by Ann Gimpel
The dragon was silent so long, Lachlan started to ask again, but Kheladin spoke before he got the words out. “We will know more outside these walls. The lass’s scent muddles things. ’Tis much like a potion.”
Lachlan trusted the dragon’s instincts; they were usually sharper than his own. He moved the books on his lap to the floor, got to his feet, and picked up his sword belt, buckling it securely into place. Nothing more to do but leave. Why was such a simple thing so difficult? He snatched up his cloak.
A note. He owed her at least that. Lachlan strode to the desk and pulled drawers open until he found parchment, though it felt pathetically thin, and a stick he ascertained would write, once he fiddled with removing its end piece. He considered what to say. He didn’t want to give her information that might compromise her safety. In the end, he merely adjured her to take care, told her she was a bonny lass, and said he hoped their paths would cross again.
He stared at the piece of paper, came close to crumpling it and starting again, but that damned alien power slammed into his ward. Not subtle this time or questing. It was as if whatever was out there was certain they’d found him and aimed to do something about it.
Lachlan prepared himself for battle, expecting Rhukon—or one of his minions—to break into Maggie’s home at any second. He gathered power, held it balanced between his hands. It sizzled, giving the air a burnt smell. Long moments passed.
“’Tis trying to lure me outside,” he told Kheladin. “’Tis a risk, but a lesser one, to conjure traveling magic.”
When the dragon didn’t answer, Lachlan began to chant. He warmed to his spell after a short time. Like everything else, his mage skills—at least the ones demanding more than the simplest magics—were rusty. The walls of Maggie’s living room wavered, solidified, and shimmered again. On his third try, Lachlan began to panic. He’d just pulled enough power to light a small town, surely alerting any enemy within a fifty league radius to his presence. If he couldn’t transport himself and the dragon to the cave, he’d have to fight goddess-only-knew-who right here. Without Kheladin’s help, since there wasn’t space to shift.
Sweat ran down his face and sides. It stung where it ran into his eyes. In desperation, he nearly dropped his warding to pour his full power into what should have been a neophyte’s spell, when he felt the tightening in his stomach that meant they were in the in-between place—the one that could open to any destination in this world or any other. He realized his eyes were screwed shut and pried them open onto blackness.
“Thank the mother goddess,” he breathed, shocked at how weak his magic had become.
“We are far from safe. Do not disperse your warding as ye were about to do.” Censure rang in the dragon’s words. “’Tis not all you,” Kheladin continued. “There is something amiss in this world. It fights against magic. Competes with it.”
“Bloody good there’s a reason.” Lachlan struggled to catch his breath. The darkness yielded to gray. Moments later, the walls of Kheladin’s cave materialized around him. He sank into the sand and poured handfuls through fingers that were trying to morph into claws. Lachlan didn’t fight the transformation; he welcomed it, unwinding his clothing so it wouldn’t end up in a heap of tatters. If wickedness followed them, they were better off in Kheladin’s form. He sank deep inside the dragon’s scaled body and gazed through his whirling green eyes.
With his wings stretched to their full span, nearly touching the sides of the cave, Kheladin trumpeted a challenge. Smoke and fire belched from his mouth. Lachlan reveled in the dragon’s strength. The first time he’d experienced Kheladin’s latent power, Lachlan got so drunk on it he hadn’t slept for days.
“Look sharp,” the dragon hissed. “Something comes. I need you present, not daydreaming.”
Lachlan stretched his senses through the dragon’s. Indeed, a subliminal thrumming set his nerves on edge. Without access to Kheladin’s preternatural senses, he’d never have sorted it out from stray magical impulses pinging through the ether.
He pushed farther, extending himself to the ragged edges of his ability, amplified by Kheladin’s. Someone with great power drew near, yet the power didn’t have a corrupt feel about it. A gout of dragon fire scored the far wall of the cave, lighting it bright as day.
“Hold.” Lachlan made his voice stern. Kheladin ignored him. The next spray of flames shot high into the air. “Damn ye! Hold. It may not be a foe. We willna know, if ye toast them to cinders afore they set foot on the floor of our cave.”
“What I felt in the lass’s hovel held deep evil. Ye were scarcely subtle getting us here. Your casting left a trail a league wide for them to come after us.”
Lachlan winced at the unpleasant truth. Once upon a time, he’d been a better magician than that—one of the strongest in all of England, Scotland, and the Gaelic kingdoms. He’d regain his ability, but mayhap not quickly enough to save them from ruin. He picked his words with care to secure the dragon’s cooperation. “Aye. I sensed the evil as well. Yet what I feel here is different. If ye’d stop tossing fire about like a lamplighter gone mad, ye could test it for yourself.”
Kheladin grunted. He lifted his great snout and snuffled loudly. Lachlan held his breath, waiting. Rather than speaking internally, the dragon called, “Show yourself. Now. Or I shall burn you to ashes.”
Lachlan grimaced. Not the most attractive greeting, but it should do the job. If whoever lurked wasn’t their enemy, they should come forth. He had to admit to curiosity. Surely other magic-wielders besides witches had survived through the years he and the dragon slumbered.
“Och aye, and ye’ve finally come to your senses.” The voice was whispery. It echoed at the bare edges of Lachlan’s dragon-enhanced hearing.
“Mayhap aye. Mayhap nay.” Kheladin breathed out steam. “Show yourself. Ye are still…elsewhere.”
A spot in the ether near the pool brightened, pulsated, and flashed so brilliantly, spots danced in Lachlan’s vision. When the brilliance fell away, a tall, slender figure clothed in black robes stood stock still. Dark hair fell to his waist. Sharp, dark eyes narrowed. “Ye are the last dragon,” he announced without preamble. “Gwydion and I hunted you for long years. Ye must have lain hidden behind an enchantment.”
“I canna be the last,” Kheladin announced with surprising dignity. “There were many when my bond mate and I were ensorcelled. Even unbonded dragons are close to immortal, so there must be others.” The dragon inhaled noisily and blew out steam. “If ye couldna locate us, mayhap ye simply canna locate the others, either.” He crossed scaled forearms over his chest.
Recognition hit Lachlan between the eyes. “’Tis Arawn,” he told the dragon. “God of the dead. I would converse with him.” Lachlan reached for ascendency; the dragon fought him.
“Ye can speak through me,” Kheladin snapped.
“Not easily. First, I must send the thought to you, and then ye must give voice to it. ’Tis far easier for ye to speak through me when our positions are reversed. Please.” Lachlan heard groveling in his tone but didn’t care.
“We are stronger in my body,” the dragon insisted.
“Of course we are, but right now we need information. Let us see what Arawn knows.”
The air next to Arawn brightened. In moments, another man, as fair as Arawn was dark, took form. Deep blue robes fluttered around him. Blond braids hung halfway down his back. Ice-blue eyes flashed in his strong-boned, ageless face. “Gwydion,” he announced, bowing low. “At your service. Lachlan, if ye’re in there, come forth. Now.” The master enchanter brandished a richly-carved staff.
A whoosh of magic buffeted Lachlan. Not waiting for the invitation to be spelled out, he latched onto the offered power and forced a transformation. Kheladin subsided, muttering imprecations. Before his human form had fully settled, Lachlan strode to the two Celtic gods. He bowed so low his forehead brushed his knees before straightening. “Thanks be to Dana, goddess of the Earth, that some with power still live. I havena seen much of this world, yet it
seems sadly changed.”
Arawn laughed, but the sound lacked mirth or warmth. “Never fear, even if ye canna recognize aught else, evil hasna gone away.”
“Tell me…” Lachlan stopped midstream. He wanted to know so many things, he couldn’t figure out where to begin.
Gwydion shot a meaningful glance his way. “The black wyvern— Ye know, the one responsible for your disappearance.”
“Aye, I havena forgotten his treachery.” Lachlan’s lips drew back in a snarl.
Gwydion’s features twisted as if he’d bitten into something distasteful. “Not that we hunted him down, but he made such a nuisance of himself that we dealt him a grievous blow.”
“Aye,” Arawn broke in, “just a few hours ago. ’Tis likely why ye wakened.”
“I thought he said all the dragons were dead,” Kheladin sniped.
“My dragon asked—”
“We can hear him.” Gwydion’s jaw set in a hard line. “No need to translate. Arawn meant all the good dragons have passed to Fire Mountain. Kheladin is the last of them on this side of the time veil. Their bonded mages went with them. The black wyvern, and his crony, the red, joined forces with the Morrigan in all her forms and have been wreaking havoc this past century or two.”
“’Tis why the air and oceans are poisoned,” Arawn muttered. “This world is dying. Many of the Celtic gods have left.”
The Morrigan in all her forms… Fear, an unfamiliar emotion, rocked Lachlan to his bones. One of the oldest tales had predicted that when the Morrigan split into Badb, Macha, and Anann, destruction would follow in their wake. “Can aught be done?”
“We doona know.” Gwydion spoke softly.
“Yet, we were unwilling to simply flee like rats deserting a foundering ship,” Arawn cut in. “Some humans possess strong magic. We watched over them. Augmented their power. Made certain they wouldna fall to the Morrigan.”
“Aye, ’twasna right to toss them to Rhukon or the Morrigan.” Gwydion’s sharply arched brows drew together.
“What role has Connor, the red wyvern, played?”
Arawn glanced at Lachlan and shrugged. “So far, he’s been more of an annoyance. His magic isna verra strong, yet he does augment Rhukon’s efforts.”
Lachlan cocked his head to one side, listening for unsaid meaning beneath their words. The Celtic gods were notorious for only telling half the story. He groped for understanding. “I met a woman,” he began, seeking a link that seemed elusive. “A witch, albeit a weak one. She, that is, I—”
The Celts watched him intently. Arawn’s nostrils flared. “Ye must say whatever ’tis, lad. We canna put the words in your mouth.”
Lachlan drew a shaky breath. “’Twill sound as if I am fey, but I believe this woman and I are linked in some way. ’Tis as if I know her well, despite having just met. She was there when I emerged from this cave. We’d be together still, had she not—”
“Not what?” Gwydion pressed.
Lachlan shook his head. “I doona rightly know. Some magical thing played music. She spoke into it, said she was needed at work, and fled.”
Arawn snorted. “A cellular telephone.” To Lachlan’s confused expression, he added, “I will explain later.” His dark eyes gleamed hotly. “Ye were a bit of a laggard. Why did ye not bed the lass when ye had the chance?”
“I dinna say aught. How is it ye already know I dinna bed her?” Lachlan’s mind raced. Something was afoot, but he had no idea quite what.
“All in good time. I asked my question first.”
Lachlan’s lips twitched. How like the gods to not pull any punches. “Because she had to leave. She wanted me as much as I wanted her. She said as much.”
Arawn and Gwydion exchanged a significant glance. “What?” Lachlan stared at them.
Arawn nodded half to himself before saying, “The woman comes from a long line of witches. Her father’s mother is on her way here now. She is the head of a powerful coven.”
“Oh for the love of Dana, do quit nattering,” Gwydion broke in. “I swear, ye’d talk a saint into their grave.” He turned to Lachlan. “We have been, ahem, shadowing you ever since ye and Kheladin emerged from this cave. The woman showed up so quickly, we thought it odd and conferred with Bran, god of prophecy. He believes ye and the lass are linked in a way that amplifies all our power.”
Lachlan’s eyes narrowed. “Why dinna you show yourselves?”
“We were trying to be polite and waiting until ye’d bedded her.” Gwydion grinned lasciviously.
Lachlan rolled his eyes. “You wanted to watch.”
“Aye, that, too,” Arawn concurred. “More important, though, the tide may have finally turned. This could be just the break we have been waiting for to oust Rhukon, the Morrigan, and the red wyvern.”
Lachlan envisioned Maggie’s lush, blonde hair and dark blue eyes and smiled. “I can think of worse fates than to fuck her—for the good of the world, of course. But the lass may not see it that way. She lusts after me, yet I sense a fierce independence in her.”
Arawn snorted. “Aye, ’tis no doubt why Mary Elma is on her way to Scotland.”
“Is that the grandmother?” Lachlan asked.
Gwydion nodded. “A lusty wench herself, by all reports. I was thinking of offering myself—as a sacrifice of course—if she were so inclined.”
“Two can play that game.” Arawn chuckled. “Mayhap she’s partial to tall, dark, mysterious types.”
“If it wouldna be too much trouble,” Lachlan interrupted. “There is much I doona know. Kheladin and I—”
“Oh, so ye finally remembered my existence.” Sarcasm encased the dragon’s words.
“He is right to censure us.” Arawn inclined his head. “Apologies. Let us sit. We shall conjure food and wine and answer all your questions.”
“Tell me more about the woman, about Maggie,” Lachlan blurted. That he asked about her first surprised him. There was so much he needed to know to survive in a world turned upside down, yet the woman was foremost in his mind and heart. He walked to his shirt, kilt, and boots. Lachlan dressed before following the Celts to a corner of the cave near his clothing chest. He settled with his back against it and waited.
“Bran’s prophesy is that your love will save the world,” Gwydion said. “I understand it sounds far-fetched, but hear me out.”
Lachlan’s eyes narrowed. It did sound not only far-fetched, but improbable. How could love possibly do anything to fix the brokenness he’d sensed in his brief sojourn into the year 2012?
Chapter Six
Maggie tossed and turned on sheets damp with sweat. She’d tried to reach her grandmother over and over again, but Mary Elma hadn’t answered her voice mails, texts, or pages. During the brief stints when Maggie had slept, vivid, disturbing dreams wakened her. She opened her eyes and looked at the window, trying to judge the time by the amount of light creeping around its shades.
“Five a.m.,” she muttered. “May as well get up.” She yanked her clammy sleep shirt over her head and draped it over a chair back to dry. Feeling dazed, like a sleepwalker, Maggie plodded out of her room and across the hall. She was just bending over to start water for a shower when one of the images from her dreams darkened her vision. It was so real—and so chilling—her heart slammed against her chest.
Fighting vertigo and a roiling stomach, she straightened and grabbed her robe from a hook behind the door. Maggie snugged it around her waist and marched to the living room. She debated making coffee; the caffeine-lift would be welcome, but she was afraid she’d just puke it back up. It’s only another excuse to put off writing last night’s dreams down. I need to do that now. While they’re fresh. Maggie squeezed her tired eyes shut for a moment.
She’d taken advantage of the psychoanalytic track in her residency program. Even though very few patients were interested in plumbing their unconscious, Maggie had never been sorry she’d spent those months studying Jung and the more modern practitioners like Hillman, Woodman, and Von Franz, who
’d come after him. She’d kept a dream journal religiously—until she’d moved to Scotland six months ago. Something always got in the way here in Inverness. Not only did she not know what, she’d never even put much effort into trying to figure it out.
She forced her weary mind into action and didn’t like the obvious answer that rose to the surface. Something in Scotland had blocked her access to her unconscious mind. Well, maybe not totally blocked it. Whatever stood between her and her dreams had done a hell of a job creating enough subtle interference that she hadn’t even realized it was a problem—until right now. An uneasy breath whooshed out of her. Even though she’d been raised around metaphysical events, this felt too woo-woo for words.
Why target me? And my dreams?
Maggie recognized her mental machinations for what they were: just one more excuse to put off analyzing last night’s dreams. She sat in her cane-backed desk chair and booted up her computer. As the Microsoft logo flared across the screen, she puzzled further over why she’d stopped writing her dreams down. “It doesn’t matter.” She spoke aloud to steady herself. Fingers poised over the keyboard, she typed Dream 1 and then stopped.
Maybe I could skip that one. Heat rose to her face. Her first dream—and the only pleasant one of the night—had been of Lachlan. They were in a medieval stone castle, and she lay on a bower of sweet-smelling flowers. He’d made love to her over and over again with his mouth, knowing fingers, and incredible cock. Though far from a virgin, her dream interlude with Lachlan had been more real—and far more intense—than any of her real life experiences.
She frowned. Her fingers moved over the keys with practiced ease as she transcribed how that dream ended. Its bizarre conclusion had jolted her from sleep. She’d been wrapped in Lachlan’s arms. He’d been kissing her and telling her he’d loved her throughout time. That he’d been born loving her and would die loving her. A sudden shadow had fallen over them. Faster than she would have thought possible, Lachlan leapt to his feet and spun to face something. She couldn’t see because first his human body, and then something else, blocked her view.