Dragon Lover

by Karilyn Bentley

  Ragnor died years ago, in his place Fafnir was reborn. “I am he who was once called Ragnor.”

  Her lips flattened, the happy surprise in her eyes morphing into anger. Like he thought. Not that he blamed her. “You’ve been back for a month and never said who you were? By all that’s holy, what were you thinking?”

  He shrugged, refusing to admit to his mate, sister, and daughter his foray into the land of guilt and shame. “It’s complicated.”

  “Complicated? That’s the understatement of the year.” Aryana stood, her green gaze blazing. Good thing she couldn’t kill with a look.

  He hoped.

  “You’ve followed me around for the last several days and didn’t think about coming clean as to your identity?” Her voice rose in pitch. “How dare you? And here I thought there might be something between Fafnir and me.”

  His heart leapt at her words but he squashed the emotion. “There is something between you and me. We’re mates.”

  “I can’t have a mate.” Her hands slammed against her hips. “I’m the bloody High Priestess!”

  “I should have told you.” Instead of hiding behind lies.

  “Lots of good that does you now. Did you know?” She turned to Annaliese, pointing a finger at his sister.

  “Once I saw him.”

  “And you didn’t tell me either? I thought you were my friend.” She turned back to Fafnir, stabbing her finger in his direction. “And if you’d stayed a dragon, I would’ve fallen in love with you.”

  Another squashing of his stupid leaping heart. “I’m still the same person.”

  “You lied to me! I can’t talk right now. I need to think about this. Just, just leave me alone!” With a wave of her hand, she disappeared.

  A sharp pain stabbed him in the chest, radiating outward until his limbs shook. His mate rejected him. Knowing the outcome of his transformation did not help the sting of her rejection.

  “Well, that went better than I thought.”

  Fafnir stared at his sister. Had someone slipped her an insanity potion in her morning tea? If she thought their conversation went well, what was her idea of bad?

  “Don’t worry about it, Father.” Keara smiled at him. “I said almost the same thing to Thoren and look how we turned out. Happy as a couple of singing birds.”

  Her words fell short of the desired effect. Not that he’d tell her, she spoke to comfort.

  What would he do without his mate? How would he live? How would he ever discover the secret behind her ability to turn into a dragon?

  A dragon. It had been less than a week since he prayed for a reason to live and the Goddess saw fit to drop Aryana out of the sky, setting him on the path of discovery. He had yet to find the answer, which meant hoped remained.

  A spark fluttered in his heart, igniting his feeble hopes.

  Aryana had another thing coming if she thought he’d roll over and give up on her. No male gave up on his mate. Even the cowardly ones. And since he’d thrown off all those cowardly traits like a moth-eaten blanket, he would convince Aryana they belonged together no matter how long it took.

  Chapter Twelve

  Aryana transported to a small garden outside the back Temple gate, her favorite hiding place to escape the stresses of the priestesshood. The garden, filled with dying summer flowers, still-green bushes, and tall shade trees, provided her privacy from the business of the Temple. Planted years ago, the garden provided a place for the High Priestess to find peace and relaxation.

  Peace and relaxation. As if she could find those after the grand reveal she just saw.

  Ragnor lived. Her mate, thought dead all these years, lived. And neglected to mention who he was for the last month. A month. What was that dragon thinking?

  Oh, wait. He clearly wasn’t. If he had a half a mind he would have told her who he was the first day he showed up at the Temple.

  A month ago.

  A growl hit her ears, and it took her a moment to realize it came from her throat. Steam wafted past her eyes, and Ari sucked down a breath.

  Peace and relaxation. Relaxation and peace. Ari waved her hand to clear the steam circling her face.

  Maybe she didn’t need peace and relaxation. Maybe she needed a good dose of righteous anger coupled with a bit of oh-my-Goddess-what-am-I-supposed-to-do-now. Females with mates weren’t allowed to be priestesses, let alone the High Priestess.

  Why did Fafnir have to be Ragnor?

  More to the point, what was she going to do about it? Ignore the fact like they had when young? Pretend the desire they felt for each other was nothing more than lust?

  Neither option worked. She’d known Ragnor was her mate before he invaded her dreams. Why else would her dream self beg him to bond?

  No more hiding.

  But if she didn’t hide, she’d have to give up her position, her dream, the goal she’d had since young.

  How would she live without being the High Priestess?

  Why couldn’t Fafnir have been someone else?

  Aryana remembered the underground chamber, Fafnir standing in the middle of the overlarge, silver runed circle, Keara casting a spell not spoken since ancient times. As soon as she saw the dragon shrink into human flesh, scales disappearing into skin, she breathed a sigh of relief. Keara lived. The spell worked. Then Fafnir—or should she call him Ragnor—raised his head, looked her in the eye, and her world tilted off center. Black spots dotted the periphery of her vision as she fought not to faint. As Keara seemed to already have that action covered, Ari managed through sheer force of will to remain upright and conscious.

  If one could call shocked witless a state of consciousness.

  No wonder she felt attracted to Fafnir. The bloody, lying dragon was her prophesied mate.

  What was she to do now? She could almost hear Alviss gloating over her predicament, hear the joy in his voice when he discovered his son still lived and she would have to abdicate her position. To his daughter Annaliese. Whom he thought should have been granted the position in the first place.

  Maybe that’s why her second-in-command failed to inform her of Fafnir—no Ragnor’s—deception. Although thinking of Annaliese being sneaky and power-hungry was not possible. Her friend never appeared upset or spoke snide remarks upon Aryana’s appointment to High Priestess. Not once. Even though Annaliese had wanted the position.

  No, her friend probably acted on her brother’s orders not to tell Aryana of his identity more so than a bid to steal her position as High Priestess.

  Aryana sighed. Perhaps she would have done the same in her friend’s position. Held her sibling’s secret at all costs. Even if it meant pain to another upon the telling.

  Moira’s face flashed through her mind. The twinkle in her eyes when happy. The look upon her face when Jaythena was captured. The knowledge she’d kill the one who caused her sister pain without a second thought.

  Keeping a painful secret meant nothing when put into that perspective.

  So yes, she would have done the same in Annaliese’s situation. If she would do it, how could she blame her friend for not informing her at once of Ragnor’s appearance?

  Their friendship had endured too many years not to forgive her.

  Ragnor—or did he still want to be called Fafnir?—was a different matter.

  His betrayal stung. Why did he refuse to admit to his true identity? With sudden clarity, she remembered her dream, the feel of his body against hers as they moved together under a cloudless blue sky. Her shameless plea for him to bond his life-force with hers, a bond only performed by mates with a deep abiding love for each other.

  How he refused her offer.

  Aryana slapped her hand against a tree trunk, the bite of the rough bark shocking her with a jolt of awareness.

  That dream had not been a dream from her own imaginings. She’d bet a chest of jewels he intruded upon her dreams, inserting himself into her unconsciousness.

  A punishable action. Only priestesses were allowed to invade another�
�s thoughts without permission.

  Not that any of the priestesses admitted to doing so. Appearances dictated that they must seem to abide by the same rules as the rest of the Draconi.

  She could punish him.

  But she wouldn’t.

  No use in revealing to others she had begged him to bond. Even if it was in a dream. Those words also carried an action. An action she wasn’t sure she wanted. Especially not now.

  Or maybe ever.

  Ari sighed. The years of lying to herself needed to end. Honesty in one’s internal talk beat living a life of falsehood. Something she’d done for too long.

  No one could accuse her of not doing everything in her power to achieve her goals. Except in this case, it wasn’t a good thing. Allowing a childhood dream of being High Priestess to eclipse the fact she had a mate left a lot to be desired.

  Not sure what that says about me.

  Aryana pressed her index fingers against the bridge of her nose. Well, she didn’t dive into this predicament on her own. She had help. From Ragnor. Like her, he refused to believe the old Seer, instead insisting the vagueness of the prophecy could apply to anyone.

  Sure it could. And dragons could pass by a jewel without eyeing it.

  For years her lying-to-herself ability convinced her becoming the High Priestess instead of taking Ragnor as a mate was a worthwhile trade. She possessed power in abundance. Took numerous males to her bed. Managed the welfare of the Draconi.

  And did she mention the endless supply of magic available at the snap of her fingers?

  But none of those things quenched the yearning inside. A yearning she tried to bury, to hide, to forget.

  A yearning for a mate.

  No wonder all other males no longer attracted her. No wonder she’d lost her desire for a night of bed-romping. At some level, deep inside, she missed her mate.

  Her lying, hiding-behind-a-false-identity mate.

  Aryana walked to the edge of the small reflection pool and sat, dipping her fingers into the ice-cold water. Winter approached behind the sunny day. Soon. And soon she would have to decide what to do with her life.

  Refuse her mate and follow her dream. Or lose her dream and remain with her mate.

  Things could be worse, right? She could be a villager in Tyne with a burned home and destroyed family. Or her poor niece, Jaythena, who, although physically healed, carried deep emotional scars.

  Not that the knowledge made her decision any easier or less stressful.

  Aryana flicked the cold water off her fingers and wiped them on her gown. A sharp pain like an insect biting stabbed her upper arm, and she rubbed at the sore spot, knocking loose a small stick.

  She held the stick up before her eyes. No, not a stick. A hollow tube whittled to a sharp point on one end. A dart.

  What was this?

  “I suppose I should thank you for making my job easier.” The voice came from behind her, and she almost tripped on the hem of her gown jumping to her feet. The hollow dart fell out of her fingers, dropping to the ground.

  Oh Goddess. Things could get worse. Could? Things just went from emotionally-distraught to life-in-danger.

  Do not show fear, do not show fear, do not show fear. But the fear wrapped around her heart like a serpent, cold and writhing. You are the High Priestess. Speak a word and he dies.

  Fasolt swayed before her. See, he’s weak, injured. Swaying.

  But which word should she speak? Weren’t there words to stop him from approaching? To stop him from…what exactly? And why were the trees and bushes spinning as if she drank too much wine? Her legs trembled, the weight of her body too much for them to hold.

  Oh. It’s not Fasolt who’s swaying, it’s me. He poisoned me!

  The slimy son-of-a-drunken dragon shot her with a poisoned dart. A rush of anger filled her veins. She was going to kill the low-down female-abusing bastard.

  Right after she negated the poison’s effects. How did she do that? A spell, yes, that’s it. A spell. She knew one. Once. Before black spots dotted her vision and her world spun a dizzying dance.

  The spell came to her in a rush of letters and syllables scattered through her mind, the disparate words fading as soon as they appeared. She tried to grab the words, to pull the syllables around her like a cloak protects against the cold. But her thoughts swirled away into darkness as she fell to the ground, a puppet with its strings cut.

  ****

  Water dripped close by, a soft plink-plunk edging Aryana toward consciousness. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, thick and heavy and tasting of metal. Cold seeped through her velvet gown despite its thick warmth. Her arms ached, tightness cinched her wrists like a girdle on an overlarge female. Were her wrists tied together?

  Moving half-numb fingers, she touched the rope binding her wrists. Well, wasn’t this grand? Lying on her side on damp, hard stone trussed up like an offering. Could her day get any worse? First, she discovers her thought-dead mate lived, then she’s poisoned by an insane male, and now she wakes to aching arms and going numb fingers.

  Goddess help her.

  All things considered, she’d rather deal with Ragnor’s deceit. Insane males like Fasolt failed to follow established behavioral patterns. Did he think for a moment she might be more powerful than him? Of course not.

  Stupid fool.

  Who managed to shoot her with a poisoned dart. It was past time she delivered him into the Council’s loving arms. In order to do that, though, she needed to open her eyes, figure out where she lay.

  Or maybe she needed to find out if anyone was nearby. Sneak attacks always worked better than frontal assaults. Keeping her eyes shut, she focused on the sounds surrounding her. Under the soft, steady splashes of water droplets against rock she heard the muffled sound of breathing. Pebbles crunched as someone shifted positions.

  Her skin prickled. Was Fasolt watching her? Checking to see if she woke? Or did he expect her to sleep for longer?

  Maybe she should break her bonds, surprise her captor, then render him unconscious. Maybe she should pretend to be unconscious and see if he said anything about the village attacks.

  Oh, right. What were the chances of that happening?

  Maybe she needed to take a peek inside the mind of the person nearby and see who was guarding her.

  A quick touch of her mind to his and she tried not to alter her breathing. Definitely Fasolt. The slimy bastard. She saw his plans for her when she woke. But he didn’t expect her to wake for some time.

  So why was she awake if the drug should last longer? Aryana focused inward, seeking remnants of the poison coursing through her veins, and finding none remained. Nice to know the spell worked even when remembered in disjointed syllables.

  What should she do? Breaking the rope on her wrists only involved a quick spell, but what would she do then? Not knowing where she was meant not knowing where to run. And while she could transport out of a cave, transporting through rock proved a tricky thing, even as a High Priestess. What if she got stuck in the rock by misjudging its thickness from the cave to the ground?

  No, she’d have to make a run for it.

  On foot.

  After she showed Fasolt who was the more powerful, trussed him up like an offering and called the Council.

  On the count of three. Open eyes. Take in surroundings. Break bonds. Smack Fasolt. Ready? Ari took a deep breath, but right as she started to open her eyes, heavy footsteps crackled and squelched against the damp floor, sending vibrations through the stone into her skin.

  Who was that? Maybe, if she played unconscious victim, she’d discover the ones behind the village attacks. Fasolt helped them, why wouldn’t they help him? Ari kept her eyes closed and her breathing deep.

  The footsteps stopped nearby. “So you got her, I see.” An unknown male voice wavered with age.

  “Tranquilizing dart,” Fasolt answered, closer than she thought from his breathing, and Aryana failed to stop the shiver cascading down her spine. “She came out
right when I was about to go in. A true miracle in our favor.”

  “How much longer until she wakes?”

  “Maybe an hour. Maybe less, maybe more.”

  “Have you given her the drug?”

  “Not until she wakes. She must see who commands her.”

  “Are you sure you can control her? You already lost her once.”

  “Of course I can control her. That’s what the drug is for.”

  Drug? What drug was he talking about? Then she remembered Jaythena, the blank expression on her face, the way she followed Fasolt’s commands against her will. The same drug he’d given Keara before she arrived in Draconia.

  And he thought he could control her with it?

  Stupid male.

  The only reason it took her awhile to counteract the poison in the dart had been because it caught her unaware. A little hard to pull a spell from a mind running full-tilt toward unconsciousness. But she managed.

  And now that she knew his plans, she could counteract the drug with another spell.

  It crossed her mind to kill the two males standing before her, but it was a little hard for the dead to talk, and talk they must. How else would their plans be thwarted? Not to mention she still had no idea where she was. Caves dotted Draconia like acorns on the ground, numerous and plentiful.

  Most hid in cliffs a long distance from the Temple. Could Fasolt have taken her that far without being able to transport? What if he could transport? Maybe stripped powers really did return.

  She could be anywhere.

  Stripping a Draconi of his powers was not something she did on a daily basis. Or even a yearly one. As no one else had ever returned from their banishment, she had no idea how well her attempt at removing another’s magic worked. Perhaps she always failed. Or powers grew back. Like all ancient writings, the explanation of the spell leaned more toward vague than clear.

  If Fasolt possessed his magic, then subduing him might take more effort than she thought.

  No problem. He’d troubled the wrong person for the last time.

  “Once we show the Draconi we have their High Priestess, that she is powerless against us, then they will surrender. We will control them. We will prove that we are the stronger race.” The other male’s voice grew stronger, more fervent, as he spoke.