Flight of Dragons

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

  “Aye,” Arawn cut in. “Today makes three times she’s foiled us. That one is a scourge. Far worse than rogue dragon shifters. ’Tis why the air and oceans are poisoned. This world is dying. A few of the Celtic gods have even left. Fighting one of their own isna to their taste.”

  The Morrigan in all her forms…

  Fear, an unfamiliar emotion, rocked Lachlan to his bones. One of the oldest tales predicted that when the Morrigan split into Badb, Macha, and Anann, destruction would follow in their wake. “Can aught be done?”

  “We doona know.” Gwydion spoke softly.

  “Yet, we were unwilling to flee this world like rats deserting a foundering ship,” Arawn muttered. “Some humans possess strong magic. We’ve watched over them. Augmented their power. Made certain they wouldna fall to the Morrigan.”

  “Aye, ’twasna right to toss them to Rhukon or the Morrigan—or any of the other corrupt dragon mage pairs.” Gwydion drew his sharply arched brows into a thick, angry line.

  “What role have Connor and his red dragon, Preki, played? They fought alongside Rhukon during the battle that ended with Kheladin and me deeply asleep.”

  Arawn glanced at Lachlan and shrugged. “So far, he’s been more of an annoyance. His magic isna verra strong, yet he does augment Rhukon’s efforts. There are other corrupt dragon mages too, but we’ve only sensed their wickedness. They’ve escaped precise identification so far.”

  “Only because we havena expended sufficient energy on that front,” Gwydion huffed.

  Lachlan cocked his head to one side, mining for unsaid meaning beneath their words. The Celtic gods were notorious for only telling half the story. Nothing he could do at the moment about either Rhukon or Connor. Or the Morrigan.

  His thoughts returned to Maggie—maybe a puzzle he could figure out—and he groped for understanding. “I met a woman,” he began, seeking a link that seemed elusive. “A witch, albeit a weak one. She, that is, I—”

  The Celts watched him intently. Arawn’s nostrils flared. “Ye must say whatever ’tis, lad. We canna put the words in your mouth.”

  Lachlan drew a shaky breath. “’Twill sound as if I’m fey, but I believe this woman and I are linked in some way. ’Tis as if I know her well, despite having just met. She was there when I emerged from this cave. We’d be together still, had she not—”

  “Not what?” Gwydion pressed.

  Lachlan shook his head. “I doona rightly know. Some magical thing played music. She spoke into it, said she was needed at work, and fled.”

  Arawn snorted. “A cellular telephone.” To Lachlan’s confused expression, he added, “I will explain later—to the extent such things are explainable.” His dark eyes gleamed hotly. “Ye were a bit of a laggard. Why did ye not bed the lass when ye had the chance?”

  “I dinna say aught. How is it ye already know I dinna bed her?” Lachlan’s mind raced. Something was afoot, but he had no idea quite what.

  “All in good time. I asked my question first.”

  Lachlan’s lips twitched. How like the gods to not pull any punches. “Because she had to leave. She wanted me as much as I wanted her. She said as much.”

  Arawn and Gwydion exchanged a significant glance.

  “What?” Lachlan stared at them.

  Arawn nodded half to himself before saying, “The woman comes from a long line of witches. Her father’s mother is on her way here right now. She’s the head of a powerful coven.”

  “Oh for the love of Danu, do quit nattering,” Gwydion broke in. “I swear, ye’d talk a saint into their grave.” He turned to Lachlan. “We’ve been, ahem, shadowing you ever since ye and Kheladin emerged from this cave. The woman showed up so quickly, we thought it odd and conferred with Bran, god of prophecy. He believes ye and the lass are linked in a way that amplifies all our power.”

  Lachlan frowned, narrowing his eyes. “Why dinna you show yourselves?”

  “We were being polite, waiting until ye bedded her.” Gwydion grinned lasciviously.

  Lachlan rolled his eyes. “You wanted to watch.”

  “Aye, that too,” Arawn concurred. “More important, though, the tide may have finally turned. This could be the opportunity we’ve been waiting for to oust Rhukon, the Morrigan, and the red wyvern—and the other corrupt dragon mages as well.”

  Lachlan envisioned Maggie’s lush, blonde hair and dark blue eyes and smiled. “I can think of worse fates than to fuck her—for the good of the world, of course. But the lass may not see it that way. She lusts after me, yet I sense a fierce independence in her.”

  Arawn snorted. “Aye, ’tis no doubt why Mary Elma is on her way to Scotland.”

  “Is that the grandmother?” Lachlan asked.

  Gwydion nodded. “A lusty wench herself, by all reports. I was thinking of offering myself—as a sacrifice of course—if she were so inclined.”

  “Two can play that game.” Arawn chuckled. “Mayhap she’s partial to tall, dark, mysterious types.”

  “If it wouldna be too much trouble,” Lachlan interrupted. “There’s much I doona know. Kheladin and I—”

  “Oh, so ye finally remembered my existence.” Sarcasm encased the dragon’s words.

  “He’s right to censure us.” Arawn inclined his head. “Apologies, dragon. Let us sit. We shall conjure food and wine and answer all your questions.”

  “Tell me more about the woman, about Maggie,” Lachlan blurted. That he asked about her first surprised him. There was so much he needed to know to survive in a world turned upside down, yet the woman was foremost in his mind and heart. He walked to his shirt, kilt, and boots. Lachlan dressed before following the Celts to a corner of the cave near his clothing chest. He settled with his back against it and waited.

  “Bran’s prophesy is that your love will save the world,” Gwydion said. “I understand it sounds far-fetched, but hear me out.”

  Lachlan resisted rolling his eyes. Not only did it did sound far-fetched, but highly improbable. How could love possibly do anything to fix the brokenness he’d sensed in his brief sojourn into the year 2012?

  Chapter Six

  Maggie tossed and turned on sheets damp with sweat. She’d tried to reach her grandmother over and over again, but Mary Elma hadn’t answered her voice mails, texts, or pages. During the brief stints when Maggie slept, vivid, disturbing dreams wakened her. She opened her eyes and looked at the window, trying to judge the time by the amount of light creeping around its shades.

  “Five a.m.,” she muttered. “May as well get up.” She yanked her clammy sleep shirt over her head and draped it over a chair back to dry. Feeling dazed, like a sleepwalker, she plodded out of her room and across the hall. She was just bending over to start water for a shower when one of the images from her dreams darkened her vision. It was so real—and so chilling—her heart slammed against her chest.

  Fighting vertigo and a roiling stomach, she straightened and grabbed her robe from a hook behind the door. Maggie snugged it around her waist and marched to the living room. She debated making coffee. The caffeine-lift would be welcome, but she was afraid she’d puke it back up.

  It’s only another excuse to put off writing last night’s dreams down. I need to do that now. While they’re fresh.

  Maggie squeezed her tired eyes shut for a moment. She’d taken advantage of the psychoanalytic track in her residency program. Even though very few patients were interested in plumbing their unconscious, Maggie had never been sorry she spent those months studying Jung and the more modern practitioners like Hillman, Woodman, and Von Franz, who’d come after him. She’d kept a dream journal religiously—until she moved to Scotland six months ago. Something always got in the way here in Inverness. Not only did she not know what, she’d never put much effort into trying to figure it out.

  She forced her weary mind into action and didn’t like the obvious answer that rose to the surface. Something in Scotland blocked her access to her unconscious mind. Well, maybe not totally blocked it. Whatever stood between
her and her dreams had done a hell of a job creating enough subtle interference that she hadn’t realized it was a problem—until right now. An uneasy breath whooshed out of her. Even though she’d been raised around metaphysical events, this felt too woo-woo for words.

  Why target me? And my dreams?

  Maggie recognized her mental machinations for what they were: just one more excuse to put off analyzing last night’s dreams. She sat in her cane-backed desk chair and booted up her computer. As the Microsoft logo flared across the screen, she puzzled further over why she’d stopped writing her dreams down. “It doesn’t matter.” She spoke aloud to steady herself. Fingers poised over the keyboard, she typed Dream 1 and then stopped.

  Maybe I could skip that one.

  Heat rose to her face. Her first dream—and the only pleasant one of the night—had been of Lachlan. They were in a medieval stone castle, and she lay on a bower of sweet-smelling flowers. He’d made love to her over and over again with his mouth, knowing fingers, and incredible cock. Though far from a virgin, her dream interlude with Lachlan had been more tangible—and far more intense—than any of her real life experiences.

  She frowned. Her fingers moved over the keys with practiced ease as she transcribed how that dream ended. Its bizarre conclusion had jolted her from sleep. She’d been wrapped in Lachlan’s arms. He’d been kissing her and telling her he’d loved her throughout time. That he’d been born loving her and would die loving her. A sudden shadow had fallen over them. Faster than she would’ve thought possible, Lachlan leapt to his feet and spun to face something. She couldn’t see because first his human body, and then something else, blocked her view.

  Her typing slowed. Maggie clamped her jaws together to stop her teeth from chattering. As often happened once she tapped into psyche—home of dreams—memories swamped her, drawing her deep into their dark maw. Though it had to be some impossible trick of the dream world—a symbolic representation of something she had yet to figure out—Lachlan had turned into an immense dragon with copper scales right before her eyes. The transformation hadn’t taken more than a moment. She’d wakened when the dragon opened its mouth and spewed blindingly bright fire at the thing she couldn’t see.

  Once sleep claimed her again, the next dream was full of foreboding and fear. Lachlan was nowhere to be found. A tall, heavily-muscled man with shoddy good looks, dark brown eyes, and midnight dark locks curling about his shoulders sat next to her. Though he smiled prettily, he exuded evil. She drew away when he reached to stroke her arm. He told her his name was Rhukon, and that he was just like Lachlan. Through a leering grin he added, “If ye like Lachlan, ye’ll adore me.”

  Maggie tried to scramble to her feet but couldn’t move. Rhukon enclosed her in arms that felt like steel bands and then closed his mouth over hers. She writhed in desperation. He tightened his arms around her. She bit his tongue and scratched her fingernails down his face and neck as hard as she could. Through it all, she fought the impression that she was living far more than a dream. Things became even more surreal after he drew back and slapped her.

  “Holy shit,” she muttered. “Right after that, he turned into a fucking dragon too. A black one. What is it with dragons and last night?”

  Had he really slapped her? Her hand flew to her cheek, and Maggie jumped up so abruptly her chair toppled to the floor with a crash. She ran to the mirror mounted on the living room wall. Eyes wide, she stared at her face, but it was too dark to see much, so she snapped on a nearby light. Her mouth fell open, and her gut seized. She barely made it to the kitchen sink before her empty stomach spewed bile.

  Maggie ran water into the sink and splashed it on her face. She cupped her hands and swished some around in her mouth, spitting out the taste of sickness.

  Impossible. It’s impossible.

  Still bent over the sink, she ran a hand along the right side of her face. She’d seen a bruise there. One that would no doubt darken with time. The mark was congruent with the flat of Rhukon’s palm and his splayed fingers.

  I was right. That was no dream. I got dragged into some sort of parallel universe.

  Her sense of helplessness was so overwhelming, Maggie could scarcely bear the feel of her own skin. If something was so powerful it could march into her dreams and commandeer her body… She tried desperately to remember what happened after he turned into a dragon but couldn’t.

  Her phone trilled its text tone. Maggie sprinted for the bedroom and scooped it up. So shaky her breath came in little, panting gasps, she stared at the display. Air swooshed from her lungs when she saw a text from her grandmother. Maggie’s eyes filled with tears of relief, but the respite from terror was short-lived. The words were gibberish. She sank onto the bed and stared at them. Had Mary Elma gone mad?

  Shit! For the first time in my life I need my witch heritage, and Grannie’s checked out.

  Maggie tossed the phone down. She felt like throwing it against the wall but understood her own vulnerability had mind-tripped her. Fear was a funny thing. Once it got its claws into you, you were screwed.

  “Maybe it’s not me. Maybe it’s something darker. That…thing. The man who wants me would probably really like it if I couldn’t communicate with the outside world,” she muttered through clenched teeth. Maggie curled into a ball on the middle of her bed and forced herself to take nice, deep breaths, making sure to blow the last one out completely.

  It took a few minutes, but she did feel calmer. Calm enough to think. Something nagged at her. She snapped up the iPhone and stared at the text message, mentally rearranging its letters. When she was very young, just learning to read, she and her grandmother played a game where they transposed the alphabet. Sort of like a sophisticated version of Pig Latin.

  Maybe.

  Afraid to let herself hope, Maggie repositioned herself and grabbed her sadly neglected dream journal and a pen from the bedside table. She plumped up a few pillows and propped herself against the headboard. Reasonably comfortable, she went to work on the few words in the text. Once she began, it didn’t take long before the strange game she’d played with Mary Elma came crashing back. Maggie stared at what emerged from her grandmother’s message.

  You face grave danger. Do the unexpected. The man could help, but he’s gone to ground. Until you meet my plane, do not contact me. It compromises us both.

  The tears that had welled earlier overflowed, but she brushed them aside. No matter how bad things were, soon she’d have help from her grandmother, someone who knew how to deal with things when Jung’s shadow world came alive. When the bogeyman moseyed from under the bed and stuck out his tongue—or slapped you. She winced and reread the text. Do the unexpected.

  “Guess that means I’m not going to work today.” Her gaze flitted about her familiar bedroom. Shadows menaced from its corners, and she shivered. Never one to wallow—in anything—she got to her feet and started for the bathroom for a second time that morning.

  What drew her back this time was her transliteration. She ripped the page neatly from her dream journal, crumpled it, and stared hard at it, willing it to burn.

  “Yes!” she crowed as it began to smolder. Maggie dropped it into a ceramic dish and focused harder. The sense of power she felt when the scrap incinerated was heady.

  Heh. Maybe I have more aptitude for this than I thought.

  Once she was certain the paper wouldn’t set anything else on fire, she tromped into the bathroom and got under the shower. As she soaped herself and washed her hair, she thought about all the hours her grandmother and aunts had spent trying to interest her in magic. Though she’d cast a few small spells, she never developed her talents—because she hadn’t wanted to. Scenes from her childhood bombarded her.

  Damn, I was a stubborn child.

  Yes, but I had good reasons. I built a wall around my heart after Mom and Dad were killed. I’ve never really taken it down.

  The warm water cooled perceptibly. She didn’t realized how long she’d stood beneath its spray until
then. Maggie shut off the jets and dragged a towel off the rack. She buried her nose in it to dry her face, and Lachlan’s scent filled her nostrils. Desire knifed through her, so fierce and primal it was all she could do not to scream.

  Fear for his safety gnawed at her. If I’m in danger, it must be because of him. The man who came to me in my dreams obviously knows Lachlan—and hates him.

  “That’s it.” She stepped from the tub and snapped damp fingers. “That’s how I’ll spend today. I’ll look for him. A good place to start would probably be that sticker bush he was picking his way through when I first saw him.”

  Maggie clapped a hand over her mouth and looked around her small bathroom. It didn’t feel benign anymore. Nowhere in her apartment did. For all she knew, this Rhukon person was hiding behind some sort of psychic veil spying on her. If he could enter her dreams, he could probably invade her living space as well. She did her best to drape a shield around her mental processes—and her body.

  Why the hell isn’t any of this witchcraft stuff written down? It would be helpful to have a handbook right about now.

  Yeah, then I could look up wards. Something stronger than the primitive one I already know.

  Maggie rolled her eyes. Even if such a grimoire existed—and she was practically certain it didn’t—she likely lacked some major ingredient, like eye of newt or blood from a freshly-slaughtered goat essential to a successful casting.

  She finished drying herself and brushed out her hair, braiding it wet to get it out of the way. It took half an hour to blow-dry, and she didn’t think she’d have that kind of time. As she worked, a plan formed in her mind. She’d dress, pack a small bag, and drive to one of the car parks in town. From there, she’d walk to a car rental agency, secure a different car to stymie Rhukon, and see if she could find Lachlan. For a moment she felt like an idiot. As if swapping wheels would thwart a powerful magician.