Dragon’s Heir: Dystopian Fantasy

by Ann Gimpel

  “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 the 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.”

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  About the Author

  Ann Gimpel is a USA Today bestselling author. A lifelong aficionado of the unusual, she began writing speculative fiction a few years ago. Since then her short fiction has appeared in many webzines and anthologies. Her longer books run the gamut from urban fantasy to paranormal romance. Once upon a time, she nurtured clients. Now she nurtures dark, gritty fantasy stories that push hard against reality. When she’s not writing, she’s in the backcountry getting down and dirty with her camera. She’s published over 70 books to date, with several more planned for 2019 and beyond. A husband, grown children, grandchildren, and wolf hybrids round out her family.

  Keep up with her at www.anngimpel.com or http://anngimpel.blogspot.com

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  Also by Ann Gimpel

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  Alphas in the Wild

  Hello Darkness

  Alpine Attraction

  A Run for Her Money

  Fire Moon

  Bitter Harvest

  Deceived

  Twisted

  Abandoned

  Betrayed

  Redeemed

  Coven Enforcers

  Blood and Magic

  Blood and Sorcery

  Blood and Illusion

  Demon Assassins

  Witch’s Bounty

  Witch’s Bane

  Witches Rule

  Dragon Heir (Summer and fall, 2019)

  Dragon’s Call

  Dragon’s Blood

  Dragon’s Heir

  Dragon Lore

  Highland Secrets

  To Love a Highland Dragon

  Dragon Maid

  Dragon’s Dare

  Dragon Fury

  Earth Reclaimed

  Earth’s Requiem

  Earth’s Blood

  Earth’s Hope

  Elemental Witch

  Timespell

  Time’s Curse

  Time’s Hostage

  GenTech Rebellion

  Winning Glory

  Honor Bound

  Claiming Charity

  Loving Hope

  Keeping Faith

  Ice Dragon

  Feral Ice

  Cursed Ice

  Primal Ice

  Rubicon International

  Garen

  Lars

  Soul Dance

  Tarnished Beginnings

  Tarnished Legacy

  Tarnished Prophecy

  Tarnished Journey

  Soul Storm

  Dark Prophecy

  Dark Pursuit

  Dark Promise

  Underground Heat

  Roman’s Gold

  Wolf Born

  Blood Bond

  Wolf Clan Shifters

  Alice’s Alphas

  Megan’s Mates

  Sophie’s Shifters

  Wylde Magick

  Gemstone

  Lion’s Lair

  Unbalanced

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  STANDALONE BOOKS

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