by Ann Gimpel
Welcoming shouts reached me, following by pounding feet. Tansy burst from the caves first, followed by Patrick and Hilda. “Ro! You’re back,” she cried. Mort shot between their flying feet and launched himself into Runa’s arms, yowling like a mad thing.
When I looked at Geir, he was smiling. Perhaps he felt the rightness of being here too. Or maybe he was smiling at Tansy since she’d latched a hand around his arm and was chattering a mile a minute.
“Tell us everything,” Patrick said once he left off wringing first my hand and then Runa’s.
“Rowan! We’ve missed you,” Hilda squealed and hugged her tight, squishing the cat between them.
“I’ve missed you too, and it’s so good to be Rowan again. Just plain Rowan.” My mate’s golden eyes shone with joy.
The other witches piled into the courtyard. “I’m guessing it’s safe enough to be out here,” Leif said gruffly.
“It is,” I told him. “We sealed the breach. It’s the beginning of healing for the Nine Worlds.”
Patrick drew his gray brows together. “Aye. Beginning nails it. We have a long road ahead, and Earth will never totally recover.”
“It won’t be the same,” I agreed, “but the humans will be able to start rebuilding. After a time, we’ll be rid of most of the evil that’s been stalking Midgard.”
“Most,” Hilda said, “but not all. We had trolls and goblins before the Breaking.”
“Aye, but a manageable number,” Leif said. “The other things, the puffed-up bats and snakes and other weirdnesses, they’re gone. Right?”
“They will be,” I said. “Sealing the holes in the barrier keeping the outer borderworlds separate might mean they’ll wither naturally.”
“Say more about that,” Patrick urged.
“If they required an infusion of energy from their home world, it’s been cut off,” I clarified.
Mort had switched from yowls to purring. He was curled around Rowan’s neck in his preferred spot. Tansy and Geir were still talking. She’d be good for him, teach him more about his human side than Rowan and I put together could.
The courtyard had filled with witches. Everyone wanted to touch us, hug us, offer thanks for the work we’d done to patch up Earth’s broken places. For the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to relax. We’d earned this respite. All of us.
After a while, we followed the witches inside to their common room for a meal and mead. We being Rowan, Geir, me, and Mort. I threaded an arm around Rowan. “You look happy.”
“I am. If I had my druthers, we’d never leave here, but it’s not practical.”
Pulling her off to one side, I let the witches flow around us and waved Geir and Tansy to go ahead and find seats in the common room.
“Enjoy today,” I told Rowan. “None of the rest of it is going anywhere, and worrying about what lies ahead will only drag you down.”
A corner of her mouth twitched into half a smile. “Have I told you lately how much I love you?”
“Yes, but I never tire of hearing it.”
“I love you, Bjorn Nighthorse. The goddess was smiling on me when I stopped being bitchy long enough to let you into my life.”
Instead of answering, I closed my mouth over hers and kissed her soundly. We’d find our way to the common room eventually. Later, much later, we’d locate an empty chamber for Geir. I had plans for my mate once we finally had some alone time.
She broke away from our kiss. “Plans, eh? I like the sound of that.”
“Wench. You’re spying on my thoughts again.”
“Guilty as charged.” She batted her eyes my way and smiled.
“You’ll like the reality even better. When my plans move from thought to execution.”
“Promise?” She laughed, rich, warm, seductive.
I laughed too. “Stop it. The witches are making a special meal for us. If you keep that up, I’ll back you against a wall, build a ward around us, and ravish you.”
She pressed the rounded peaks of her breasts into my chest. “You’re tempting me. Food takes a while. We could be done before it is.”
What can I say? I’m a man. We’re weak, and sharing a room with our son in Fire Mountain had a definite dampening effect on anything amorous. Rowan grabbed my arm and practically dragged me to the far side of a doorway I hadn’t noticed. A dusty pallet lay on the floor. I’m surprised I had the presence of mind to spell the door shut before I gathered her into my arms, made a few clothing adjustments, and sank my length inside the wonders of her body.
* * *
You’ve reached the end of the Dragon Heir series. Thanks so much for reading through to the end. Please take a few moments and leave a review for Dragon’s Heir. They mean so much to authors. Doesn’t have to be fancy. A few lines will do it. Thanks in advance!
If you enjoyed this dystopian fantasy, you might like my Dragon Lore books. A sample from To Love a Highland Dragon, second of that series follows. Why not the first, you might ask. At one point it was the first book of Dragon Lore, but then I wrote a prequel titled, Highland Secrets. All the books in that series can be read as standalones, and I believe they’ll delight you and provide hours of reading enjoyment.
Book Description, To Love a Highland Dragon
A dragon shifter stirs and wakens in a cave beneath Inverness, deep in the Scottish Highlands. The cave’s the same and his hoard intact, yet something’s badly amiss. Determined to set whatever’s gone wrong to rights, Lachlan Moncrieffe ventures above ground—and wishes he hadn’t. His castle’s gone, replaced by ungainly row houses. Men aren’t wearing plaids, and women scarcely wear anything at all, particularly the woman who accosts him with unseemly banter. What manner of wench is she to dress so provocatively?
In Inverness for a year on a psychiatry fellowship, Dr. Maggie Hibbins watches an oddly dressed man pick his way out of a heather and gorse thicket. Even though it runs counter to her better judgment, she teases him about his strange attire. He looks so lost—and so unbelievably, knock-out gorgeous—she takes a chance and stands him a meal. Lachlan’s shock when he picks up a local newspaper at a pub is so palpable, Maggie jumps in with both feet.
She knew something was off, but the hard-to-accept truth bashes gaping holes in her equilibrium. He looks odd, sounds odd, acts odd because he’s a refugee from another era. Her half-baked seduction scheme takes a hike, but her carefully constructed life is still about to change forever. Born of powerful witches, Maggie runs headlong into the myth and magic that are her birthright.
To Love a Highland Dragon, Chapter One
Kheladin listened to the rush of blood as his multi-chambered heart pumped. After eons of nothingness, the unexpected sound surprised him. A cool, sandy floor pressed against his scaled haunches. One whirling eye flickered open, followed by the other.
Where am I?
He peered at his surroundings and blew out a sigh, followed by steam, smoke, and fire.
Thanks be to Dewi—Kheladin invoked the blood-red Celtic dragon goddess—I’m still in my cave. It smelled right, but I wasna certain.
He rotated his serpent’s head atop his long, sinuous neck. Vertebrae cracked. Kheladin lowered his head and scanned the place he and Lachlan, his human bondmate, had barricaded themselves into. It might’ve only been days ago, but somehow, it didn’t seem like days, or even months or a few years. His body felt rusty, as if he hadn’t used it in centuries.
How long did I sleep?
He shook his head. Copper scales flew everywhere, clanking against a pile littered around him. More than anything, the glittery heap reinforced his belief he’d been asleep for a very long time. Dragons shed their scales annually. From the amount circling his body, he’d gone through hundreds of molt cycles. But how? The last thing he remembered was retreating to his cave far beneath Lachlan’s castle and working with the mage to construct strong wards.
Had the black wyvern grown powerful enough to force his magic into the very heart of Kheladin’s fortress?
Stop! I have to take things one at a time.
He returned his gaze to the nooks and crannies of his spacious cave. He’d have to take inventory, but it appeared his treasure hadn’t been disturbed. Kheladin blew a plume of steam upward, followed by an experimental gout of fire. The black wyvern, his sworn enemy since before the Crusades, may have bested him, but he hadn’t gotten his slimy talons on any of Kheladin’s gold or jewels.
He shook out his back feet and shuffled to the pool at one end of the cave where he dipped his snout and drank deeply. The water didn’t taste right. It wasn’t poisoned, but it held an undercurrent of metals that had never been there before. Kheladin rolled the liquid around in his mouth. He didn’t recognize much of what he tasted, but he was thirsty and it seemed safe enough, so he drank some more.
The flavors aren’t familiar because I’ve been asleep for so long. Aye, that must be it. Part of his mind recoiled; he suspected he was deluding himself.
“We’re awake.” Lachlan’s voice hummed in the dragon’s mind.
“Aye, that we are.”
“How long did we sleep?”
“I doona know.” Water streamed down the dragon’s snout and neck. He knew what would come next, and he didn’t have to wait long.
“Let’s shift. We think better in my body.” Lachlan urged Kheladin to cede ascendency.
“I doona agree.” Kheladin pushed back. “I was figuring things out afore ye woke.”
“Aye, I’m certain ye were, but…” But what? “Och aye, my brain is thick and fuzzy, as if I havena used it for a verra long time.”
“Mine feels the same.”
The bond allowed only one form at a time. Since they were in Kheladin’s body, he had the upper hand. Lachlan wasn’t strong enough to force a shift without his help. There’d been a time when he could have but not now.
Was it safe to venture above ground?
Kheladin recalled the last day he’d seen the sun. After a vicious battle in the great room of Lachlan’s castle, they’d retreated to his cave and taken their dragon form as a final resort. Rhukon, the black wyvern, pretended he wanted peace. He’d come with an envoy that turned out to be a retinue of heavily armed men.
Both he and Lachlan expected Rhukon to follow them underground. Kheladin’s last thought, before nothingness descended, was disbelief because their enemy hadn’t pursued them.
Humph. He did come after us but with magic. Magic strong enough to penetrate our wards.
“Aye, and I was thinking the same thing,” Lachlan sniped in a vexed tone.
“We trusted him,” Kheladin snarled. “More the fools we were. We should’ve known.” Despite drinking, his throat was still raw. He sucked more water down and fought rising anger at himself for being gullible. Even if Lachlan hadn’t known better, he should’ve. His stomach cramped from hunger.
Kheladin debated the wisdom of making his way through the warren of tunnels leading to the surface in dragon form. There were always far more humans than dragons. Mayhap it would be wiser to accede to Lachlan’s wishes before they crept from their underground lair to rejoin the world of men.
“Grand idea.” Lachlan’s response was instantaneous, as was his first stab at shifting.
It took half a dozen attempts. Kheladin was far weaker than he imagined and Lachlan so feeble he was almost an impediment. Finally, once a shower of scales cleared, Lachlan’s emaciated body stood barefoot and naked in the cave.
Lacking the sharp night vision he enjoyed as a dragon, because his magic was so diminished, Lachlan kindled a mage light and glanced down at himself. Ribs pressed against his flesh, and a full beard extended halfway down his chest. Turning his head to both sides, he saw shoulder blades so sharp he was surprised they didn’t puncture his skin. Tawny hair fell in tangles past his waist. The only thing he couldn’t see was his eyes. Absent a glass, he was certain they were the same crystal-clear emerald color they’d always been.
He stumbled across the cave to a chest where he kept clothing. Dragons didn’t need such silly accoutrements; humans did. He sucked in a harsh breath. The wooden chest was falling to ruin. He tilted the lid against a wall, but it canted to one side. Many of his clothes had moldered into unusable rags, but items toward the bottom fared better. He found a cream-colored linen shirt with long, flowing sleeves, a black and green plaid embroidered with the insignia of his house—a dragon in flight—and soft, deerskin boots that laced to his knees.
He slid the shirt over his head and wrapped the plaid around himself, taking care to wind the tartan so its telltale insignia was hidden in its folds. Who knew if the black wyvern—or his agents—lurked near the mouth of the cave? Lachlan bent to lace his boots. A crimson cloak with only a few moth holes completed his outfit. He finger-combed his hair and smoothed his unruly beard.
“Good God, but I must look a fright,” he muttered. “Mayhap I can sneak into the castle and set things aright afore anyone sees me. Surely my kinsmen will be glad the master of the house has finally returned.”
Lachlan worked on bolstering a confidence he was far from feeling. He’d nearly made it to the end of the cave, where a rock-strewn path led upward, when he doubled back to get a sword and scabbard—just in case things weren’t as sanguine as he hoped. He located a thigh sheath and a short dagger as well, fumbling to attach them beneath his kilt. Underway once again, he hadn’t made it very far along the upward-sloping tunnel that ended at a well-hidden opening not far from the postern gate of his castle, when he ran into rocks littering the way.
He worked his way around progressively larger boulders until he came to a huge one that totally blocked the passageway. Lachlan stared at it in disbelief. When had that happened? In all the time he’d been using these paths, they’d never been blocked by rock fall. If he weren’t so weak, summoning magic to shove the rock over enough to allow him to pass wouldn’t be a problem. As it was, simply walking uphill proved a challenge.
He pinched the bridge of his nose between a grimy thumb and forefinger. His mage light weakened.
If I can’t even keep a light going, how in the goddess’s name will I be able to move that rock?
Lachlan hunkered next to the boulder and let his light die while he ran possibilities through his head. His stomach growled and clenched in hunger. Had he come through however much time had passed to cower like a dog in his own cave?
“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.
