Flight of Dragons

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

  “You don’t have enough power to do this on your own,” her grandmother said sternly. “Not even close. Even if you studied twenty hours a day, you’re years away from marshaling enough power to be more than a hedge witch.”

  “By that time, the damage Rhukon, the Morrigan, and the red wyvern have done to Earth will be so extensive, it will be impossible to reverse.” Mauvreen spoke into her mind.

  Picking up the telepathic thread, her grandmother continued. “You feel torn because darkness sits just outside these doors. It’s bending your mind with subtle suggestions. Mauvreen and I have ways of dealing with it, but you’re vulnerable. You need our blood. It’s a shortcut and cheating—”

  “And breaking every coven’s rules,” Mauvreen cut in.

  “But we deem it necessary. And so we are willing to risk censure and punishment at the hands of our peers,” Mary Elma finished.

  Maybe it was the drink, maybe the power oozing from her grandmother and Mauvreen, but Maggie heard raw truth in their words. In that moment, she kissed her old life, the one where she wore neat, tidy lab coats and enjoyed being called doctor, goodbye. Her crusty, judgmental grandmother was bending the rules for her. The least she could do was cooperate wholeheartedly.

  Maggie looked from one woman to the other. When she said, “I’m ready,” her voice was amazingly steady.

  Mauvreen pulled an ivory-bladed knife from her skirt. She cut deep into the ball of her thumb and then into Mary Elma’s. A small part in the back of Maggie’s mind rebelled at the blade that couldn’t be sterile and at the prospect of opening herself to blood borne illness, but she stifled it.

  I did it when Ceridwen joined Lachlan and me. When I’m done with this, I’ll have magic to heal myself.

  The blade stung when it cut her. Mauvreen pressed Maggie’s bleeding flesh against her grandmother’s, and then the witches traded places, and she shared Mauvreen’s blood. Power flowed into her, heady in its strength and scope. Bits and pieces of castings ran into her mind and formed cunning patterns, deceptive in their seeming simplicity. Senses thrown wide open, Maggie felt like a child of the universe when the witches finally withdrew their hands.

  It’s like I plugged into a motherboard, and it’s filling my circuits with knowledge. A wild, untamed intensity raced along her chakras. When she realized she could identify all her body’s psychic power points, laughter bubbled from her and filled the room.

  Her grandmother laughed along with her, but it held a grim edge. “Yes, it’s a bit like that. We’re giving you everything we can because before this is over, I fear you’ll need every scrap of it and more.”

  “Thank you.” Maggie wrapped her arms around herself, feeling like she might explode into a million motes of psychic energy.

  “It is done,” Mary Elma intoned.

  “Yes, it is done,” Mauvreen echoed.

  Maggie glanced at her hand, expecting to see an open, oozing wound. Smooth, pink skin met her questioning gaze. The women had used witch magic to heal her. There wouldn’t even be any kind of scar. “How—?”

  The corners of her grandmother’s mouth twitched. “We mingled healthy cells with the cut ones until they all looked the same.”

  “I finally understand why you weren’t thrilled about me going to medical school. What you do is a whole lot more sophisticated than modern medicine. I suppose I always knew that at some level, but I never let myself appreciate what it meant.” Maggie took stock. “I feel…more alive than I’ve ever been. Like I could do anything.”

  “Well, don’t get too cocky until you sort out all that magic we shared,” Mauvreen murmured.

  “Yes, you wouldn’t want to paint yourself into a corner,” Mary Elma said. “If you’re ready, we need to leave.”

  Maggie walked back to the parlor and picked up her bag. “Sure.” She called over her shoulder, still marveling at the miraculous transformation realigning her body and its abilities.

  “Get back in here and watch carefully.” Her grandmother sounded like her old, grumpy, imperious self. “You’ll lend your new power to our traveling spell, so you can understand how it works and how we come out where we want to.”

  ****

  It didn’t take long, perhaps only moments, before Maggie found herself back on the outskirts of Inverness in front of a crumbling medieval cottage. This time she wasn’t fooled, and she focused her third eye on it. Its lines wavered, straightened, and formed a tidy, stone lodge with a broad front porch and the low lintels that gave away its origins as seventeen or eighteen hundreds.

  With a flash of skirts, Mauvreen disappeared inside.

  “Why do all of you hide your houses?”

  Mary Elma eyed her with more than a touch of asperity. “Last time I checked, you’re now one of us. So the operative question would be why do we—?”

  Maggie flapped her hands at her grandmother. “Yes. Fine. I’d like it a whole lot better if you just answered my questions and skipped the lectures.”

  “The beginnings of wisdom are knowing which questions you truly need the answers to. We hide our homes for the most obvious of reasons. So people will leave us alone.”

  Maggie thought about it. Though she hadn’t been privy to any but the most perfunctory ceremonies, she’d always suspected blood sacrifices were involved in the ones she’d been barred from.

  Blood. Chanting. Robes. Nudity. Group sex. No wonder they, er we, wouldn’t want witnesses…

  Mauvreen emerged from the house with a broad grin and told them the Inverness coven knew exactly where the Celts were meeting because they’d been invited. Mary Elma wiped a triumphant smirk off her face, and for the first time, Maggie picked up her grandmother’s thoughts which ran along the lines of, It’s about fucking time they appreciated us.

  Celts and witches hold different kinds of magic. Who knows, maybe there’s untapped synergy here.

  Drunk on borrowed power that made her feel she could conquer the world, she rolled her mental eyes at her automatic foray into scientific inquiry.

  It’s going to take time, she lectured herself, to integrate who I am now with who I was.

  “Well?” Mary Elma snapped her fingers, and Maggie’s head popped up. “Don’t you want to come to the meeting?”

  “Of course.” She trotted to her grandmother’s side. An image filled her mind, and she pushed on it just like she’d done when they used magic to leave Mauvreen’s. Once her mind view cleared, she was in a large, richly appointed room with candle chandeliers. People, presumably Celts, milled about in small groups. The scarred, wooden floor was scattered with large, colorful cushions and thick woven rugs. Ceridwen sat near one end of the room stirring her cauldron and muttering, her brows drawn into a single, frowning line.

  “Where are we?” Maggie whispered to her grandmother.

  “The Celts maintain several old castles scattered through the Highlands. This one is Inverlochy.”

  Maggie remembered a trip she’d taken to visit the older Scottish castles. “But it’s in ruins,” she protested.

  Mary Elma smiled. “Not today, it’s not. Welcome to the power of magic.”

  Maggie felt someone’s energy focused on her. She glanced up, not surprised to meet Ceridwen’s speculative gaze. Glad to see the goddess, Maggie darted forward. She’d only made it a couple feet before Mauvreen grabbed her arm. “Not so fast. We are guests here, which means we don’t move about freely until they give us leave.”

  Lots of new rules. She gazed about, hunting for Arawn’s dark, swirling hair or Gwydion’s blond braids.

  Something pushed against her psychic edges so hard, Maggie instinctively raised her hands and then looked at them in surprise. What was she doing? She had no idea how to draw power to defend herself. Not yet, anyway. She dropped them to her sides, hunted for the source of the power buffeting her, and found it. Ceridwen was still staring at her.

  The goddess’s inscrutable gaze locked on hers. “Ye’ve come,” she crowed. “I told the others Lachlan’s mate wouldna
desert him. Come forward. We shall send you to rejoin your beloved.”

  Mary Elma stepped between her granddaughter and the goddess. Legs spread, hands on her hips, she tipped her chin up and said, “I think not, goddess.”

  Ceridwen flowed to her feet. Maggie thought she could see sparks arc across the room. “Ye dare to speak against my will?”

  “She’s my kinswoman. It is my right.”

  Maggie stared in disbelief. She wanted to help Lachlan. If Ceridwen was willing to send her, why the hell was Gran standing in the way? “I’m sure it will be fine—” she began.

  “Silence. You know nothing,” Mary Elma hissed, looking nothing like the woman who’d raised her. Power crackled around her until the air grew blue-white with electrical charge.

  “You heard her.” Ceridwen raised her voice and threw her arms wide to encompass the whole room. All conversation ceased. “The lass is willing to go. Dinna she say that?”

  “Not exactly.” Maggie cut in, too annoyed at feeling like a pawn to care she was probably violating some sort of protocol. “What I said was I was certain things would be fine.”

  “Oh, they’ll be just peachy,” Mary Elma muttered. “Once they send you tumbling through time, you won’t have any way to get back. Not under your own power, anyway. If you can’t find Lachlan or raise the Celts—or sweet-talk a dragon—you’ll be stuck there.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Kheladin soared high above the Scottish forests. From time to time, a dragon he knew trumpeted, and he greeted them in return. If it weren’t for the lass, their mate, he’d be just as happy remaining in a familiar world. One where he wasn’t almost the only dragon outside Fire Mountain. Maggie complicated everything, yet he didn’t begrudge Lachlan for including her in their bond. In his own way, he felt her absence fiercely.

  He needed to talk with other dragons, older kin who’d been alive for millennia. They might know a way to find the lass. She’d ridden him. It cemented his commitment to her, plus she bore his mating bite. Kheladin focused his gaze at the thick canopy below. They’d actually come out leagues from Clan Moncrieffe’s castle, but his powerful wing beats shaved the remaining distance quickly.

  “At least the castle will still be standing,” Lachlan commented.

  “Unless ’tis afore thirteen hundred, and it wasna yet built.”

  “Ever the optimist, aren’t you?”

  ****

  Lachlan sank into thoughts of how to get back to Maggie. About the only avenue was to throw himself on the Celtic gods’ mercy. He shook his head. The gods weren’t known for clemency. Far from it. He could imagine Gwydion arguing that now Lachlan knew his part in world events to come, he could work things from this end to make certain he wasn’t snared by Rhukon.

  The logic was indisputable. If Lachlan didn’t end up asleep in his cave, Rhukon wouldn’t be able to work his behind-the-scenes treachery. No, the only help he was likely to get from the Celts was they might corral the Morrigan to limit damage from that quarter. Even that wasn’t likely, though. Celts shielded their own, no matter what they’d done.

  Lachlan gazed out at the world through Kheladin’s eyes. If he’d been in human form, he would’ve ground his teeth together in frustration. What good was immortality if the one woman he’d ever had feelings for was lost to him—forever?

  Familiar Highland mountains rose around them. If he were any judge, they’d be home very soon. Home. Except it didn’t feel that way anymore. Not without Maggie by his side. Kheladin circled, losing elevation. The dragon banked his wings and brought them down in the central courtyard of Clan Moncrieffe’s castle.

  Twenty or so people backed away, their eyes round with fear. Two of the men picked up cudgels and watched them warily.

  “What is the problem?” Kheladin asked.

  “We must have returned afore ye and I bonded. Let me shift into myself.” He felt the dragon’s resistance, even understood it. If Kheladin had his way, he’d be off hobnobbing with dragon friends he hadn’t seen in over three hundred years. Dragons he’d been afraid were lost to him forever. An unpleasant understanding horned its way in. “Ye’ll get to choose again—or not. Once I’m back in my human body, we’ll have to redo the magic that bound us, since it hasna happened yet.”

  A long pause. “Not that I doona wish to link our life paths, but would ye mind if I had a brief respite?”

  It was a risk, but if he didn’t agree, he might have a rebellion on his hands. “Not at all. Ye were young when ye chose me. Frolic all ye wish, but ’twould make my heart sad if ye werena to return.”

  “Mine as well…bondmate.”

  Lachlan felt the dragon’s hot breath embrace him as he found his body. For the first time in hundreds of years, he stood in human form, buck naked, and watched his dragon spread its leathery wings and take to the skies without him. Tears pricked behind his lids. He blinked them away. It would never do for his people to see their Laird cry.

  “Laird.” Shock made the stableman’s voice sharp. “I last saw ye within.” He bowed low. Lachlan made a non-committal gesture. He existed in one place. Either here, in the future, or in the past. He held no concerns about running into a duplicate of himself inside his castle, but blundering through an explanation would be awkward.

  Another man saved him the trouble by asking, “And where did ye get the handsome dragon?” The few maids passing through the courtyard whispered and giggled, reminding Lachlan he was naked.

  “Could one of you find me a cloak?” With a flurry, the stableman, John, unclipped his and draped it around Lachlan. “Thanks be to you.” Lachlan nodded curtly. “I shall return it verra soon.”

  “But where were ye, Laird?” John persisted.

  Lachlan leveled his gaze at the crowd, managing to catch the ones staring at him and the ones pretending not to look. “Mage business. Ye doona wish to inquire too deeply.” With that, he turned and strode into the castle. His castle. When he’d first wakened in the year 2012, he would’ve given every gold coin in Kheladin’s hoard if his castle were still standing. To find it gone had been a horrible shock. Despite that, he took no joy in this homecoming.

  He worked his way up passageways and stairs to his rooms on the third floor. Someone had changed the rushes. The room smelled sweet, and a fire burned in its hearth. Despite it being summer, the stone castle was always cold. He opened a clothing chest, removed a plaid, and wound it about himself. Next, he picked up his familiar brush that still had his hairs twisted amid its bristles and worked the snarls from his hair. He was lacing up a pair of soft, deerskin boots when a knock sounded on the door.

  “Come.”

  “Laird.” Vanessa, the lead housekeeper and someone who occasionally shared his bed, inclined her head. Her long, red hair was drawn back from her face and hung in a braid draped over one shoulder. Black skirts topped by an embroidered, rust-colored tunic set off her creamy complexion. “I was told ye’d returned, Laird. Is there aught ye desire?” Though she kept her hazel eyes downcast, he had no doubt what she desired. Even without Kheladin’s enhanced senses he smelled her heat.

  “Nay. Thank you for asking.”

  “Will ye be wantin’ supper at six?”

  “Bring a tray to my rooms.”

  She glanced up at him through dusky lashes. “Would my Laird wish company with his meal?”

  “Not tonight.”

  “As my Laird wishes.”

  “Vanessa.”

  “My Laird?”

  “Ye will think the question strange, but what year might it be?”

  She shot him an odd look before dropping her gaze again. “Why the year of Our Lord, fifteen hundred and sixty-seven, Laird.”

  “Thank ye kindly. Ye may leave me now.”

  Lachlan paced the length of his rooms over and over. His heart ached for Maggie, and his mage’s soul ached for the dragon who’d become first a part of him and now a part of them—him and Maggie. Because the turmoil in his mind was making him crazy, he left his quarters
and loped down the stairs, intent on taking a horse and riding to the Celts’ sacred grove. Mayhap he’d find one or more of them, so he could lay out his problem and ask for help. He considered using his magic instead of a horse but was reluctant to test it quite yet. He’d lost Maggie and Kheladin—perhaps not permanently, but they were gone nonetheless. Lachlan didn’t think he could stand any more unpleasant revelations today.

  Doona hope for too much, he cautioned himself and threw a leg over Brandywine, a favorite stallion that he remembered well. The horse tossed its head and whinnied before taking off at a near gallop. Lachlan didn’t mind. The wind in his face and hair cooled the fire raging inside. Fear for Maggie ate at him. What had happened to her? Was she still in the future? Had she found her kinswoman, the grandmother with magic strong enough to protect her?

  The grove was empty, but he’d expected as much. Beech, ash, and hawthorn trees grew tall and straight, interspersed with standing stones. He gathered simple magic and commanded the horse to stay within the grove. That done, Lachlan knelt to pray. He opened his mind and his heart. The tears he’d held back in his own courtyard streamed down his face. He clawed great handfuls of dirt and let agony pour through him. Maybe it was better Kheladin was gone. If the dragon saw him like this, mad with grief, he’d never respect him again.

  “Lachlan.” A gentle hand settled on his shoulder. He started and scrambled to his feet, gazing into Ceridwen’s ageless face. “Doona speak,” she crooned. “I will read what is in your mind.”

  While she stood, one hand on his shoulder, another atop his head, Gwydion and Arawn materialized. Time slipped away. The sky passed from day into night before the goddess released her hold and exchanged glances with the other two gods.

  “Ye wish our help,” Gwydion intoned.

  Not trusting himself to speak because if they refused him he had nowhere else to turn, Lachlan nodded.

  “We must confer,” Ceridwen said. “At present, Rhukon is nothing but a mischief-maker, and the Morrigan is useful on the field of battle, though nowhere else. The only red wyvern I know about presides over the red dragon clan across the great land mass in the Far East.”