something you’re ashamed of inside is it eats at you until you’re nothing but a hollow shell.”
Wings flapped, and those intense, whirling eyes shifted to the rocky beach. “I’ve been banished. Ceridwen said if I worked with you—and we were successful—I might be able to return.”
Angus kept surprise out of his voice. “Banished from Fire Mountain?”
Steam puffed from the dragon’s open mouth. “No. Idiot. I could live with that. They’ve banished me from the Highlands. My home.”
“What happened?”
“It doesn’t matter.” The dragon threw his words back at him. “We have to go to Fire Mountain, where I’m to find one of the First Born. Once we have him—or her—”
“One of the six First Born dragons?” Angus broke in, scarcely believing the dragon’s words. “They’ll never show themselves—unless it’s in their best interest.”
Another wing flap and a defiant head toss. “There are actually ten. One of them was my father.
”
“When’s the last time you saw him?” The words slipped out before he could stop them. Dragon males frequently didn’t hang about once mating was over with, but the trembling mass of scales in front of him likely didn’t need to be reminded.
“Never. Mother said he was too immersed in battles on another world to return for our hatching.”
He unclenched his fists and hunted for something soothing to say that wasn’t an outright lie. Dragon energy poked past his wards and into his mind. He tried to block it, but couldn’t.
“You believe locating a First Born is hopeless.” The dragon sounded resigned. “I may as well throw myself into a crater on Fire Mountain. I’ll never see the Highlands again—or my mate.” More wing rustling and the dragon rose a few feet off the ground, clearly intent on leaving.
“Hold on.” Angus loped forward until he was right beneath the dragon. “I didn’t say that—or think it, either. I don’t know enough to make any sort of judgment. How about if you start at the beginning? If we’re going to work together, I deserve that much.”
The dragon circled a few times, indecision stamped in its erratic flight pattern.
“I know what it is to be alone.” He kept his voice gentle. “And to not have anyone who cares if I live or die.”
Maybe it wasn’t totally true. Celene might shed a tear or two, but she’d be the only one. He kept his gaze trained on the sky, relieved the dragon wasn’t putting distance between them. Something about the creature’s pain tugged at his heart and made it feel like a kindred spirit.
The copper dragon folded its wings and settled heavily to earth a few feet from where Angus stood. It straightened its shoulders and tipped its chin defiantly.
“My name is Eletea,” the dragon announced, revealing its gender.
“Angus Shea, though you likely know that.”
“I killed a mage, who fancied herself a dragon shifter.” Eletea’s eyes whirled faster, as if she dared Angus to say something.
He crinkled his forehead as he dredged up what he knew about dragon shifters. “Don’t mages take their chances when they show up seeking a dragon to pair with?”
She nodded once, sharply. “The mage seduced one of us into believing her. I saved him by killing her, but he turned on me. Reported me to the dragons’ council, and they roped the Celts into deciding my fate, since the one I killed had Celtic blood.” Eletea’s scales rippled in the dragon equivalent of a shrug. “I don’t understand why they’re bothering. It’s not like I went after one of the gods. They’re immortal. The one all the fuss is over barely qualified as a Celt.”
Angus kept his expression neutral. “Celtic blood aside, I thought mages only bonded with same sex dragons.”
“That was another problem,” Eletea said, sounding vindicated. “No one saw it but me, though.”
Sensing the worst was out on the table, Angus settled on a nearby rock and invited, “Start at the beginning. We have time.”
“No, we don’t,” Eletea protested. “We should have been at Fire Mountain yesterday.” She hung her head. “I didn’t know what I wanted to do, so I flew and flew and flew. I almost didn’t land this afternoon.”
Angus did his best to project optimism. “Let’s open a time-travel portal and be on our way to Fire Mountain.” At the dragon’s reluctant nod, he went on. “I understand you have your own ways of returning home, but if you travel with me, you can fill me in as we go.”
What he didn’t say was it probably wouldn’t matter when they arrived at the dragons’ home world. First Borns wouldn’t give them the time of day, whether they showed up early, late, or right on time. He held many concerns, such as what would a First Born do, assuming they could locate one? But he held those cares inside for now.
He could have dreamed the future. Instead, he summoned a spell to take them to a time-traveling portal. Once the undulating gray-pink tube admitted them, he gradually paid out questions.
Reticent and quiet at first, Eletea finally began to talk.
Highland Secrets, Chapter Two
Arianrhod slumped lower in her chair, wishing she could find a graceful way to leave. The Celtic gods’ council hall had been in Inverlochy Castle in the Scottish Highlands for centuries. To human eyes, the place lay in ruins, but magic could resurrect most anything. The afternoon’s discussion had dragged on for hours, and she wanted nothing more than to slip out a side door and go hunting.
Or pour herself a stiff drink.
Or send a bolt of magic to silence the Morrigan permanently—if that were even possible.
She scanned the opulent room and tried to find something to focus on aside from the Battle Crow’s ongoing rant. Twelve-foot-high oaken doors carved with runic symbols decorated one end of the room. Crystals and natural stone in every hue of the rainbow made a prism of sunlight flaring through leaded glass panes. Rich carpets covered the stone floors, thick wool woven with depictions of Celtic glory. A fire burned in an enormous hearth situated across from the entry doors.
Ceridwen sat in her usual place before the blaze, cauldron before her. From time to time, she stirred the bubbling mix with an enormous wooden staff. When she cleared her throat in a muttery growl, a handful of Celts looked up from where they’d scattered themselves about the room, no one too close to anyone else. If Arianrhod read their expressions correctly, they were as sick of the Morrigan’s pontificating as she was.
Arianrhod straightened in her chair and came to her feet. Before she could open her mouth, the Battle Crow morphed into one of her other guises. Instead of a huge avian presence, she looked like a medieval noblewoman with long dark hair coaxed into intricate braids. Dark eyes regarded Arianrhod, and the Morrigan bent so her breasts almost spilled from her tightly cut maroon gown with long, daggéd sleeves.
With an eye roll, Arianrhod snapped, “Save it for the men. I’ve heard more than enough about your fourteenth cousin five times removed, who was killed by the young dragon. And about the dragon your kinswoman planned to bond with, demanding the other dragon’s life. How many times can ye tell that tale, anyway? And why is this cousin so bleeding important?”
“Do ye want dragon shifters to die out entirely?” the Morrigan demanded.
Arianrhod shrugged. “Not certain I’ve given it much thought, but I canna see where it would make much difference. Magic wielders come and go.”
“How can ye say such a thing?” the Morrigan screeched.
Ceridwen vaulted to her better than six-foot height. Long black hair streaked with silver fell to her knees, and her dark eyes mirrored an ever-changing collage of images. Body-hugging tan leather breeches and a hip-length tunic woven with green and golden thread covered her lithe frame. Knee-high leather boots wound up both legs. She extended an arm, index finger pointed at the Morrigan’s chest.
“I, too, weary of this. Ye havena said aught new in the past turn of the glass. I declare this topic closed.” She crossed her arms beneath her breasts and eyed the Morrigan, apparently expecting an argument. When she didn’t get one, Ceridwen added, “I’ve taken care of the problem.”
The Morrigan narrowed her dark eyes. “Really? How?”
“I sent the dragon in question, a young female named Eletea, to Fire Mountain to seek a First Born. They can read her intent and proclaim her guilty or innocent of malicious intent.”
“Pfft.” The Morrigan waved a dismissive hand. “How do ye know this Eletea will do your bidding?”
“Because I forbade her from returning to the Highlands, and I’m sending Angus with her.” An arrogant smile crossed Ceridwen’s ageless face. “Even if they doona find a First Born—and they may not—he can dream the truth.”
A flicker of something between annoyance and fear crossed the Morrigan’s features, turning them grim and threatening. Before Arianrhod could drill into what that expression meant, the Battle Crow morphed back into her avian form. Shrieking her displeasure, she flew out an open window.
“Would that it were always so easy to rid
ourselves of that one,” Andraste muttered. The goddess of victory, dressed in her usual tan battle leathers, rose to her feet, stretched her arms over her head, and glanced at the assemblage. “I’m leaving, if ’tis all the same to you.” She tossed heavy blonde hair over her shoulders and swept her shrewd green eyes about the room in a clear challenge—should anyone question her right to go.
“Wait.” Arianrhod faced the other woman. “We havena addressed the rumors of dragon shifters running amok along with their dragons. In truth, I doona think of it often, but the Morrigan’s words—”
“Eletea will take that up with the dragons in Fire Mountain. ’Tis at the core of her rationale for murdering the dark mage,” Ceridwen cut in and shifted her unsettling gaze to Arianrhod. “Since ye expressed interest, mayhap ye could meet them there.”
“Them?” Arianrhod quirked a brow.
“Angus and the dragon.” Ceridwen eyed her oddly. “Ye werena paying attention. I just said that.”
“Sorry.” Arianrhod didn’t want to get into an argument. Easier to apologize and have done with it. “I’ll go. No problem.”
“Come closer.”
Arianrhod walked until she stood nose to nose with Ceridwen, staring at the images marching across her eyes. What she saw made her heart beat faster. Blood ran in rivers around dying dragons, with a huge crow feasting on one of them. The goddess of the world was warning her to watch out for the Morrigan. And to take the renegade dragon shifter problem seriously.
Arianrhod opened her mouth, but Ceridwen shook her head and switched from imagery to deeply shielded mind speech. “Lachlan and his dragon havena been seen for hundreds of years. They vanished without a trace. Britta and her dragon retreated to an earlier time. We must know if foul energy has infiltrated the dragon shifter bond. If incentives to tempt even the staunchest mage to dark power exist, I would know of them.”
