Flight of Dragons

by Elianne Adams, Sadie Haller, Zoe York, Shelley Munro, Zara Keane, LC Alleyne, Skye Jones, Evanne Lorraine, Ann Gimpel

  “No, by God.” He slammed a fist against the boulder, and it went right on through. The air sizzled. Magic. The rock was illusion. Not real.

  Counter spell. I need a counter spell.

  Mayhap not.

  He stood and took a deep breath before walking into the huge rock. The air did more than sizzle. It flamed. If he’d been human, it would’ve burned him to ashes, but dragons were impervious to fire, as were dragon shifters. Lachlan waltzed through the rock, cursing Rhukon as he went. Five more boulders blocked his tunnel, each more charged with magic than the last.

  Finally, sweating and cursing, he rounded the last curve, and the air ahead grew brighter. He wanted to throw himself on the ground and screech his triumph.

  Not a good idea.

  “Let me out. Ye have no idea what we’ll find.”

  Kheladin’s voice in his mind was welcome but the idea wasn’t. “Ye’re right. Because we have no idea what’s out there, we stay in my skin until we’re certain. We can hide in this form far more easily than we can in yours.”

  “Since when did we take to hiding?” The dragon sounded outraged.

  “Our magic is weak.” Lachlan adopted a placating tone. “’Tis prudent to be cautious until it fully recovers.”

  “No dragon would ever say such a thing.” Deep, fiery frustration rolled off Kheladin.

  Steam belched from Lachlan’s mouth. “Stop that,” he hissed, but his mind voice was all but obliterated by wry dragon laughter.

  “Why? I find it amusing ye think an eight foot tall dragon with elegant copper scales and handsome, green eyes would be difficult to sequester.” Kheladin paused a beat. “And infuriating we need to conceal ourselves at all. Need I remind you we’re warriors?”

  “Of course we’re warriors,” Lachlan said affably, sidestepping the issue of hiding. He didn’t want to risk being goaded into something unwise. Kheladin chuckled and pushed more steam through Lachlan’s mouth, punctuated by a few flames.

  Lost in a sudden rush of memories, Lachlan slowed his pace. As a mage, he would’ve lived hundreds of years, but bonded to a dragon, he’d live forever. In preparation, he’d studied long years with Aether, a wizard and dragon shifter himself. Along the way, Lachlan forsook much—a wife and bairns, for starters, for what woman would put up with a husband so rarely at home?—to bond with a dragon, forming their partnership. Once Lachlan’s magic was finally strong enough, there’d been the niggling problem of locating that special dragon willing to join its life with his.

  Because the bond conferred immortality on both the dragon and their human partner, dragons were notoriously picky. After all, dragon and mage would be welded through eternity. The magic could be undone, but the price was high. Mages were stripped of power, and their dragon mates lost much of theirs too, as the bond unraveled. Rumor suggested that mages who became dragon-less risked madness—an additional stumbling block and strong incentive to choose wisely.

  Lachlan hunted for over a hundred years before finding Kheladin. The pairing was instantaneous on both sides. He’d just settled in with his dragon, and was about to chase down a wife to grace his castle, when the black wyvern attacked.

  Rhukon had approached Kheladin long before Lachlan did, but the dragon rejected the bond, spawning long-standing animosity. That Rhukon finally acquired a dragon of his own hadn’t lessened his ill will one whit.

  “What are ye waiting for?” Kheladin sounded testy. “Daydreaming is a worthless pursuit. My grandmother is two thousand years old, and she moves faster than you.”

  Lachlan snorted. He didn’t bother to explain there wasn’t much point in jumping right into Rhukon’s arms through the opening in the gorse and thistle bushes growing at the mouth of the cave. An unusual whirring filled the air, like the noisiest beehive he’d ever heard. His heart sped up, but the sound receded.

  “What in the nine hells was that?” he muttered and made his way closer to the world outside Kheladin’s cave.

  Lachlan shoved some overgrown bushes out of the way and peered through. What he saw was so unbelievable, he squeezed his eyes shut tight before opening them and looking again. Unfortunately, nothing had changed. Worse, an ungainly, shiny cylinder roared past, making the same whirring noise he’d puzzled over moments before. He fell backward into the cave, breath harsh in his throat, and landed on his rump.

  Lachlan shook his head and balled his hands into fists. Frustration and disbelief battered him, making him wonder if he’d died only to waken in Hell. Not only was the postern gate no longer there, neither was his castle. A long, unattractive row of attached structures stood in its stead.

  “Holy godhead. What do we do now?”

  “Go out there and hunt down something to eat,” the dragon growled.

  Lachlan gritted his teeth until his jaw ached. Kheladin had a good point. It was hard to think on an empty stomach.

  “Here I was worried about Rhukon. At least I understood him. I fear whatever lies in wait for us will require all our skill.”

  “Ye were never a coward. ’Tis why I allowed the bond. Get moving.”

  The dragon’s words settled him. Ashamed of his indecisiveness, Lachlan got to his feet. He brushed dirt off his plaid and worked his way through bushes hiding the cave’s entrance. As he untangled stickers from the finely spun wool of his cloak and his plaid, he gawked at a very different world from the one he’d left. There wasn’t a field—or an animal—in sight. Roadways paved with something other than dirt and stones were punctuated by structures so numerous, they made him dizzy. The hideous incursion onto his lands stretched in every direction.

  Lachlan curled his hands into fists again. He’d find out what had happened, by God. When he did, he’d make whoever erected all those abominations take them down.

  An occasional person walked by in the distance. They shocked him even more than the buildings and roads. For starters, the males weren’t wearing plaids, so there was no way to tell their clan. Females were immodestly covered. Many sported bare legs and breeks so tight he saw the separation between their ass cheeks. Lachlan’s groin stirred, his cock hardening. Were the lassies no longer engaging in modesty or subterfuge and simply asking to be fucked? Or was this some new garb that befit a new era?

  He detached the last thorn, finally clear of the thicket of sticker bushes. Where could he find a market with vendors? Did market day still exist in this strange environment?

  “Holy crap! A kilt, and an old-fashioned one at that. Tad bit early in the day for a costume ball, isn’t it?” A rich female voice laced with amusement sounded behind him.

  Lachlan spun with his hands raised to call magic. He stopped dead once his gaze settled on a lass nearly as tall as himself, which meant she was close to six feet. She turned so she faced him squarely. Bare legs emerged from torn fabric that stopped just south of her female parts. Full breasts strained against scraps of material attached to strings tied around her neck and back. Her feet were encased in a few straps of leather. Long, blonde hair eddied around her, the color of sheaves of summer wheat.

  His cock jumped to attention. He itched to make a grab for her breasts or her ass. She had an amazing ass: round and high and tight. What was expected of him? The lass was dressed in such a way as to invite him to simply tear what passed for breeks aside and enter her. Had the world changed so drastically that women provoked men into public sex? He glanced about, half expecting to see couples having it off with one another willy-nilly.

  “Well,” she urged. “Cat got your tongue?” She placed her hands on her hips. The motion stretched the tiny bits of flowered fabric that barely covered her nipples still further.

  Lachlan bowed formally. He straightened and waited for her to hold out a hand for him to kiss. “I’m Lachlan Moncrieffe, Laird of Clan Moncrieffe, my lady. ’Tis a pleasure to—”

  She erupted into laughter—and didn’t hold out her hand. “I’m Maggie,” she managed between gouts of mirth. “What are you? A throwback to medieval times? You can drop th
e Sir Galahad routine.”

  Lachlan felt his face heat. “I fear I doona understand the cause of your merriment…my lady.”

  Maggie rolled midnight blue eyes. “Oh, brother. Did you escape from a mental hospital? Nah, you’d be in pajamas then, not those fancy duds.” She dropped her hands to her sides and started to walk past him.

  “No. Wait. Please, wait.” Lachlan cringed at the whining tone in his voice. The dragon was correct that the Moncrieffe was a proud house. They bowed to no one.

  She eyed him askance. “What?”

  “I’m a stranger in this town.” He winced at the lie. Once upon a time, he’d been master of these lands. Apparently that time had long since passed. “I’m footsore and hungry. Where might I find victuals and ale?”

  Her eyes widened. Finely arched blonde brows drew together over a straight nose dotted by a few freckles. “Victuals and ale,” she repeated disbelievingly.

  “Aye. Food and drink, in the common vernacular.”

  “Oh, I understood you well enough,” Maggie murmured. “Your words, anyway. Your accent’s a bit off.”

  His stomach growled again, embarrassingly loud.

  “Guess you weren’t kidding about being hungry.” She eyed him appraisingly. “Do you have any money?”

  Money. Too late he thought of the piles of gold coins and priceless gems lying on the floor of Kheladin’s cave. In the world he’d left, his word was as good as his gold. He opened his mouth, but she waved him to silence. “I’ll stand you for a pint and some fish and chips. You can treat me next time.”

  He heard her mutter, “Yeah right,” under her breath as she curled a hand around his arm and tugged. “Come on. I have a couple hours, and then I’ve got to go to work. I’m due in at three today.”

  Lachlan trotted along next to her. She let go of him like he was a viper when he tried to close a hand over the one she’d laid so casually on his person. He cleared his throat and wondered what he could safely ask that wouldn’t give his secrets away. He could scarcely believe this alien landscape was Scotland, but if he asked what country they were in, or what year it was, she’d think him mad.

  Had the black wyvern used some diabolical dark magic to transport Kheladin’s cave to another locale? Probably not. Even Rhukon wasn’t that powerful.

  “In here.” She pointed to a door beneath a flashing sigil.

  He gawked at it. One minute it was red, the next blue, the next green, illuminating the word Open. What manner of magic was this?

  “Don’t tell me you have temporal lobe epilepsy.” She stared at him. “It’s only a neon sign. It doesn’t bite. Move through the door. There’s food on the other side,” she added slyly.

  Feeling like a rube, Lachlan searched for a latch. When he didn’t find one, he pushed his shoulder against the door. It opened, and he held it with a hand so Maggie could enter first. “After you, my lady,” he murmured.

  “Stop that.” She directed the words toward his ear as she went past. “No more my ladies. Got it?”

  “Aye. Got it.” He followed her into a low ceilinged room lined with wooden planks. It was the first thing that looked familiar. Parts of it, anyway. Men—kilt-less men—sat at the bar, hefting glasses and chatting. The tables were empty.

  “What’ll it be, Mags?” a man with a towel tied around his waist called from behind the bar.

  “Couple of pints and two of today’s special. Come to think of it…” She eyed Lachlan so intently it made him squirm. “Make that three of the special.”

  “May I inquire what the special is?” Lachlan asked, thinking he might want to order something different.

  Maggie waved a hand at a black board suspended over the bar. “It’s right there. If you can’t read it—”

  “Of course, I can read.” He resented the inference he might be uneducated but swallowed back harsh words.

  “Excellent. Then move.”

  She shoved her body into his in a distressingly familiar way for such a communal location. Not that he wouldn’t have enjoyed the contact if they were alone, and he were free to take advantage of it.

  “All the way to the back,” she hissed into his ear. “That way if you slip up, no one will hear.”

  He bristled. Lachlan Moncrieffe did not sit in the back of any establishment. He was always given a choice table near the center of things. He opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it.

  She scooped an armful of flattened scrolls off the bar before following him to the back of the room. Once there, she dumped them on the table between them. He wanted to ask what they were but decided he should pretend to know. He turned the top sheaf of papers toward him and scanned the close-spaced print. Many of the words were unfamiliar, but what leapt off the page was The Inverness Courier and presumably the current date: June 10, 2012.

  His heart thudded in his ears, deafening him with the roar of rushing blood, as he stared at the date.

  It had been 1683 when Rhukon chivied him into the dragon’s cave. Three hundred twenty-nine years ago, give or take a month or two. At least he was still in Inverness—for all the good it did him.

  “You look as if you just saw a ghost.” Maggie spoke quietly.

  “Nay. I’m quite fine. Thank you for inquiring…my, er…” Lachlan shut up. Anything he said was bound to be wrong.

  “Good.” She nodded approvingly. “You’re learning.” The bartender slapped two mugs of ale on the scarred wooden table.

  “On your tab, Mags?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Except you owe me so much, you’ll never catch up.”

  Still shell-shocked by the realization hundreds of years had slipped past while he and Kheladin slept, Lachlan took a sip of what turned out to be weak ale. It wasn’t half bad but could’ve stood an infusion of bitters. Because it was easier than thinking about his problems, he puzzled over what Maggie meant about the barkeep owing her so much he’d never catch up. Why would the barkeep owe her? His nostrils flared. She must work for the establishment—probably as a damsel of ill repute from the looks of her. Mayhap, she hadn’t been paid her share of whatever she earned in quite some time.

  Protectiveness flared deep inside him. Maggie shouldn’t have to earn her way lying on her back. He’d see to it she had a more seemly position.

  Aye, once I find my way around this bizarre new world.

  Money wouldn’t be a problem, but changing three-hundred-year-old gold coins into today’s tender might prove challenging. Surely banks existed that could accomplish something like that.

  One thing at a time.

  “So.” She skewered him with her blue gaze—Norse eyes if he’d ever seen a set—and took a sip from her mug. “What did you see in the newspaper that upset you so much?”

  “Nothing.” He tried for an offhand tone.

  “Bullshit,” she said succinctly. “I’m a doctor. A psychiatrist. I read people’s faces quite well, and you look as if you’re perilously close to going into shock.”

  Chapter Two

  Margaret Melissa Hibbins looked appraisingly at the man seated across the table from her. She’d hesitated before speaking to him, but he exuded such a raw sexuality, it was impossible not to say something. Once they began talking, she struggled against an inane desire to drag him behind an empty building. She wanted to wrap her legs around his waist and find out what was under that kilt of his.

  Maggie put the brakes on her imagination. So what if he looked like a homeless vagabond, and she hadn’t been laid in a couple years? Lachlan was a stranger, but a damned attractive one in spite of his unkempt appearance. More important, though, he needed…something. Maybe she could help.

  Back down Dr. Hibbins, champion of the underdog. Yup, give me your tired, your poor… What a load of shit. He’s the best-looking man I’ve ever seen. Makes the altruism argument fly right out the window.

  Before she could catch herself, half a snort escaped.

  Lachlan’s head snapped up from where he’d been studying the daily rag, h
is lips moving as if reading were difficult for him.

  She shook her head. “Sorry, didn’t mean a thing by it. My imagination gets away from me.”

  He drained half the mug of ale and returned to reading the paper. She took advantage of his apparent inattention and looked at him carefully, starting with his unkempt tawny hair, rather like a lion’s mane. Though his eyes were downcast, she’d seen them earlier. An unusual shade of pure, deep green, they had golden flecks circling their irises. High, sculpted cheekbones led to a strong, square jaw. What she could see of it, anyway, beneath his beard. His nose was straight, his skin a coppery gold. He hadn’t smiled, but the teeth she’d seen were very straight and very white.

  Maybe he’s not as destitute as I thought. He’s been able to afford dental care.

  Her gaze strayed lower, to broad shoulders encased in a shirt and old-style kilt, where part of the material wrapped about his upper torso. A cape hung from his shoulders. The sword suspended from his slender waist looked chillingly real. Buff-colored, leather boots laced up the sides and disappeared beneath his kilt. She wanted to reach out and touch the fabric. It looked like an unbelievably fine wool, soft and thick, woven into a green and black plaid.

  The bartender sashayed over with a tray and dropped it onto their table. “Here ya go, Mags.”

  She inhaled the sharp odors of vinegar-soaked fried cod topped with crisp potatoes and smiled. “Thanks.”

  Lachlan pushed the papers to one side and reached for one of the plates. Without bothering to pick up a fork or knife, he drew a short dagger from somewhere beneath his kilt, stabbed a piece of fish, and stuffed it into his mouth whole. He chewed and swallowed. “Are ye not planning to eat?” he asked. “I should’ve waited for you afore beginning. I’m most humbly sorry.”

  “It’s all right. You go on ahead.”

  For the next few minutes, he shoveled fish and chips into his mouth like a starving man, only slowing after the first two plates were empty. He polished the rest of his ale. “Barkeep,” he cried in a clear, ringing voice. “Another.”