The large male dragon shifter’s eyes were locked on the green fields behind the Old House, his expression grim. His hands were tucked firmly into his pockets as though in a deliberate attempt to prevent them from moving about and flinging stray posts, tree branches or other objects through the air in a sort of telekinetic hissy fit.
He turned to Lily, his light eyes devoid of any expression that she could read as she delved into his mind.
Hurt.
That was all she could see. No words. No jealousy. Just the slow, searing burn of pain.
“I’m sorry,” she said when he refrained from answering. “I really am. I’d gotten caught up in the idea that we were safe now, and I shouldn’t have gone off on my own so many times. And Conor…”
“You called to him, didn’t you? When you needed help.” The words, the voice, only confirmed the pain inside him.
“I called to him because I knew there was a chance that he might hear me, read my words in his mind. Not out of any sort of theory that he was or is better than you.”
“Yes. I know that.” Graeme’s voice transmitted his own remorse now; everything else was fading, stripping away to allow regret to take over. “Forgive me. It is hard for someone like me to sit back while my mate is threatened. Bloody hell—it’s hard for someone like me to sit back, period. If there’s blood to be shed, I want to be the one doing it.”
Lily’s lips twitched as she sensed his pain releasing into the air, his dragon calming as his mind accompanied it. “Kind of an animal, aren’t you?” she said quietly, testing him for the sense of humour that sometimes remained concealed beneath a strong surface, hard as stone and invulnerable.
“A beast,” he replied, grabbing her by the waist and smiling, granting her permission to do the same. “An insatiable, lustful beast who salivates for flesh.”
“We’re not talking about killing anymore, are we?”
“Not even slightly.”
As he leaned down to kiss her, Lily’s hands swept around his neck, pulling herself up onto her toes. She loved his and Conor’s height; the power and strength they exuded through sheer size.
But more than that, she loved her own strength.
“I didn’t need him, you know,” she said as she eased back down to earth. “I didn’t need help.”
“I’m sure you didn’t, Firebird. You are something else.”
“Firebird. I like that.” Each term of affection was a gift, a solidification of their tight bond. She continued, “But I am glad—and you should be—to know that Conor has come into his own, and that he’s regained his strength. And then some.”
“I am glad—I am. Of course I am. Listen, I’m going to go talk to him, which probably makes me seem like some over-sensitive man of the modern era, but quite honestly I can deal with that. I’ve learned that there’s something to be said for communication.”
“Speaking of which, are you noticing any mind-reading abilities of your own? Merriman did say that you’d likely develop them in time.”
Graeme locked his eyes on her and narrowed them, pretending to look over her form.
“No, but I can see that you’re not wearing panties.”
She slapped his upper arm.
“Ouch!” he yelped, flinching and grasping his tricep in mock pain. “Don’t hurt me. I’m sensitive, remember.”
“Piss off,” she laughed.
“All right. And the answer is ‘sort of.’ I make out bits and bobs of conversation. But nothing like what you speak of. It seems that’s not to be my forte.”
“Well, your forte is very impressive,” said Lily. “And by that I mean the one between your legs.”
“Appalling woman,” he moaned as he re-entered through the back of the house. “So un-ladylike.”
Lily turned to look towards the damp back fields, which were significantly warmer than they had been hours earlier when the house had remained under Merriman’s spell.
In the distance she saw the woods, calm and quiet now.
“Thank God,” she muttered. Some relief would be welcome. If they could make it to morning without another incident…
She turned back to the house, not noticing the tiny rodent in the corner of the garden who turned away, scurrying into a burrow under the field.
* * *
Conor stood at the window, staring out at the lush green world around the house and yet failing to taking it in. His mind was elsewhere, focused on a series of images that relentlessly showed itself to him, reminding him that his purpose in this world was altering even as his body continued to adapt to the changes brought on by the Ritual.
Since coming out of his illness, he had felt the evolution come at him in waves: this mysterious déor of his, as yet untamed inside him, offering new physical strength and new instincts which he had not grown fully to understand.
But another change had occurred: that of his mental abilities. His Sight, which had always come in strange, cryptic waves, came at him now more as a linear series of images; scenes such as those in a film, as though his mind’s eye were strengthening into hallucinations which were at once enticing and frightening.
And at the moment the images were disturbing him, eating away at his insides as worry began to take over. He wanted to tell himself that they were meaningless, just flashes of what might come to be.
But he knew better. And if his theories were correct, the greatest conflict was yet to come, and it would make a brief disagreement with Graeme look like a pillow fight.
“Conor.”
The voice came from behind him. Soft, calm, changed.
“Come in.” He turned to face Graeme, who stood in the doorway. Both men had lost the anger which had eaten at their insides minutes earlier, dissipating now into the air around them as though it had never existed.
“I’m sorry for my reaction to what happened,” said Graeme. “I shouldn’t have been hard on you. You did exactly what I would have done in the circumstance and I should be commending you, not condemning you.”
Conor always wanted to smile when Graeme’s voice took on this tone. His accent, so much that of a Scottish warrior, didn’t suit moments of quiet, and yet there was a sincerity in it that was charming. The man was incapable of lying, of deceit. He was always as he appeared to be, and Conor found himself wishing that all living things could be so easily read.
“No need for apologies,” he said. “Unless you’ll accept mine as well.” He stepped forward and perched on the edge of the sturdy wooden chair which normally occupied the room’s corner. “Something overtook me. Ambition, I suppose—the feeling of power that comes with whatever this creature is inside me. I felt invincible.” He chuckled at the word; it seemed like something a superhero—or villain—would utter.
“That’ll happen,” said Graeme. “As it does with me. When I was so enraged down in the kitchen, it wasn’t a human fury, as I’m sure you realize. It is a large, red dragon who seeks control in all situations. He’s not exactly okay with allowing others to take the reins, as you know by now. It’s a fine balance.”
“A fine balance,” repeated Conor, running a hand through his thick hair, his dual-hued eyes looking at the floor. “And I suppose it takes a lifetime to learn the tricks.”
“Yes, well, I still haven’t learned everything, as you can see. There is a sense of duty and loyalty in our déors that outweighs what’s in the men standing in this room. It’s what makes us great, I suppose.”
“And what can make us cruel,” said Conor. “I suspect that our enemies have that very sense, and that’s why they’re out for blood.”
“Our enemies in all likelihood look to protect their own, just as we want to do. That person—shape-changer—that you fought…” He watched Conor wince as he said the words. “I’m sorry,” said Graeme. “I don’t mean to bring up bad memories.”
“It’s all right. It’s only that I’d never killed before. It was all too easy for my déor, but the man before you isn’t so devoid of feeling as all tha
t.”
“Well, you were defending your mate. And you probably felt that you were being pulled outside of yourself. An animal with your soul inside it, your mind, was taking charge. You must learn to control it, but it will take some time.”
“And those I attacked were defending something as well,” said Conor slowly. His eyes looked up at Graeme’s, light and sincere. “But the real question is: which of us is on the right side?”
51
Loyalty, Chapter Two
“I have a few words of advice for the three of you,” said Merriman as the three mates took their seats before him like students awaiting a lecture. “Before you leave on this, the last leg of your journey north.”
Evening was setting in at last, and the house and its surroundings were still and quiet as the four gathered in their normal place around the kitchen table. Barnabas stood perched and watchful as always, his eyes attentive and bright.
No one had been overcome by new concerns over an imminent invasion from beyond the house’s walls since the afternoon’s attack. All seemed to Lily to have been mended between her mates, and the house was as close to peaceful as it could be. Yet she found herself filled with an apprehension which seemed to stem only from her own imagination. She hoped, for everyone’s sake, that it was mere paranoia, the result of an eventful day.
“You may wonder why I’m recommending that you head to Edinburgh, or to Scotland at all,” continued Merriman, his tone professorial as he stood over the three younger shifters. His height sometimes seemed to increase, his authority expanding to surround them as he spoke. He exuded power in a way that could only come from centuries of experience and the gathering of knowledge. Only a man such as himself could make such powerful shifters feel like small, impressionable school children.
He continued: “I have my reasons, among which is that, as you already know, the last evidence of a Stranieri stronghold was uncovered in Edinburgh itself, in an old, deserted church which has since been vacated. But regardless of where the enemy may be hiding out, we have every reason to believe that the answers we’re looking for are in that area. It is where both Conor’s and Graeme’s families come from, after all. And I think it is in their ancestry that we may uncover the secrets.”
“Secrets to the Stranieri’s whereabouts?” said Graeme, surprise in his voice. “My family has no affiliations with them, surely.”
“No,” said Merriman. “Yours does not, of course. The Stranieri’s greatest enemy are dragon-folk such as you and Lilliana, so you’d be the last collaborators they’d choose. But it would serve you well to determine why it is that they despise you so much that they have pursued your kind over many centuries.”
Graeme fell silent, feeling almost guilty for sins that he hadn’t committed, and more so for those he had. Merriman had a point; dragons could be relentless and were reputed for terrorizing rather than forming alliances and preserving the world of shifters. Although he hadn’t spent his life acting in an inherently cruel manner, he, like so many of his kind, had enjoyed combat; the burning of homes of his clan’s enemies, and the vanquishing of weaker shifters. It was in his blood, but he was coming to realize that it wasn’t a terribly attractive trait in his kind. Dragons were not sought after as friends.
“And you will not like this next piece of advice,” said the old gryphon shifter, pulling Graeme’s mind away from thoughts of morality in battle. “But it must be said. When you arrive in Edinburgh you need to consider splitting up when possible. There is safety in numbers for humans, who are physically weak. But it is not always so for our ilk. If the enemy tracks you it is best to divide them up. And you are less trackable as individuals than as a threesome. To pick up your scent when you’re together is as easy as spotting the sun in the sky. But on your own, you will not be so easily found.”
“But we are stronger together,” protested Graeme. “We can fight, help one another.”
“Stronger? No. More secure, perhaps. But remember that altering into dragon form in busy tourist districts is inadvisable, so the brute strength of your déors will not always be a viable solution. It is to you to find the enemy and to learn to understand what it is that motivates them, so that we can learn to communicate with them. We need to find out who calls the shots, and can only do so if we have contact with their kind.”
“I assume that they’ll know that we’re after their organization, given that we’re coming to their turf,” said Conor.
“They will suspect that you are looking for something, of course. But as you know, our people have tried in vain to find this elusive leader of the Stranieri, and so they’ll assume that you three are after something other than their commander in chief. Besides which, there is no reason that you should succeed now at finding him, unless…” He stopped in mid-sentence, hesitating to complete the thought.
Conor searched Merriman’s mind, but found himself barricaded as always; the man was too skilled to allow his walls to fall.
“Unless?” said Lily.
“Let’s just say that I have a few theories. If I’m correct, there is some aspect of the Stranieri that wants to be uncovered. Why, I admit that I don’t know. Their coming here that night, when Conor was ill—it was unusual, to say the least. They are not an organization that likes to draw attention to itself and yet here they were, an army of shifters on our land.”
Lily’s mind flashed back to the great wall of fire surrounding the house; the enormous bird, the Roc, which seemed bent on breaking through Conor’s window and killing him as he lay feverish on the bed.
Merriman continued. “You must be careful, most of all, not to be lured into any traps. You’ve seen how clever they can be. Don’t forget that some have lived for centuries and have honed their skills.”
Lily winced, recalling the events that had unfolded earlier that day in the woods; the intruder disguising his or herself as Mrs. Fitzpatrick. The birds, circling overhead, watchers on the prowl. The Stranieri were good at getting the upper hand, and at forcing her own. She was determined not to let it happen again.
“Do you think shape-changers will be an issue?” she asked. “Like the one who turned into Mrs. Fitzpatrick?”
“Everything will be an issue. Every person you see could be one of them; every pigeon. A Canadian goose. Be wary. But also be wary of yourselves. Your powers are still growing. Graeme, do not throw a bus at anyone unless strictly necessary. And Lily—take care with your leaping through time. You will find that it too has altered and developed, though until you use it you won’t know how. You don’t want to find yourself in a place you’ve never been, unless you have some real purpose in finding your way there.”
“And me?” said Conor.
“You ought not to shape yourself into that monstrous déor of yours until the time is right.”
“Whatever ‘monstrous déor’ means.”
“Yes,” said Merriman, “Whatever it means. I suspect that you will discover the meaning soon enough. And remember: look to your ancestors, particularly you, Mr. Dunbar.”
“Me? But my ancestry is relatively dull,” said Conor. “I’ve seen the family tree. I’ve researched a little, even. They were aristocrats who ruled over serfs, and probably not very well. And then they were aristocrats who played golf and lived on money that they didn’t deserve.”
“Not as dull as you might think. Perhaps if you do some research you will discover why it is that our enemy has such a keen interest in you in particular. Why the Roc left you alone rather than killing you, as he could have done.”
As always all three of the younger shifters felt that Merriman had his reasons for being cryptic. And as though in quiet agreement, Barnabas flew down from a tall shelf and perched on the back of Merry’s chair, his head darting around as he studied each of them.
“Take care.”
Lily heard the words inside her mind as she locked eyes with Barnabas, but this time the voice wasn’t Merriman’s or Conor’s.
It was the owl’s.
&n
bsp; 52
Loyalty, Chapter Three
The night passed without incident, Lily sleeping between her two men. For once there had been no sex; only quiet, warm hands laid upon her skin, and affection after a long day, as though a perfect calm had returned to their relationship. There would be time, they hoped, for love-making once they reached their destination, once some sort of home base had been established.
Throughout the nighttime hours, Lily dreamed of events that seemed oddly real: of Conor, visiting an old, stately stone building of some sort, looking at relics of a past that he didn’t entirely understand, fearful and overwhelmed.
Of Graeme’s dragon under attack by an army bent on killing him, shapes that were indiscernible but enormous, lunging at him and his kin.
Of Merriman, of Barnabas, of many darkly-cloaked figures and of a battle on an open field, bloody and deadly.
And finally of herself torn between the two sides, trying to figure out which way to go, her peacekeeper phoenix wanting to save the world; her dragon wanting to destroy all that threatened it.
When the dreams had come to an end she lay in bed, attempting to open her eyes. It was when she realized that they were already open, staring up at the ceiling, that a sense of foreboding overtook her. Had it all occurred in her mind’s eye? A vision of things to come, or of a past that had never occurred?
Mere anxiety, she told herself. Be calm. Nothing has happened, and the future is preventable.
“Lilliana?” It was Conor’s voice as he lay next to her, observing her with concern.
“Mmm.”
“Are you all right? Your eyes have been fixed on one spot above you for ages.”
She turned and looked at him, his broad chest emerging from under white sheets. Had he seen what was now carved into her mind?
“I’m fine,” she lied. “Bad dreams, which I suppose are inevitable, given all that’s happened.”
Seeking Her Mates Boxed Set: A Shifter Menage Serial (All Five Parts) Page 27
