Fafnir cleared his throat, eyes narrowed as the female jumped, one hand darting to her chest as if to hold in her heart. He saw her face then, smelled her scent and felt a jolt through his veins unbecoming of a cloistered male.
Which is why he never wanted to be cloistered.
He liked bedding females, thank you very much.
He’d really like to bed this one. As if that was going to happen in his current form.
The High Priestess Aryana stood in torn robes, her long, black hair in disarray. The same female he’d spent his younger years trying to avoid and his later ones wishing he hadn’t been so successful.
She had no idea who he was. With any luck, it would stay that way.
High Priestess? What are you doing?
Her eyes narrowed, her hand still clasped against her chest. “Fafnir? Is that you? What are you doing here?”
I live here. The more important question is why are you here?
“I, um, I...had an accident during the Harvest ritual. Why are you here instead of on the Temple grounds?”
Where’s the hatchling you flew in on?
“Oh, um...”
A thought popped into his head. A thought so foreign, so improbable it was laughable. Females did not turn into dragons. And yet, there was no hatchling.
“I have to go. I need to finish the ritual.”
Wait. Are you hurt? I can...What exactly? Offer to heal her scratches and bruises? As if that wouldn’t be a dead giveaway as to his true identity. While males could be Healers, the ability was so rare as to be confined to only a few families. She would know his family lineage in less time than it took a dragon to spit a fireball. Which was a discovery he hoped to avoid. After what he did, the atrocity he never thought to commit and yet had, his family wouldn’t want to admit he shared their blood. No, it was better to keep his talents and his identity hidden.
“You can what?”
I can fly you back to the Temple. You look a bit hurt. Injuries make it hard to transport sometimes. At least for the average Draconi. The High Priestess could probably transport semi-conscious and leaking blood. Truth of the matter was he wanted her to touch him.
Bloody sappy desires.
She pushed a shaky hand through her hair and breathed out a puff of air. “You may take me back. Only if you promise not to speak of what you saw. I can...make it so you don’t tell. But I’d rather take your promise.”
Fafnir felt one eye-ridge rise. Did she think to rummage around in his mind, to extract the memory of her presence? He’d like to see her try.
But he’d rather speak a promise.
What did I see?
A small brush against his mind, so slight as to be almost imperceptible. Almost. He slammed mental barriers in place, watching her brow furrow as she tried to remove his memory of her standing in the berry bushes.
She probably could get away with reading others’ minds, but not his. Twenty-four years of captivity prohibited his use of magic, but not of mind-speaking. His feeble curse at the time of his capture coupled with his mind-speaking abilities wrecked havoc on his captors. The lord of River’s Run wasn’t the only one to become insane; he just happened to have the misfortune of standing directly in the way of Fafnir’s curse. The others, well, they heard voices for a long time.
He curled his lip at the memory.
“You saw me standing here.” The High Priestess’s voice jarred him back into the moment.
That’s not all I saw.
“Yes, it is. Now, are you going to give me that ride back to the Temple or not?”
Having problems transporting?
“I’m still here, aren’t I?”
Fafnir chuckled. A ride then. He knelt, offering her his back.
Her hand touched his shoulder as some of her bristle relaxed. “Thank you.” She climbed to his back and sat, her weight a pleasant feeling against his scales. Her touch was well worth the aborted attempt to end his misery.
He straightened, standing a bit taller, knowing she sat on his back, knowing she trusted him. Him. The Draconi liar, the male too afraid of his own guilt to admit his identity. But she didn’t know that, did she? No, she felt pity toward him, pity for his years of captivity, his inability to change into human form, but no outright disgust. As annoying as pity might be, he could live with it. Her disgust, though, would shatter his heart into shards of shame.
Bloody effing sap.
Taking a hop, his wings expanded, lifting them into the air. Unlike the hatchling—or should he say Aryana, as odd as it might sound—he glided across air currents, the wind pressing against the membranes of his wings. He loved flying. Loved the feel of water droplets as he rushed through clouds. Loved the wind catching his wings, pushing him higher.
Loved having Aryana sitting on his back, letting him care for her.
Where was the nearest rock to bang his head against when he needed one?
When one flies, it’s important to expand the wings, to let the air currents push you higher. If you flap too quickly, or pull the wings in, you’ll fall out of the sky.
She stiffened, her hands tightening their grip on his scales. I will keep that in mind, if I ever teach hatchlings flight techniques.
Ah. It makes for an interesting conversation, don’t you think? How to remain in the air? How to fly?
How had a female managed to change? Maybe he imagined it. The thought no sooner came to him than he dismissed it. He did not imagine seeing a dragon flying. Or attempting to fly in her case. His fault had been to assume it was a hatchling flying since no grown male would flap his wings in that unknowing way. All males underwent training on how to fly once they hit puberty and after that, none flapped their wings like a green hatchling.
A female would, though. They never underwent training since females did not change.
Yet, he knew what he saw. He also knew getting her to admit it would be like getting a male to admit he fathered a child on a human and then abandoned it.
He needed a goal to make his life worthwhile and what do you know? One appeared. How did a female change into a dragon?
I wouldn’t know. I’m female. Females don’t fly.
Ah. Well. Males find the topic interesting.
Look! There’s the Temple. Why don’t you put me down here, so I can transport back. I feel much calmer now.
Sure she did. Tension traveled from her legs through his skin, transmitting her fear of discovery as surely as if she spoke. He wanted to know how she changed. Why she changed.
It wouldn’t be a goal if he had an immediate answer, now would it?
As you wish, Priestess.
Banking to the left, he circled around the perimeter of the Temple, noting the crowd in the Temple Courtyard, as he landed behind the large, stone behemoth. His feet touched down on the path leading from the Temple to the Council’s Chamber and his wings folded against his scales. He started to kneel, when he felt Aryana transport off him. She regained form a few feet away, the tears in her previously torn gown repaired, her hair, though, still mussed from the flight. Or the earlier landing in the bushes.
“Thank you for the ride.” She inclined her head toward him. “I will—”
The rest of her sentence froze in the air as high-pitched screams sounded from the Courtyard.
Chapter Two
Aryana pivoted toward the screams, toward the explosion of a cacophony of voices, each vying to be heard. What happened? Ignoring Fafnir and the questions in his eyes, she transported into the noise consuming the Courtyard. Fafnir appeared in the Courtyard a few seconds later and the disheveled crowd buzzed around him.
Disheveled? With their torn clothes and faces covered in blood and dirt, the crowd looked like they had been on the losing side of a battle. How could that be? Fighting was not what the Harvest ritual inspired.
“High Priestess!” Someone spotted her and as one the crowd swarmed her way. She sucked in a breath and tried to swallow, her throat as dry as a desert, her palms clammy. What
a ridiculous reaction to her people, the race she served. She should not be afraid of harm. Or of them discovering her earlier wing-flapping disaster. So why did watching them rush toward her make her heart double its rhythm?
Fafnir vanished only to reappear beside her, his tail forming a scaled barrier between her and the crowd as it curled around her legs. She released the fear snaking through her veins on a trembling breath, oddly calm in the sea of terrorized eyes.
“What is wrong? What has happened?”
A sea of voices answered in a discordant melody and Aryana raised her hands for quiet.
“Not all at once. You there—“she pointed to an elderly male standing up front, blood pouring from a slash across his forehead—“what happened?”
“We have been attacked! The village of Tyne has been attacked!”
“Attacked?” How? Wards stationed at their borders protected Draconia from outsiders and in general Draconi did not attack each other. A brawl might occur now and then but nothing of this level.
“They were Watchers! None I recognized, but I saw their blond hair under their masks.”
“Masks? Watchers wore masks?” She really needed to find a larger vocabulary, but after her surprising transport into flight, followed by finding the only Draconi whose mind she could not control and then hearing a village had been attacked, she was surprised her mind conjured up any words at all.
“They hid! We need help. We transported here for assistance, but we were unable to drive them off. There were too many of them.”
Aryana felt her eyes widen. So much for her serene High Priestess look. Watchers raiding a village? Harming Draconi? Why? From the corner of her eye, she saw the priestesses running out of the Temple, a river of white in the blood-splattered crowd. She sent them a mental image of what happened and watched as they ran to the survivors.
“Please, go with the priestesses and let them tend your injuries. I will call warriors to go to your village.”
Not waiting to see if they obeyed her, she closed her eyes and sent a mental call to her nephew Thoren. He served on the Council, the group of male Draconi and Watchers tasked with the protection of the Draconi. Some protection. They hadn’t even seen the attack coming.
Thoren!
What? I’m a little busy now.
Tyne has been attacked. They think it was Watchers. You need to contact Alviss and send a group there now. I’m transporting there to see if I can help.
Wait! Ari!
She blocked whatever else he was about to say. The less she said, the faster he’d act. A subtle tensing of Fafnir’s tail against her legs caused her to put one hand on the hard scales. When she opened her eyes, Annaliese stood in front of her, Fafnir facing away from her friend. Wonder why that was. She put the thought aside, focusing on her second-in-command.
“Did you hear what happened?” At Annaliese’s nod, she continued. “I’m going to see about the village. See if I can help. I’ve contacted Thoren and he’ll contact Alviss.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Having Thoren contact Alviss?”
“No. You going to Tyne by yourself.”
She’s not going by herself. I’m going with her.
Aryana blinked and schooled her face into a calm mask. Where did he get off thinking he could just up and follow her around like a lost puppy? Somehow she doubted Fafnir would take no for an answer. But did she really want him to? She liked the way his tail curled protectively around her, liked the way he had offered to take her back to the Temple, liked his willingness to go into danger.
Someone clearly needed to slap some sense into her.
“Who are you?” Annaliese asked, her brows reflecting the curiosity in her eyes.
“This is Fafnir. Fafnir, this is Annaliese, the Temple Healer and my second-in-command. See, I won’t be by myself. You don’t have to worry.”
“I’m assuming you want me to oversee all this.” Annaliese swept her arm out, the gesture encompassing the survivors.
“Of course. You are in charge until I return.”
Annaliese inclined her head, but kept half her gaze on Fafnir. He is the one Thoren freed from Keara’s village?
He is. Why?
She shrugged. He looks familiar. “Safe journey.” Raising one hand, she nodded and then turned to the huddle of survivors.
Ari took a deep breath, readying herself to transport when she felt her body disintegrate into a loose dance of particles. Not again. But this time, when she reappeared, she remained in human form. Thank the Goddess. Fafnir’s tail remained wrapped around her legs and it took her mind a second to process he was the one who had transported them here. To Tyne.
Shadows cast from flames flickered across Fafnir’s scales, which gleamed like rubies in the light. His tail uncurled, removing his protection, leaving her alone. Although how she could be alone with him still standing beside her, she didn’t know. Didn’t care.
He looks familiar. Ari heard Annaliese’s words again, heard the longing, the surprise, as if the Healer stood by her side. While Fafnir didn’t look familiar to her, he felt familiar, his touch drawing out memories she thought she’d forgotten. Memories of when she longed for love, for a family, memories from a time so long ago she had a hard time remembering. Goddess, she had been all of what? Ten? Eleven? She’d become an acolyte at twelve, her dreams of a mate forgotten in the excitement of serving in the Temple.
But one touch of Fafnir’s tail against her legs and those buried, forgotten dreams rushed out of hiding like they wanted to see the light of day.
What was wrong with her today?
Getting out of her own mind, she focused on the scene before her.
Tyne.
Or what was left of it.
The remains of a bonfire, a typical occurrence for the Harvest ritual, jumped into the air, casting elongated shadows like clawing fingers across the houses surrounding it. The stench of burned flesh and death mixed with sulphur and charcoaled wood. Did she know a spell to keep breathing but not inhale the scent? It wouldn’t do for the High Priestess to arrive with one hand firmly planted over her mouth and nose.
Since nothing came to mind, she continued breathing the stench with the hope her nose would become accustomed to it and stop wrinkling in protest.
Tyne was nothing more than a farmer’s village, a group of homes surrounding an open area where gatherings and rituals took place. No walls surrounded the town, just as no walls surrounded any place in Draconia with the exception of the Temple. The wards set around their land kept out attackers, visitors, and other unsavory guests.
Except the one time several weeks ago when a band of humans simply walked through the wards. But, they had been led by a rogue Draconi, who escaped. Despite the Council’s efforts, the Draconi hadn’t been found. Maybe he was behind the attack tonight?
While the thought of blaming all the destruction on the nameless Draconi gave her warm fuzzy feelings, the reality was, he couldn’t have committed this atrocity alone.
Which brought her back to the report of Watchers being behind the attacks.
Why? Why would Watchers attack a Draconi village?
“It’s the High Priestess!” a shout snapped her attention to the right, to a female hiding in the doorway of a building.
As if her appearing was the all-clear signal, villagers began streaming from buildings, some looking at the destruction, others clustering around her. Aryana turned to Fafnir, only to blink into an empty space beside her.
Where had the dragon gone?
****
Fafnir removed his tail from around Aryana’s legs and disappeared. Invisible, he walked around the outside of the houses, looking for…something? Someone to pop up and say, I caused this destruction, come and get me?
He’d do better sticking by Aryana’s side.
Where he wanted to stay.
Now was not the time to search his inner feelings. He needed to concentrate, to find evidence of the perpetrators.
>
Shadows flickered across the houses, fingers of pain digging into the darkness. He heard a female shout, “It’s the High Priestess!” and then confusion reigned, as a cacophony of voices rushed the last place he saw Aryana.
He almost missed the whimper in all the noise.
Behind one of the houses sat a small shed, obviously a storage building of some kind as he didn’t catch a whiff of privy-scented air. As nothing moved in the shadows, he assumed the whimper came from the shed and headed in that direction.
Only to come to a stop.
Lying in front of the shed were two Watchers, both dead from the smell of things.
Fafnir’s nose wrinkled. He hated the stench of death. Of decay. Which was why he never became a reconnaissance specialist.
He’d rather teach hatchlings how to fly.
Or High Priestesses.
He shook his head. Stay in the present, not in your imagination.
Having never worked for the Council or overseen investigations of the type lying in front of him, he couldn’t be certain, but it seemed as if one of the Watchers tried to defend the shed. Something about the angle of the bodies, the way one looked to be slumped protectively in front of the door.
A half-sob escaped the shed, smothered as if by a hand. Fafnir dropped his invisibility spell and used mind-speak to project his thoughts.
Who’s in there?
Who are you? A young one. Female. Scared.
Fafnir’s teeth ground together, his nostrils flaring. I am Fafnir. Close your eyes and open the door.
The door creaked open, a small figure highlighted in the flickering shadows, her face screwed up as she squeezed her eyes shut. One hand rested on the door, as if to slam it closed at any moment. Her chest rose and fell, rose and fell, as if she had run a distance.
Between one breath and the next, he transported her to him, avoiding the Watcher’s bodies her young eyes did not need to see.
A tear-streaked face stared at him a second before thin arms wrapped around his leg. Trusting him. A small piece of his heart broke. So this is what it would feel like to have his daughter touch him. To trust him. To look up to him as her savior.
Dragon Lover Page 2