Enchanted By Fire (Dragons Of The Darkblood Secret Society Book 3)

by Meg Ripley

  A moment passed, and his hands released their hold on her, but as he withdrew from her, she felt empty, so much that she had to fight against the urge to wrap her legs around him tighter and draw him back in.

  He stood there looking down at her, and she didn’t have to wonder what he was thinking this time. His expression was the same as it had been the last time, half-enraptured and half deeply regretful. His eyes grazed over her body, and no doubt she wore the proof of their feverish coupling in bruises on her skin, but she barely felt them, and knew this time that they would heal quickly.

  “I think I’ve done far more damage than you did,” she said wryly, tracing her fingers over the bite mark that had drawn blood on his shoulder and the bruises and scratches on his back.

  He nodded, but he didn’t move. He continued to stand there, his eyes intent on her injuries that were minor in comparison to the vast pleasure he’d just given her. She realized what he was doing—he was waiting; waiting to see the bruises on her body disappear, to see that she’d at least not suffered any long-lasting injuries from what they’d done.

  She could feel the throbbing in her arms begin to ebb, and her hips no longer felt like they’d been held in a vice. They’d already begun to disappear, and two minutes later, he laid down next to her, drawing her into his embrace as he pulled the blanket over them. She listened to the beat of his heart beneath her cheek and held onto the blissful sensations still tremoring through her body.

  Questions hovered at the back of her mind, and the chaos of the past several days threatened to insinuate its way into her serene state, but she pushed them back. Not yet. There would be plenty of time later for chaos and confusion.

  She closed her eyes, reveling in the feel of him against her, and as she drifted off, she couldn’t remember ever feeling more at home than she did right then in Grant’s arms.

  Chapter 11

  She awoke to the click of a door handle and the sound of Grant’s footsteps. How she’d come to know his footsteps from anyone else’s, she wasn’t sure, but they were most definitely his.

  She rolled over and found him striding toward her, a paper bag in one hand and a tray of cups in the other.

  “You look like a tea-drinker,” he said, grinning down at her and holding out the tray of cups, but his eyes grazed over her as he spoke. Desire flared in his gaze as if he’d been able to see right through the blanket that covered her.

  “And do tea-drinkers have a particular look to them?”

  “Actually, I saw a tin of it in your kitchen, but no coffeemaker.”

  She smiled. “I could drink the instant stuff,” she teased.

  “I took a chance,” he said, balancing the tray on the bed while he leaned in to kiss her—which made her forget all about tea…breakfast…and anything else that didn’t involve getting him naked.

  All of a sudden, he pulled away and stood up straight. His breathing had deepened and when he spoke, it came out as a strangled whisper, “You need to get dressed, Freya, or we’re never going to make it out of this room.”

  He turned around then and took several steps away, and she realized when she’d sat up to kiss him back, the blanket had fallen away, leaving her bare to the waist. She loved that his attraction to her seemed so potent that he had to put distance between them to keep his hands off her—not that she wanted him to keep his hands to himself.

  Nevertheless, he was right; she’d pushed her problems to the back of her mind long enough. If he knew someone who might be able to help make sense of what was going on, she needed to get her mind off what her body wanted and onto finding answers.

  “Where are we going, Grant?” she asked as he slid into the driver’s seat of his car an hour later. He shifted the gear and drove out of the parking lot, but it wasn’t until they pulled out into traffic that he answered her.

  “To see a woman who might have answers, Freya.”

  “About me?”

  “Yes,” he replied, but he didn’t elaborate.

  The rest of the drive passed in near silence, each of them painfully aware of the other and both of them knowing they couldn’t afford to make another detour.

  Trying to keep her mind off the virile man next to her and all the things he was capable of doing to her body, she tried to settle her attention somewhere else. “Was Sonya your wife?” she asked hesitantly.

  “No,” he said quietly, but once again didn’t elaborate.

  “But you cared for her?”

  “Yes,” he replied succinctly.

  Realizing she wasn’t getting very far, she tried for something else, “The medallion, its carvings are very old; prehistoric, it seems.”

  He didn’t comment, and her mind turned back to the previous line of questioning. “Was she…like you?” she asked, not entirely sure what Grant was, but an ordinary human, he was not. Her mind should be protesting such a ridiculous thought—what did she think he was, an alien?—but it didn’t.

  “Yes,” again another short answer.

  It wasn’t long after that she abandoned the relatively fruitless questions and they reached a lone house. It wasn’t the image of a rundown shack like one might expect in the middle of nowhere. In fact, it was beautiful; it was white-washed, it had beautifully tended gardens and a white picket fence. Beyond it were several cottages, all smaller versions of the main house.

  Without a word, he slid out, but he told her to wait there for just a minute.

  She didn’t listen, hopping out of the car, stretching her legs and then following close behind him.

  “I said to wait in the car, Freya,” he said as he knocked on the door, though his voice didn’t sound particularly irritated.

  “I know,” she said simply.

  A woman opened the door almost right away and Grant turned his smile to her. “Hello, Genevieve,” he greeted her, and his tone was warm. She got the immediate impression this was not a casual acquaintance, but a woman he cared for deeply.

  “Mo charaid!” the woman exclaimed, opening her arms and pulling Grant into a motherly embrace. “What has it been; thirty years? Forty?”

  Forty years? Grant didn’t look more than thirty years old—maybe thirty-five, at most. But before Freya could contemplate this anomaly further, the woman stepped back and settled her gaze on her, peering at her intently with eyes that were kind but seemed to see right through her. Eyes that were surprised by what they found.

  “Grant,” Genevieve breathed without looking away, “what have you gotten yourself into?” she asked, motioning for them to come in, albeit reluctantly.

  “By the look on your face, my friend, I imagine I’ve gotten myself into some trouble.”

  “What on Earth are you doing here, Freya?” she asked, switching her attention once again.

  How did the woman know her name? Had they met before? Could this woman tell Freya who she was? A tremor of excitement raced through her.

  “You know who I am? We’ve met before?” she asked hopefully.

  “No. No, we’ve never met, my Lady.”

  My lady? Freya’s brow furrowed as she pondered her new title. What the…?

  “Genevieve? Do you know what Freya is?” Grant asked, touching her arm in concern.

  “Yes, of course,” she replied, seemingly snapping out of whatever had fazed her. “But do you mean to tell me you don’t know?”

  “I haven’t the vaguest idea, actually. I’ve never met anyone like her. We were hoping you might be able to shed some light on that subject.”

  “Of course, you haven’t met anyone like her. Grant, she’s Freya,” Genevieve said, as if that somehow explained everything.

  Freya sighed, trying to hide her disappointment. Her name was about the only thing she already knew about herself so the woman’s insight was less than helpful.

  “Yes, that much we’ve managed to establish, mo charaid—” Grant started, but Genevieve cut him off.

  “No, Grant, you don’t understand. Surely, you’ve discovered for yourself sh
e isn’t human; that she’s unlike any creature you’ve seen. Your senses have always been spot on, impressive for a dragon, but I suppose you couldn’t possibly understand what you’ve been sensing, could you?”

  Hold on. Did she just say a dragon? As in a scaly, fire-breathing lizard? Freya’s eyes began to shift between Genevieve’s and Grant’s, hoping for an explanation—fast.

  “Freya and I have not been acquainted long…” Grant ground out between gritted teeth, while his eyes conveyed more to the message. Apparently, he was none too pleased with what the woman had revealed, but Genevieve couldn’t possibly be serious; the woman had to be off her rocker.

  “Grant,” Genevieve said, seeming to grasp his meaning and having a thing or two to add, “You can’t keep what you are hidden from her; you can’t keep anything hidden from her. She’s Freya,” the woman reiterated.

  “Yes, I know that much…” he cut in, a hint of agitation in his tone despite the patient expression on his face.

  “She is Freya, daughter of Njord…and the wife of Odin.”

  Suddenly, Grant sat down hard on the sofa behind him. He looked stunned, but at the same time, a bubble of laughter rose up in Freya’s throat. The woman was obviously joking. There was no way in hell she was the most powerful goddess of Norse mythology—hence the term ‘mythology.’ It was folklore. A legend. A fanciful story passed down from generation to generation.

  “That’s not possible,” Grant said in a voice that was little more than a whisper. She agreed whole-heartedly, but why did it seem there was a noticeable lack of commitment in his tone?

  Now she was certain the woman was batshit crazy, and how sane could Grant possibly be if he was putting any stock in what Genevieve was saying? “You can’t be serious,” Freya said, meaning no disrespect, but someone had to bring this conversation back into the realm of reality.

  They both looked up at her, and she got the impression they were serious. Dead serious, she’d wager, by the grave expressions on their faces.

  Grant sprung to his feet, pacing back and forth in front of the sofa, deep in thought. “Alright,” he said, stopping in front of Genevieve, “assuming you’re not mistaken, how could she forget that? No potion, no curse I’ve ever heard of could affect an Aesir god.”

  “You believe she has truly forgotten?”

  He resumed his pacing, silent for the moment. “Yes, I do,” he replied.

  “I fear I do as well,” Genevieve said, sighing heavily. “If she were Loki, perhaps I would doubt it, but Freya has no reason to lie. What need would there be for it?”

  Loki—the shapeshifting trickster? She cringed at the mention of the name, though it evoked no particular memory.

  “But then how is it she can’t remember anything if nothing on this Earth could affect her so greatly?”

  Genevieve sighed. “Only the spell of a god could have befuddled her mind. It is possible to remove the shroud, but we must consider that she may have done it to herself; that perhaps she doesn’t wish to remember. And perhaps it might also be in our best interest if she didn’t remember,” she added quietly, as if she were ashamed of the suggestion.

  “You think she deliberately erased her memory?”

  Great. They were actually taking this seriously. It was time to refocus on injecting a little lucidity into this outrageous conversation. “The two of you genuinely believe I’m Freya—a mythical goddess—and on top of that, you think I erased my own memory?”

  “Yes,” they replied in tandem, though neither of them looked happy about it.

  “It isn’t erased, though,” Genevieve continued. “All of your memories are there, my Lady, just hidden behind a mask of darkness.”

  “So, what could the hunters after her be looking for?” Grant asked.

  “Can you imagine what could be done with the lifeblood of a god, Grant? If they could harness even a small bit of that essence…She doesn’t get sick, she heals faster than you or I. I don’t think a broken neck or a bullet to the heart would stop that. She has an infinite amount of power, and if that wasn’t enough, on top of all that, do you know Freya’s special gift, Grant?”

  They conversed back and forth, talking about her—or rather, talking about the mythical goddess they believed her to be—as if they’d forgotten she was in the room.

  Genevieve looked at Freya then, her shrewdly assessing eyes peering into her own. She looked away after a moment, though whether she’d found what she was looking for or not, Freya didn’t know.

  “Her gift is far more dangerous than anything we’ve ever encountered. She can manipulate a person’s will. She has the power to control one’s desires, his health…everything around her. With her memory restored, she would make a very powerful ally—an unstoppable one, in fact—but a more dangerous enemy than we’ve ever known if she turns against us. Just look at what she’s done to this poor lass,” Genevieve said, opening her front door and letting in Cat, who had apparently escaped the car and had been waiting patiently on the other side of the door.

  “What do you mean?” Freya asked as Cat headed straight for her and laid down at her feet. “What did I do to the cat?”

  “The cat? I don’t think so,” Genevieve exclaimed, making Freya take a second look at the feline at her feet. Yes—that was definitely a cat.

  Genevieve reached out her hand and tapped Cat on the top of her furry head. In a flash, the animal transformed into a young woman—a plump girl who was perhaps nineteen years old, with long, blonde hair and eyes that were the color of amber.

  Freya stumbled back, stunned. “Dear lord, what did you do?” she asked Genevieve, coming up with no possible explanation on her own.

  Then, to make matters worse, the young woman fell prostrate on the ground then, touching her forehead to Freya’s feet. “Please forgive me, Mistress, but it was the only way.”

  “The only way…to what?” Freya asked, now even more perplexed than she’d been the morning she woke up without a memory. The worst part, though, was that the girl seemed oddly familiar.

  “To stay close to you, of course. I should have warned you; I should have kept you safe when the dragon man came, Mistress. I knew there was something not right about him, about the way he courted you. I failed you, I know, but I could not bear for you to send me back.”

  “Back…where?” she asked, though she wasn’t sure that was the most pertinent question at the moment.

  “To Asgard, of course.”

  “Asgard? You’re worried I was going to send you to a mythical world because of a dragon man?” This is insane, she thought.

  “I should say no more, Mistress.”

  It was Freya’s turn to flop down on the sofa, completely baffled by the conversation of the past ten minutes. She wondered, not for the first time, if she was stuck in some strange nightmare. Perhaps the past several months had all been a part of it? Or maybe the nightmare began when she’d been attacked. Or was she still lying fast asleep in Grant’s arms on the motel floor? Any of these seemed like more plausible explanations than the ones being presented here.

  “Who are you?” Genevieve asked the young woman who was now sitting protectively by Freya’s feet.

  The girl explained that she was, Ragna, a servant from Asgard, a fortunate one to have been assigned to look after the goddess’ needs. The goddess herself had named her, the name synonymous with ‘advice,’ on which Freya had come to depend. At first, that was all the woman would say.

  Freya looked at her, taking in her sweet, childlike features, knowing that everything about the girl was somehow familiar. “Tell me more,” she heard herself say aloud, the words slipping from her lips of their own volition.

  “I’m sorry, but are you sure, Mistress?”

  Freya couldn’t speak. Of course, she wasn’t sure. She wasn’t sure about any of this. But she nodded, encouraging Ragna to recant more of her story—which was probably all it was; a fairytale. But they all listened as Ragna explained how Freya had been lonely on Asgard, left alo
ne for centuries at a time while Odin went off to fight his wars. The only company she had was Loki’s; the evil trickster would stop in from time to time just to torment her. And when her mistress could take no more of it, when she had set aside Odin for good and her loneliness threatened to consume her, Ragna had boldly insisted she accompany her to Earth.

  Ragna looked up at Freya then, an uncertain look in her eyes, waiting for permission to continue. “Forgive me, Mistress, but you went to a great deal of effort to purge these memories. Are you certain you wish to have them back now?”

  For the first time since stepping through Genevieve’s front door, Freya felt a moment of panic. It couldn’t possibly be true, but something deep inside her told her that it was.

  Accepting that she was probably off her rocker, too, she wondered whether to let Ragna continue. If she really had sacrificed all her memories in order to escape…something, could she really welcome them back so easily?

  “What dragon?” Grant spoke up, addressing Ragna for the first time.

  The girl blushed, and Freya remembered last night and this morning in the motel room, what she and Grant had done right there in front of the servant girl—because she’d had no reason to think Cat was anything other than a cat at the time.

  But the cat was really a woman. And she was apparently a Norse goddess. But what was Grant? Or Genevieve? The woman had called him a dragon. Was that possible? And if so, was he the same dragon man to which Ragna had been referring? If he was, then the girl made it sound like he was dangerous.

  “He was like you,” the girl told Grant, “But much younger, I think. Four…maybe five centuries. That is just a guess, of course,” she said, bowing her head demurely.

  Four or five centuries? Four or five hundred years old—and that was younger than Grant? Alright. That was it. She couldn’t take another minute of it.

  She wished they would all just be quiet.

  She stood up and started to pace back and forth in front of the sofa, just like Grant had done moments before. Caught up in her tumultuous thoughts, she nearly jumped when he tapped her on her arm.