The Awakening: The Dragon Heart Legacy Book 1

by Nora Roberts

  “You’re late.”

  “It’s raining.”

  “Is it? Send your dog over to Aisling’s. The children would enjoy the visit.”

  She looked at Bollocks, who gave her hand a lick, then trotted off.

  “How did you tell him?”

  “I thought it.”

  “Good.” He turned away, and carefully conjured three wraiths.

  “Three at once? I can’t—”

  He shot a finger out to silence her. “Stop talking. They’ll stay as they are as you learn. For one power, for another sword, for the third fists and feet. You choose. Choose wisely.”

  Resigned—though she’d hoped for the day off and a visit with Morena and her grandparents—she picked up her sword.

  She had a woman, on the plump side with a pleasant face, a demon dog, and—she thought—an elf.

  Since the dog worried her most, she blasted it with power as she charged the elf, took him out with the sword. But when she turned to punch out at the woman, she turned into a bear, one with long, keen claws and sharp teeth.

  “Well, shit!” She punched, aiming for midbody to avoid the teeth and claws. And, like hitting a brick wall, you didn’t bother the brick, but your hand hurt like fire.

  “Not wisely.”

  Her hair, a wild, wet mess, fell in her face. Disgusted, defensive, she shoved it back. “I went after the biggest threat first, and the elf almost simultaneously because he’d be fast. That’s sensible. And she looked like an aging milkmaid.”

  “Do you believe things are always as they appear?” He knocked his knuckles lightly on Breen’s head. “You’re of the Fey, but you didn’t look.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “Bollocks. You knew the elf.”

  “I guessed . . . Or sensed.”

  “Knew. Now.”

  He dissolved the wraiths, conjured three more. All looked ordinary. Two women this time, one with gray hair and a basket of apples, one young with a white apron over a pink dress, and a man with a charming smile and thick golden-brown hair.

  “Look. See. Act.”

  “I—”

  “Quickly.”

  The snap in his voice jolted her, and maybe the jolt shook something loose, but she looked, saw, acted.

  “Witch.” She hit the old woman with power. “Were.” Then took out the massive buck the man became with the sword before whirling into a kick that struck the young woman in the torso. “Faerie.”

  “Good.”

  He dissolved, then conjured, again and again. He seemed to have an endless supply.

  “Good.” He dissolved the last trio. “Tomorrow one will move.”

  Winded, dripping, she bent over to brace her hands on her knees. “Just one?”

  “For now.”

  She’d worry about that tomorrow. Besides, arguing with Keegan wasted breath she currently couldn’t spare.

  “All right.”

  She started to put the sword down, but he picked his up. “Now, I move.”

  Soaked to the skin, she stared at him. “Wouldn’t you like some ale by the fire?”

  “I would, and will have some. When we’re finished. Defend.”

  She blocked. Mostly, she knew, because he didn’t come hard. Just as she knew that little courtesy wouldn’t last.

  She tried to sneak in a power hit on the side, but he blocked her, then flicked her with a shock.

  Since it would’ve been a mortal wound, she stepped back to acknowledge it.

  “I’ve been fighting in this stupid rain for nearly an hour already,” she complained. “And you come in fresh.”

  “So might an enemy.”

  She fought. She’d never actually beaten him. Oh, she’d gotten some strikes in, when he wasn’t really trying, or like when they’d been on horseback and she’d taken him by surprise.

  But for the most part, her goal with him was to stay alive and on her feet as long as possible.

  It would be sweet, really sweet to take him down. With skill, with cunning, with power.

  She started with cunning, feigning more fatigue than she felt. Gradually, he pulled back. Blocking weakly, breathing harder than she needed to, she searched for an opening.

  She struck out with power and sword at once, and knew she’d rocked his balance. When she reared back for the killing blow, he punched back, but she blocked.

  And was so thrilled, she spun too quickly, slid on the muddy ground. Cursing, she fell into him.

  They both went down.

  He gripped her so he hit first. Before she could think to be grateful he’d taken the worst of the fall, he rolled her over, and had his sword at her throat.

  “Once again, you’re dead.”

  “And wet, and muddy. I slipped.”

  “Do you think battles only happen on bright days and dry ground?”

  “I’ve never been in a battle. I didn’t used to have enemies.”

  “Things change.” He removed his sword, but not his body. And took his sweet time considering her. “You pretended to flag so I’d hold back a bit.”

  “It was working until I slipped.”

  “You slipped because you didn’t remember your feet. But it was a good ploy.”

  “I’m still dead. And wet and muddy.”

  “You’re better than you were. You could hardly have gotten worse, but still better is better.”

  “And somehow you think that’s a compliment.”

  “Compliments are for ballrooms and trysts in moonslight. But one I can give you? You may not have the skill or mind of a warrior, but you have the body of one. You have strength and endurance. You had both when we began, and now you have more.”

  And hair the rain had turned to long, wet, red ropes. Eyes gray as the broody sky and lips full as a joyful heart.

  Beautiful. Not the breathtaking beauty of a Shana, but a more interesting one to his mind. A face, he thought, made to study and remember.

  He studied her now, as she looked steadily back at him. Steady or not, heat rose into her cheeks—a redhead’s curse, flushing them like garden roses.

  She felt him, he thought, and felt that shimmering heat as well. She wondered just as he did.

  “Am I alive again?” she murmured.

  “You appear to be.”

  He started to lower his head, got a breath away from the taste of those full lips. And the shock ran along his ribs.

  Now those full lips curved. “Now you’re dead, wet, and muddy.”

  “Clever,” he muttered as frustration and admiration warred. “A woman should always use her wiles, as they’re a keener weapon than most blades.”

  “You’d be the first to ever claim I had any to use.”

  “You have them right enough.” He rolled off her, stood, then gripped her arm to haul her up. “The rain brings the dark early. We had some enemy scouts try to break the line in the south.”

  “Oh.”

  It made it real again. All too real.

  “There’s no worry. We held them back, sent them back, shored it up. But I’ll walk you back over nonetheless. Marg would expect it,” he said before she could argue. “As would my mother. So you’ll give me an ale by the fire as my reward.”

  “I don’t have any ale.”

  Sincerely baffled, he stared at her. “That’s a sad and pitiful thing.”

  “I have wine.”

  “That will have to do. Call your dog.”

  She looked over, and through the rain and gloom, saw the lights glowing in Aisling’s cottage. “I’ve never called him from so far.”

  “Distance means nothing. Connection is all.”

  She reached out to the dog, mind to mind, heart to heart.

  Time to go home, Bollocks. Come on back, boy.

  She felt the click—connection. In less than a minute, she heard the familiar happy bark.

  “He loves you.” As he watched the dog race through the rain, Keegan shoved his dripping hair back. “He’ll always hear you, always come to you
.”

  He bounded up to greet her with licks and wags, then generously did the same with Keegan before they started for the road.

  “There was a time I’d never have been caught in the rain without an umbrella—always prepared.” She shook her head. “It was cloudy when I left this morning, and probably rained on the other side, but I didn’t even think to grab an umbrella.”

  “The wet won’t melt you.”

  When Bollocks leaped over the wall, Keegan gripped Breen by the waist and lifted her over. “The story of the evil witch with the green face.”

  “The Wizard of Oz.”

  “Aye, that. The water from the pail wouldn’t have melted her, but it was a good story nonetheless. Mind your feet on the steps.”

  “Do you have a favorite book?”

  “Why a favorite when there are so many, and I haven’t read all of them?” He swirled his hand and brought globes of light to the gloom of the woods.

  Unsure of herself, she dug for small talk. “Let’s try this. You’ve traveled in this world.”

  “I have.”

  “What did you like about it?”

  “I liked the mountains and the vast open in your Montana, and the forests and the tall white mountains in the farther west. Here, in Ireland, I like the familiar green and quiet of the hills.”

  “What about things?”

  “Things?” In his fluid way, he reached down for a stick, then threw it for the dog to chase. “Ah, all the books. And the music, so much to hear. I like some of the television. And pizza. This is brilliant. I had the best of that in the land of Italy, I think, and there they have art that opens the heart or twists it.”

  Here in the woods, the rain came as a little patter. She liked listening to his voice weave through it.

  “I’m a fan of pizza myself, but of all the food in the world, that’s it?”

  “Ice cream, in the cone. And burritos.” He shrugged. “There’s much good food in this world, and many things of value. You’ve built great cities that have their own kind of beauty, but such noise. A constant din. You have great art, but many who covet it, and want to close it in for only themselves. And people who have kindness and generosity, who love their children, help their neighbors. But so many with such anger and greed and envy. Some with hate boiling like poison in the blood. Those who strike with violence for no cause, wars, so many at once. Rulers who clutch power, but not for the common good. None of that is our way.”

  “No, it’s not. But some from Talamh choose to live here.”

  “They do. I have a cousin who lives in Paris in France. He has a bakery there, and is happy. He has a family, and has made his life there. So.”

  They came out of the woods. “His choice was right for him.”

  She led him into the house. “I just need to feed the dog.”

  “Check first.” After taking off his dripping duster, he hung it on a peg. Then in a gentleman’s gesture she hadn’t expected, held out a hand for her jacket.

  “He was with my sister, the children.”

  “Right.” She looked at Bollocks, saw he’d eaten and well. “A treat then, for being such a good dog. I’ll get that and the wine if you light the fire.”

  He lit it from where he stood and followed her into the kitchen.

  “Marg did well here.” He glanced around, with interest and attention. “This is a pleasant cottage, with good views and protection.”

  “The pixies come at night.”

  “Aye. You’re protected here, but they watch. They’d get word to me or Marg if you needed us.”

  He tapped on the stove. “Do you cook on this?”

  “Not really.” She sighed as she gave Bollocks his biscuit. “And when I do, poorly. I was going to work on learning to cook this summer, but . . .”

  “Things change.”

  She got out the wine, the glasses, poured. “They really do.” Then she frowned at him. “Why are you dry? Even your hair.”

  He stepped to her, put his hands on her shoulders, and, watching her, ran them—very deliberately—down her sides, along her hips.

  She felt the warmth from his hands on several levels.

  “Better?”

  “Um.”

  The phone she’d left on the charger on the counter rang. Blowing out a quiet breath, she turned away. “Sorry.” She saw her agent’s—her agent!—name on the display. “I really have to take this.”

  With another shrug he wandered into the living room and the fire to drink his wine.

  He would never list phones, especially the ones people carried around in their hands, as a thing he liked. Or the smell and sound of cars. He couldn’t understand why people would choose to fly in a machine, closed in. Or live in boxes stacked on top of each other.

  How did anyone find any peace in their mind?

  A cottage like this he could understand. It offered room, and quiet and comfort. Did she know, he wondered, that much in it had been crafted in Talamh and sent through?

  He drank more wine. And when he decided she’d made him wait long enough, walked back.

  She sat at the table, her head lowered to it, weeping, with the dog’s head in her lap.

  She might as well have stabbed him in the heart.

  “No, no, there now.” He nudged the dog away as he crouched down to stroke her hair. “What is it? You had hard news.”

  With tears streaming, she lifted her head, shook it.

  At a loss, he lifted her off the chair, carried her in to the fire. “Tell me now what hurts you, and we’ll find a way to fix it.”

  Still weeping, she pressed her face to his shoulder. “My book. I sold my book.”

  “Well then, don’t worry. We’ll get it back for you.”

  “No, I mean. I wrote a story and someone bought it who’ll make it a book. And people will read it.”

  He tipped her chin up. “Is this what you want?”

  “More than anything.”

  “Ah then.” He brushed a tear away. “Full heart tears. Sit then, shed them if you must. I’ll fetch your wine.”

  When he came back, she sat, hands clutched in her lap.

  “I shouldn’t have told you.”

  “Why?”

  “I told myself, if it ever actually happened, I’d tell Marco first. My best friend, my whole life my best friend. And I’ll tell him face-to-face.”

  “This is the one who came with you, and lived with you in Philadelphia.”

  “Yes. I should’ve told him first.”

  “Well, he’ll be the first of this side you’ll tell. It would be a pity if you didn’t tell Marg so she can have the pride and joy for you. And he’ll still be the first in this world you share this with.”

  “Yes.” She knuckled a tear away. “He would be. He’s the one who pushed me to write when I wanted to but didn’t believe I could. And now.”

  She pressed a hand to her mouth. “I sold a book. Three, actually, but I haven’t written the other two.”

  Curious—and relieved the weeping ended—he sat on the arm of the sofa. “How do you sell what you don’t have?”

  “You make a promise—a vow. And I—” She took a deep gulp of wine. “Hell, I might as well blab it all. I’m writing another book—for adults. The one I sold is for children. My agent—she’s the one who sold the book. She represents me. She asked to see some of what I’ve written on it, and she likes it. It’s not finished, only maybe half done, but she likes it.”

  She hopped up, whirled around the room. “Everything in my life has changed. Everything. This time last year I was stuck. Or I thought I was. So unhappy. So dull.”

  “Dull?”

  “Dull,” she confirmed. “Believe me. Now I’m—” She flung out a hand and lit every candle in the room. “Magick! I’m a witch. I’m a writer. And by this time next year, I’ll be a published writer, and no one can ever take that away from me. No one can say it doesn’t matter.”

  Baffled, he frowned at her. “Why would they?”


  “You don’t know my mother. Everything’s changed. I’ve changed.” She glowed, like the candles, as she whirled again. “Let’s have pizza!”

  He wasn’t sure how he found his voice through what she stirred in him. “You have pizza?”

  “It won’t be like what you had in Italy, but it’s pizza. Let’s have pizza and more wine.”

  She rushed into the kitchen and started to yank open the freezer.

  And found herself whirled around, her back against the refrigerator with Keegan’s hands tense on her hips.

  As the moment, the meaning shot through her, she said, “Oh.”

  “Quickly.” His body pressed, not so lightly, against hers. “Yes or no.”

  “Yes or—”

  His mouth came down on hers, hard and hungry. Every cell in her body erupted, a chain reaction of pleasure and panic and passion so long repressed.

  He pulled back, but kept his hands on her. “I heard yes.”

  “I didn’t exactly . . . Yes.” She dragged his mouth back to hers. “You heard yes.”

  He swept her, literally and figuratively, off her feet. “Show me your room, put it in your head.”

  “Oh, it’s . . .” She gestured vaguely as she mentally went up the stairs, made the turn.

  No one had ever carried her to bed. No one had ever kissed her senseless in the kitchen. No one had ever looked at her as if the want for her might set the air on fire.

  She started to tell him she wasn’t very good at this, and rusty on top of it. But she stopped herself, let herself ride the moment.

  Oh yes, yes, yes. She’d changed.

  He’d find out for himself, but she’d have the moment. Hoping for the best, she pressed her lips to the side of his throat to taste his skin, to breathe in his scent.

  He smelled of rain and leather, of green grass and rich earth.

  Of Talamh, she realized. He smelled of magick.

  When he turned into the bedroom, he glanced toward the fire. It leapt into flame as he set her on her feet by the side of the bed.

  “You’re an orderly soul,” he noted. “All in its place.”

  The candles on the mantel, the nightstands, the tables sprang to life.

  “I guess I am.”

  “I appreciate order.” The window opened a few inches, and the breeze, the night, flowed in.

  “You won’t be cold,” he told her, then ran his hands down her sides, up again over her breasts, up through her hair, down her back.