Graeme halted upon hearing the voice, his breath caught in his chest. What was that? His right hand went to the wall of stone for support and he hesitated before whispering, “Conor?”
But nothing came back this time but silence. He must have imagined it.
Lilliana?
Nothing.
And yet, that voice. It had been the other man’s; deep, round, even a little cheeky. Was Conor now shifted through time, as he was? Was the war so very close at hand?
He came at last to the door to his chamber. His parents, apparently knowing that one day he would return, had left it as it had been before he’d traveled to the Tournament, where he’d first met Lily. It was, at least, a familiar retreat, and he was grateful for the comfort.
Upon entering, he took in the smell of the fresh air wafting in through a large, arched window. Scotland in the days before the industrial revolution had an entirely different scent to it; wild, earthy. Every type of grass outside had its own sweet smell; even the mud offered a delightfully familiar aroma.
Looking around at his surroundings, he recalled that he had once told Lily about this room, describing it in detail as they lay in bed together. She’d wanted to know everything, right down to the colour of his sheets, and Graeme now found himself wandering the room aimlessly, recalling their conversation.
“By the window is a hanging depicting a dragon—something like the family emblem, I suppose,” he’d told her. “The dragon is blue, on a red background. As a boy I never much liked it, since the red always made me think of blood.”
“Think of a sunset instead,” she’d said gently, wanting to remove his mind from thoughts of war. Graeme had always revelled in combat, but something in his mate soothed his inner beast and reminded him that beauty was a thing more valuable than killing.
And so he looked at it now: rather worn by time, but still hanging in its original spot. Now, instead of looking as though it sat atop a field of blood, the dragon simply seemed lonely, his mates absent from his life.
He wandered over to the window and looked out at the rolling hills, mottled by exposed rock and the odd patch of bracken. So green, so lovely and unpopulated. And yet one day soon these very hills might be coated in blood. War would come to his lands.
“It doesn’t need to happen, you know.”
The words came from behind him. This time the voice had the familiar feminine lilt that was Lily’s, and Graeme froze once again, convinced that it was all a fabrication of his mind.
“There doesn’t have to be a war—at least not a long, bloody one.” Again the voice seemed to fill the air around him; it was so close. And yet he knew her to be far away.
“Lilliana?” he said quietly, too afraid to turn, to face the cold reality of solitude.
“Yes. I’m here. Really, my dragon.”
Graeme pivoted around so quickly that he felt himself almost lose his balance. Before him she stood, in modern jeans and a white shirt. Never had he seen anything so beautiful.
She laughed when she saw the look on his face. “You’re afraid to approach,” she said, “because you’re afraid you’ve gone completely mad.”
“Something like that.”
Walking straight up to him, she put a hand in his hair, fingers locking in, pulling gently.
“Now do you believe I’m real?” she asked.
“No.” His turquoise eyes were smiling, though.
She tilted her chin up and kissed the center of his stubbled jaw. “Now?”
“No.”
A kiss on his neck.
“Closer,” he said. “But I still don’t believe it.”
She pulled his shirt away, undoing the linen cord which criss-crossed his chest and kissing his taut skin.
“That’s feeling more like reality,” he said, allowing her to continue down his torso for a moment before grabbing her wrists.
She lifted her face to him and Graeme pressed his lips to hers, all of his need flowing through him, taking her in with every sense in his body. She was all the flavours that he thought he might never taste again: sweetness, lightness, joy.
“How are you here?” he asked when he’d finally gained the courage to pull away.
“Our mutual friend Merriman provided me with the faith that I could find you,” she said. “And I have. And I need to find Conor. I need you both.”
“We can’t all be together,” said Graeme. “This war is going to happen, even if we don’t participate. And if we run away, we’ll have to run forever…”
“I know. I wish it weren’t true, but you’re right,” said Lily. “But all I want is to be with you both again. To move away from this and to live our lives.”
“I can’t possibly tell you that I hate the idea,” smiled Graeme. “But it’s not so simple. We don’t know where Conor is, for one thing. And even if we did, I can’t just go pick him up and invite him over for tea, then announce that we’re off to live happily ever after. I’m supposed to be his mortal enemy now.”
“Well, you know how ridiculous that sounds, so I don’t need to tell you,” said Lily, a hint of anger in her tone which was directed at the notion more than at Graeme himself. “You’re no more his enemy than mine.”
“Of course not,” said Graeme. He studied her for a moment before turning away. Lily could see that he wasn’t upset; merely thoughtful. Invading his mind to search his thoughts in that moment seemed wrong, so she waited for him to speak.
“I’ll find a way,” he said, turning back to her and taking her hands in his. His broad jaw was set, eyes narrowed in focus, telling Lily that his dragon was somehow in accord with his human thoughts. “But first I need to speak to my father. Lilliana, I would like nothing better than to take you into my bed right this minute, to make love to you. I would keep you here forever, selfishly and recklessly. But I need to fulfill my obligations as a man, as a Dragon Lord.”
“What do you mean?”
“I need to take charge of this conflict. It’s the only way. I can see that now.” He kissed her forehead and placed a palm on each of her warm cheeks. “You go—find Conor. I have a war to precipitate.”
A few minutes later, Graeme stood before his father, his height renewed, confident, strong, powerful. His broad shoulders, which had expanded since the Ritual, gave him the air of a warrior. And his father, who was seated in a carved wooden chair at the head of the table, looked him over with pride.
“What is it?” he asked. “Have you come to your senses?”
“I have,” said Graeme. “I will lead the army. I will take down the Beorn.”
8
Conor-Lily
The War Room where Conor found himself seated on his first morning in the castle was a surprisingly small space, an intimate chamber whose walls were coated in remnants of past battles: the weapons of humans, such as axes, pole arms and large swords, and pieces of armour that had been torn away or burned, found later on battlefields, a reminder of their dreadful and powerful enemy.
His impressively large chair sat at the head of a table built for the purpose of military strategizing. This, apparently, was Conor’s rightful position; looking down upon other men who surrounded the table, all eyes fixed on their new leader. And yet nothing about it was familiar; nothing felt natural about leading others, men he’d never met, to their potential deaths.
Kormag had assigned him a council made up of several male shifters, all large men, all eager to do battle, and more importantly, to obey Conor’s commands without question. They sat on each side of the table, faces fixed in stoic expressions of focus on their new commander: a young, inexperienced man from centuries in the future, who had only ever shifted twice and fought once, if you could even call it a fight.
“You are all aware of who I am?” Conor asked as he eyed them suspiciously. Why would they listen to some man who’d stepped out of another time entirely?
“Yes, your Lordship,” said one of them; a broad-shouldered brute with long hair which looked as though it had n
ever met shampoo. Conor supposed that it hadn’t, and wondered suddenly how these men actually washed themselves, or rather, if. Judging by the smell in the room, the answer was clear.
Conor could see the large man’s mind clearly. He was a follower; a Beorn who looked to his new leader with simple and unquestioning loyalty. As were the others. And none of them has his capacity for reading others’ thoughts. Indeed, he had the impression that beyond the ability to shift, they were without too many talents. If the rest of the army were like this, it would make his job easier and more difficult at once.
He would need to lead them with confidence and determination, even if he lacked both utterly.
“Tell me about the enemy,” he said, putting his palms flat on the table as he spoke and rising to his feet. “The dragons. What are their numbers? Strategy? Weaponry?”
“Their weaponry is simple, my Lord.” This time it was another man who spoke: a thinner one, with light, short hair. “Flame. They have talons and teeth, of course. But between the fire and the strength of their scales, they’re all but invincible.”
“And so tell me, how exactly is it that we’re meant to fight them?” asked Conor. “And how is armour made of metal to deflect flames? It seems to me that it would turn our coats into ovens in which we’d be cooked.”
“The armour, my Lord, is of a special sort of metal. One with which you may not be familiar,” said the thin man. “It repels heat and keeps the flesh that it coats on the cool side. It is in fact the only true defence that we have against the dragon warriors.”
“I see. Well, that’s reassuring, isn’t it?”
“As for strategy,” said the first man who’d spoken; the large one who looked like he could take down an elephant with a right hook, “That is up to you.”
“You do realize of course that I’m no warlord,” said Conor. “I’m new to the rodeo, as it were.”
“My…Lord?”
“Wrong expression,” Conor said. “I want to meet with you all again when I’ve had a chance to adjust. Until then, please do some thinking of your own. This isn’t a war that we can afford to lose.”
He stood then, thinking, Nor is it one the dragons can lose. There can be no winners, no vanquished. The only possible outcome is life.
But he couldn’t say the words out loud.
An hour later, when the men had left, Conor found himself in a repetitive pattern pacing the length of the table, his jaw tightly shut.
He knew nothing of combat. His brief fight in the woods against the shape-changer who had taken on the appearance of Mrs. Fitzpatrick hadn’t so much been a battle as a simple slaughter, and as for strategizing, aside from “Run at them and hope for the best,” he had no theories or battle plans.
The only hope that his side had for winning lay in the vague hope offered by brute strength and numbers. Dragons were vicious, and had the advantage of flight and flame, not to mention nearly impenetrable scales. But Conor’s side would have all of the ground creatures on its side, as well as some flyers.
As his legs brought him from one end of the room to the other and back again, he began to envision the battle, not as he’d seen it in his mind with his side being assaulted bitterly from the air, but as a fair fight; one which they could even win. He pictured dragons being taken down with long arrows shot from powerful crossbows at the places between their hard scales.
And inside, his Beorn reared up in approval, telling its keeper that this was the way to go. That his kind would triumph against the adversity thrust upon them by the dragons.
A sense of elation filled him then, power coursing through his blood, ambition broadening his shoulders, his chest jutting forward. Yes, he thought. The dragons’ smug, confident kind would be taken down once and for all.
Corruption was eating at Conor like a virus as the animal inside him raged, and for a moment the man inside him failed to see it.
He put a hand out, steadying himself on the back of a chair, and slapped his own cheek with the other palm.
“What the hell are you thinking?” he asked. “This is a giant bear talking; not a sensible man.”
Again he began to walk, this time calming himself by studying the tapestries lining the walls. Scenes of nature, reminding him what was really worth fighting for: love, beauty.
“If only,” he said softly.
“If only, then what?”
At first he thought he’d heard her voice inside his mind, as had so often been the case, and so he didn’t respond. Instead, he chuckled softly, chalking it up to madness, and continued to walk.
“You haven’t answered me…Lord Dunbar. If only what?” Lily was beginning to enjoy this game of blow-your-lover’s-mind by appearing out of nowhere; first Graeme, now this.
Conor turned to face her. This was not inside his head; the voice that had echoed in soft waves through the room was coming from behind him, in this very room.
Out of a shadowed corner she stepped, dressed in a white shirt and jeans—clothing from another century; another life. One without the conflicts of duty that he now faced.
“Can this be happening?” Conor asked, resisting the urge to move closer.
“Well, I say we find out,” replied Lily. “They say that you never know for certain that something exists until it stimulates all your senses,” she said, making her way slowly towards him. “Sight…smell…touch…taste…” With that she stretched a hand toward him. She was nearly close enough now to put her palm on his chest.
Just then the door to the chamber swung open inward, forcing an abrupt and violent end to their conversation.
Kormag stood in the doorway, studying both of them, a look of rage about him.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asked. “We cannot have dragonkin in the castle, my Lord. Regardless of who she is to you.”
Conor thrust himself between Lily and the intruder in an instinctively protective stance. A moment later he realized his mistake and grabbed her upper arm roughly, pushing her before him as though exhibiting a naughty child who had stolen something.
“Lady Lilliana somehow found her way here,” he said, reading the Roc shifter’s thoughts. The man was all business, wanting at once to protect the integrity of their fortress and to keep Conor’s mind focused on matters of war. Lily, to him, was despicable and disposable. If he had his way, she would be executed on the spot for her invasion of the enemy’s castle.
Conor continued, “She did so against my will. I was just explaining to her that we have prison cells in this structure large enough to hold a dragon. I mean we do, don’t we?”
“Yes, of course we do,” replied Kormag. “If you insist, we can keep her there for the time being, until you decide her fate. You know that the men will be out for her blood.”
“Well, that’s understandable. The crime that she has committed is tantamount to espionage, at the very least. But the men are under my command,” said Conor, “And I will decide on a suitable punishment.”
“Punishment?” said Lily, speaking for the first time as she attempted to back towards the wall in spite of Conor’s grip. She tried to access her mate’s mind, but found his thoughts jumbled, foggy. Did he actually mean any of this, or was it merely an act to protect her?
“You know that your presence here is essentially an Act of War, my Lady,” said Conor. “You will be taken for a spy, at the very least. There is an entire army of Beorn at my disposal who will be eager to tear you to pieces.”
“But I’m not…” she began as Kormag approached and grabbed her hands, wrenching them behind her back as Conor let her go. Lily let out a sharp cry and winced in pain. Inside, her dragon breathed plumes of smoke, huffing with desire to tear the Roc shifter limb from limb.
As for Conor, his behaviour was nothing short of utterly baffling. Lily had never envisioned him wanting her gone; there was a time when he would have given his life to protect her. What was going on?
“Bring her down to the cells,” her lover said, his voice a harsh g
rowl. “I’ll follow in a moment. And Lady Lilliana: do not try to escape. There are many about who could and would happily take you on.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” she said. No way was she attempting to leave this place until she understood what was happening.
Kormag kept her hands locked behind her back as he pushed her down hallway after hallway with what seemed like far too much enjoyment, until they reached a narrow staircase leading to a cool, dark hallway flanked by cells.
Several doors stood before them and Kormag opted for one on the left: a large slab of wood coated in iron bolts, which he pulled open before pushing her inside.
A moment later, Lily found herself in a cold, dark cell, its iron gate locked.
“You will find that you made a grave error in coming to this place,” said Kormag. “Your dragon will not be sufficient to escape. The walls are metres thick; the iron impenetrable, even by your foul fire breath.”
“Thanks for the information,” Lily growled. “You’re a fabulous tour guide.”
Kormag stood over her, haughty and arrogant. “You have too much confidence,” he said. “Your former mate is ours now. He has forsaken your bond in favour of a greater cause.”
“It appears that way.”
“Are you not enraged? Do you not wish him dead?”
“I’m not like you,” said Lily. “Out for some sort of twisted revenge, looking for blood at every turn. You think that my kind is nothing more than killers. But one day soon you’ll discover what we are. And that smug expression will be wiped off your damned face.”
“I wish you the best of luck, my Lady,” he said, bowing and turning away. “By the way, the chamber pot is in the corner. It hasn’t been cleaned in some time. My apologies.”
Fuck you, Lily muttered under her breath as she heard the key in the lock.
She paced around the cell, contemplating leaping. Conor knew perfectly well that she could easily make her way out of the chamber, iron bars or no. So what was going on? Had his behaviour in his war room been entirely an act, put on to try and trap her?
Dragon Wars Page 4
