She unwinds enough to sit up, her muscles clenching and sliding with the shuffling sound of scales on stone. “I’m listening.”
“‘Grant abeyant drakaina hearts true thirst.’” I have no idea what abeyant means, but don’t think it’s in my best interest to mention that. Hopefully, Baba Yaga does. “She seemed sure the bottle of elixir would be to your liking.”
Although how a bottle smaller than her pinkie toenail is supposed to quench her thirst, I have no idea. I should’ve brought a tanker truck.
“‘Speak your plea for the one who’s cursed.’ When you’re happy with the offering, I’m supposed to give you this box and ask that it get delivered to her dark lady sisters on the other side.”
The ground rumbles beneath my soggy sneakers, as the dragon’s laughter fills the cavern. “I am well aware of what the dark lady wants.” She swings her serpent head and lifts her horned nostrils toward a ten-foot mound of gemmed boxes the same as the one I hold in my hand.
How many people has she sacrificed for this?
I stare at the mountain of failed offerings, and my chest constricts. The box in my hand will soon be tossed into that pile as I’m claimed as dragon chum.
The cheery whistle of Patty behind me has me turning. He’s emptying the creamy contents of the bottle I brought into a Nerf Super-Soaker Scatter Blaster.
Is that how she likes to drink? No wonder her thirst never gets quenched. I’m thinking of how I can word that diplomatically when he shuffles off past his lounge area and waves me to follow. “Ye might as well watch. Yer fate depends on this.”
The dragon shifts and the lengths of her body writhe in opposite directions as she uncoils to follow.
What’s going on?
I hustle to keep up and stop when we round a rocky jut in the cave wall. Patty takes a torch from its housing and touches it to a stone trough built along the floor.
Whoosh. The liquid in the trough ignites, carrying the flame around the perimeter of a hundred-foot chamber.
“Eggs.” I stare at the dozens of watermelon-sized, teardrop-shaped mounds nestled in moss.
“My children,” the dragon says. “Now is the moment for you to pray to your druid goddess that what you brought me is truly the viable seed of a basilisk.”
It is spunk. “Your heart’s thirst is to be a mother.”
She dips her chin. “I was once the queen of incredible worms, respected and revered by all who set eyes upon them.”
“Um, sure. I guess that with the right leadership, worms could be incredible.”
Patty raises the nozzle of the water gun and sprays an arcing stream over the shells. “Not worms—w-o-r-m-s. It’s wyrms—w-y-r-m-s. Her Ladyship is Queen of Wyrms.”
I nod but have no idea what that means.
Patty chuckles. “Wingless, legless dragons. Great serpentine beasts found deep in the Earth’s core and waterways. Ye’ve heard of the Loch Ness Monster, have ye?”
“Yes,” I say, glad to be catching up. “So, Nessie was a wyrm dragon?”
“That’s right.” Patty finishes with the basilisk sperm shower. “All right, now. Do yer druid thing as if yer life depends on it. Fertilize these eggs.”
Do my druid thing? He has to know I’m only two weeks into learning spells. The scary queen swings her open mouth toward me, and I wither under the stench of rotten breath. She must have a favor-seeker stuck in her back fangs somewhere.
Um, gross.
“Make them grow, Lady Cumhaill, and become Mother of Dragons.”
I bite my tongue. It almost kills the smartass in me not to mention that position was claimed, and it didn’t work out well for Khaleesi. “I would be honored, Your Graciousness.”
Dammit, I haven’t taken egg fertilization 101. I search through my mind for the spells I’ve learned, suddenly very aware that I’ve focused heavily on the physical magic of offense and defensive fighting.
Feline Finesse won’t help me here.
The only spell I know about growing is my beanstalk lesson. Can I modify it to work? I slide my hand into my front pocket and pull out my little pouch of casting stones. After knocking everyone on their asses in the training rings, I’m only allowed to carry three at a time.
I choose the moonstone for fertility, hormone balance, and conception. The malachite is to amplify my power to influence. I stuff the jasper back into my pocket and squeeze a stone in each of my palms.
Eyes closed, I call on the energy of my casting stones, set my intention, and ask nature to comply. Projecting my casting energy onto the objects, I modify the spell on the fly.
I envision the shells of the eggs being sprinkled with the magical nutrients donated by the basilisk daddy. How Baba Yaga collected it, I have no idea and no time to think about it.
I focus my intention, rub my thumbs over the globes in my hands, and call on the spell inked on my back.
Up shit’s creek, so here we go,
Sprayed and fed and time to grow.
Your dragon queen awaits your birth,
Quench her thirst and bring her mirth.
Eggs fertilize to mighty beasts,
Hope and pray I’ll be released.
I call my powers to the fore and push out with more strength and determination than ever. Hell, if I’d been this keyed up, I would’ve crushed Seamus Scott and taken the grand championship of the junior trials.
I repeat the spell until my energy is spent. When I open my eyes, I meet the expectant gazes of the dragon queen and her leprechaun. “I’ve done what I can.”
Patty shrugs and glances over the mossy garden of eggs. “Then we shall wait and see the outcome. May the luck of the Irish be with ye, dearie.”
Chapter Seventeen
And wait I must. Days and days and days. I try not to complain. I figure an ungrateful guest—*cough* captive—is a tasty guest, so I suck it up and work on becoming besties. Snacking on your friend can’t be as palatable as chomping some stranger who invaded your cave to ask a favor for a scary witch, amirite?
Patty does his best to make me comfortable. At the snap of his finger, I get a recliner to match his for gaming. Then, he poofs me a three-inch memory foam to soften the frame of the guest cot they keep for such occasions.
Now and then, I glance at the mountain of abandoned Baba Yaga boxes from failed favor-seekers. The witch might be scary-powerful, but she sucks at solving prophesy riddles.
That isn’t comforting.
I wonder how many people died to send her sisters whatever she needs to send them? And how did she get the basilisk seed? And how many people have slept on my cot?
I don’t want to know the answers to any of those…except maybe…no, ew, not even the spunk question.
“Fiona, get that present flying over yer head. Ye need yer slingshot. We’re lookin’ fer the ironwood dresser recipe.”
I look from the screen to Patty and frown. “Why do we want that? Are we making the ironwood kitchenette?”
“Och, we could, or we could sell the recipe fer a fortune on Nookazon.”
“Really? That’s a thing? You’re codding me.”
“Och, I never joke about money.”
I go back to the game, bopping to the beat of the current Elvis song playing. Her Illustrious Wyrm Queen is right. Elvis is the King of Rock and Roll for a good reason.
I fire my slingshot and the present drops to the ground beside me. “Oh, damn. It’s a lump of four clay?”
Patty sighs and falls into his chair. “That recipe is harder to find than a black cat in the coal cellar.”
I’m in the middle of putting away my virtual slingshot when my serpentine hostess with the most-ess uncoils in a scaly hiss and lifts her head. “Did you hear that?”
Patty waves a hand, and the gramophone needle lifts off the record. Suddenly there is literally A Little Less Conversation. Sad. We were just getting to the part that makes me want to rob a casino.
I pause and save our game and the three of us stand silent and still. We al
l know what we’re hoping for. There have been four other such moments of active listening.
Her Mighty Slitheryness is getting anxious.
She senses growth in the eggs but doesn’t want to get too excited until they start to hatch. I won’t be free to leave until they do. I’m not panicked now, though. I sense the growth within those eggs. It’s a matter of time before twenty-three new dragons are born into the world.
Yay me. Mother of Wyrms, here I come.
If given a choice, I’d rather be the Mother of Jaguars or Mother of Koalas, but hey, if these slimy little suckers ever hatch, I’m free to go. So, yay team!
Patty stiffens, and a smile rounds his cheeks and lifts his glasses. “Och, I did hear that, Mistress. It can’t be long now. Come, we don’t want to miss the grand arrival.”
It takes another twenty minutes before the first little horned snout pushes through a shell. “A blue one.” I admire the shimmering sheen of its damp scales. The thing is the size of a ferret but skinny and slick with a mucusy goop. “Can you tell if it’s a boy or a girl?”
“It’s a boy,” the she-dragon gushes. “Males have a three-pronged spike at the tip of their tail.”
I’m neither close enough nor tall enough to see it, so I take her word.
The queen lowers her face to the little squirmer and with a quick flick of her tongue snatches him up and pops him into her mouth.
“Oh!” I shout, horror making me forget my dedication to good behavior. “You’re going to eat him?”
Patty laughs. “Of course not. Mother dragons carry their young in a pocket in their mouth. They’re safe and warm, and when she feeds, they’ll get scraps.”
Gross. “Oh, awesome.”
The second baby wyrm frees—I note the single-spike tail—herself from her egg, and the queen scoops her up too.
And so it goes.
An hour later, there’s a break in the action, and the queen rises on her tail and faces me. “Thank you, Fiona Cumhaill,” she says, her words garbled from gargling seventeen baby dragons. “You are free to go. You have earned my undying affection.”
The end of her tail wraps around me and gives me what I imagine is a hug similar to that of a boa constrictor. Where the spiked tip of her tail touches my bicep, my skin ignites with a skin-melting burn.
“Holy hell,” I gasp. I look down expecting to see singed and bubbling flesh, but instead, there’s another tattoo rising as an armband. What is with fae creatures and inking people?
“And what about Baba Yaga?” I ask.
Patty reaches up to link his arm with mine, and we turn toward the main cavern. “After Her Mothership finishes welcoming her wyrmlets, she’ll deliver the dark lady’s box. I’ll send the oul witch confirmation, and make it clear yer to be left alone from here on.”
“Thanks, Patty.”
He nods. “It’ll not be the same here without ye, Fi. We had some good craic, eh?”
“Yeah, it was fun. And hey, if our futures turn on us, we can always polish off our dance routine. I bet we could make a fortune as an Elvis tribute roadshow.”
Patty laughs and points toward the main cavern. “I have all the fortune I need. But if yer future turns on ye, speak the word, and together we’ll make it right. Come to me now. I have something to give ye before ye go.”
The scent of Gran’s cooking breaks through the singe of dragon lair stink and stirs my emotions more than I like. I won’t cry. I refuse. The terror of being kidnapped by Baba Yaga and the annoyance of imprisonment by a mythological Wyrm Queen is over. I didn’t cry then, so why would I open the waterworks over the succulent aroma of steak boxty?
“Howeyah, Gran.”
“Och! Thank the Sweet Goddess yer home.” Gran rushes from the stove and envelopes me in one of her WWE bone-crusher hugs. I’m not sure who’s shaking more, but neither of us is steady. She pulls back and grips my shoulders with her cushy oven mitt hands. “Let me look at ye. Are ye all right?”
“Fine. Just really glad to be back.”
“Och, we need to call Lugh home. Everyone’s been beside themselves with worry.”
She rushes to the bird platform and holds out her hands. A blackbird lands in her palms, and she speaks her message. “She’s safe home. Stop the search.”
Tossing the bird into the air, it disappears into nothing, her magic sending it off to deliver her message. “Come, luv. Ye must be famished.”
She takes my wrist and presses her fingers to her nose.
“I know. I stink. Sorry.”
“Och, don’t worry about that. Lugh’s come home reeking awful more times than—”
“Fiona, mo chroi.” Granda is portaled into the kitchen by Sloan and grabs me up in his arms. His hug is nearly as tight as Gran’s, although it doesn’t last as long. He quickly regroups and steps back to check me over. “We’ve been out of our heads not knowin’—”
Granda staggers to the side, knocked by the furry shoulder of my bear as he materializes into the group. Och, I’m glad to see yer face, Red. Ye scared me somethin’ terrible.
“I missed your face too, big guy.” I wrap my arms around his burly neck and burrow into the decadence of his fur. “I tried to contact you a million times. Sorry you missed the adventure.”
I’m sorry ye went it alone. He swipes his tongue up the length of my cheek and vanishes. The flutter of him settling inside my chest rights the tilt of my world.
“What the hell happened?” Sloan asks. He’s not looking like his usual GQ hottie self. He’s disheveled. It’s like he picked up yesterday’s clothes off the floor and didn’t bother with his shower and shave regimen. “Where’d she take ye? Are ye hurt? Should I get my Da?”
I lay my hand against my sternum, stronger now that my bear and I are reunited. “No, I really am fine. All I need is some of Gran’s cooking, a shower, and some fresh clothes.”
Sloan’s gaze locks on the new armband tattoo that encircles my bicep. It’s a wyrm dragon in stunning detail, the head of the beast biting the tail to create an unending circle.
Brushing a finger over the dragon’s eye, I shrug. “It’s a long story involving Baba Yaga, a leprechaun, wyrm dragons, Elvis, and a lot of Animal Crossing.”
“I’ll send word to Niall.” Granda heads toward the office. “I’ll tell him yer safe home, and ye’ll call him the moment yer settled and fed. Ye best wash off. Ye stink of dark magic and death. Ye don’t want that energy on ye any longer than necessary.”
“Da has an enchanted body wash with rejuvenating properties,” Sloan says. “I’ll be right back. Don’t start the tale without me.”
It takes three cycles of rinse and repeats with Wallace’s enchanted shampoo to get the ode to dragon’s dead out of my hair. Tucked in my towel, I pad barefoot to my bedroom, check that my phone is charging, and pass on my shirts in favor of one of Da’s threadbare concert t-shirts.
Fresh clothes feel like an insane luxury, and one I’ll never take for granted again. I lost track of how many days I was gone—hanging out in an underground cavern will do that to you—but I’m guessing ten or eleven.
I finish brushing out the tangles and head to the kitchen to fill my tummy and catch everyone up on my adventure.
It’s weird. Even with the dark juju washed off, I feel a little floaty and lost. There were times, including those moments at the edge of the cliff with Baba Yaga when I thought I’d never get back here alive.
“Seven weeks?” I stare at the three of them, my forkful of boxty hanging in the air. “How is that possible?”
“Time passes differently when in the presence of powerful fae creatures fer extended periods,” Granda says.
“And with Baba Yaga, a dragon queen, and a Man o’ Green, ye certainly had that,” Sloan adds, shaking his head. “Damn, Cumhaill. Only you could trip into a hape of manure and come out smelling like a rose.”
I laugh. “No. I stunk like death, remember? The floral aroma is not me. That’s your dad’s soap.”
“Nonsens
e,” Granda says. “Yer a Cumhaill, mo chroi. Sloan said from the start ye had remarkable potential. Right as usual, son.”
I arc a brow. “A compliment? Potential, eh? I can’t wrap my head around that.”
“Hey, I can be objective.” It’s good to see some of the haunted panic in Sloan’s eyes replaced by his usual haughty arrogance. I got snatched on his watch. With a guy like him, that probably cleaved his pride and self-image in two.
“Oh, and Patty gave me this.” I hold up the chunk of green gemstone, and Gran’s eyes go wide. “Ye have yer first casting stone, luv, and she’s a beauty.”
“Really? I thought casting stones were round and shiny.”
“Yer Da’s are, but that’s not necessarily the case. If a Man o’ Green favors ye with a bit of his treasure, that stone will be invaluable to ye as ye grow into yer powers.”
“Cool. What is it?”
“A peridot.” Sloan holds out his hand. I let him take a closer look, and he seems genuinely impressed. “Peridot and diamond are the only gemstones not formed in the Earth’s crust, but instead fire-forged in the molten mantle below.”
Gran holds her hand out next and smiles as she closes her palm around my green rock. “It’s called a money stone but is used to clarify the mind, and increase willpower, well-being, and vitality.”
Sloan snorts. “Not that ye need increased willpower. Yer as stubborn as rocks.”
I laugh. “It’s a family trait.”
Granda looks pleased about the whole thing. “There is great power in the fact that Patty gifted it to ye, Fi. Ye didn’t thank him when he gave it to ye, did ye?”
“Of course, I did.” All three of them stiffened. “Why? What’s wrong with that? Why wouldn’t I?”
“Words have great meaning with the fae, luv,” Gran says, “and with the greater fae especially. To thank a fae is to imply that you recognize an indebtedness. It forms a bond ye may or may not want to form.”
Granda nods. “Most are a good lot, but even they might take advantage of a bond of gratitude if they find themselves in a situation when it gives them a leg up. Patty may well have given ye the stone for that purpose. If he realized yer special, he might want to have a tie to ye.”
A Gilded Cage (Chronicles of an Urban Druid Book 1) Page 14
