by Ann Gimpel
“Look about us. Ye wouldna fit. The door is too small. We would have to break out a wall to leave this place. Plus, we havena eaten yet.” Britta held her breath. Tarika could be cantankerous, but this time she withdrew, muttering imprecations. Thank the goddess the dragon hadn’t forced smoke—or worse, fire—through Britta’s throat.
The servant drew a chair back for her, and she dropped into it. “If ye could find somewhere for all these?” She pointed to the bags piled atop her lap.
The man shrugged apologetically. “I’m not certain they’d be safe beneath the coatrack. But if madam wishes…”
“It’s all right. We’ll just stack them in the corner.” Jonathan emptied his arms and then scooped the bags out of her lap and added them to the pile. He dropped his rucksack atop everything before sitting down.
The servant handed them stiff placards with undecipherable writing. She opened her mouth to ask something, but Jonathan nudged her leg under the table. “We’ll need a moment,” he told the servant.
“Aye.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Doona return until we summon you.”
“Really?” The servant seemed to remember his place after his comment. He bowed slightly and said, “As madam wishes,” before turning to walk away.
Britta bent closer. “Cheeky fellow for a servant.”
Jonathan moved his chair so he sat close enough to whisper into her ear. “He’s not a servant. He’s a waiter and he works here—for wages and tips.”
“Nevertheless, he’s of the inferior classes.”
“Um, we don’t think that way anymore.”
She propped her head on an upraised hand. “Och aye, I need a drink.”
“They have a full bar here. What would you like?”
“Irish whiskey.”
Jonathan caught the waiter’s eye. The man trotted over. “Sir?”
“Irish whiskey for the lady, best one on your shelf. I’d like a single malt scotch, at least twenty years old.”
Britta tried to follow their conversation but felt lost after the first few words as the men bandied names about that she’d never heard of. Apparently, the family distilleries she was familiar with had long since quit producing spirits. Though she’d done a good job masking her shock, she was appalled at what passed for life in whatever year she was in. The air smelled bad. She’d taken a sip of water from some sort of flexible bottle Jonathan had in his rucksack while they’d been in one of the shops, and it held the same toxic undertones as the air.
The waiter withdrew. Jonathan scanned the placard with writing on it. “What do you think you want?”
She bit her lip, feeling defensive and ashamed. “’Tis not that I canna read,” she whispered, “yet these words make no sense to me.”
He laid a hand over hers. “I can see where they wouldn’t. Language has changed a lot. Would you prefer fish, beef, chicken, or maybe just rice or noodles in a sauce?”
“Beef. Rare. Bread. Greens.”
Jonathan nodded. “Would those greens be cooked or raw?”
“Doesna matter.”
The waiter returned with two shot glasses. Britta frowned. “My, but ’tis only a wee bit in the glass. Mayhap, ye should bring the bottle and have done with it.”
The waiter’s eyes widened. “Madam. It’s five pounds, six for a shot of the aged whiskey your husband ordered.”
“He isna my—”
“You heard the lady,” Jonathan broke in. “Bring the bottle. While you’re at it, we’d like two tenderloin steaks, rare, with the mixed green salad and bread.”
“Very good, sir.” The man bowed slightly and was gone.
“Ye dinna have to order more spirits. They are verra dear.” Britta picked her glass up and raised it. “To friendship.” She tipped the shot glass back and drank half.
“To friendship, indeed.” Jonathan took a sip of his scotch.
“Ye barely drank anything,” she noted.
He nodded. “You’re observant. I have to stay alert. This environment is unfamiliar to you.”
She set her glass down. “Thanks, but I scarcely need a caretaker. Five pounds is a vast amount. Why, ye could buy a good-sized herd of cows for less.”
He smiled. “Not anymore. I believe there are about fourteen shots in a fifth of whiskey.”
She added up pence and shillings, appalled. “Seventy pounds for the bottle and ’tisn’t counting the six pence times fourteen additional. Ach. I’m wondering how much my new clothes cost.”
“It doesn’t matter. I have enough money and very little to spend it on. Your math skills are pretty sharp.” He took another sip of scotch. She drained her glass, enjoying the feel of the liquor burning its way down her throat to her stomach. The whiskey wasn’t bad, but it suffered from the same thing everything else did: an odd under-taste. Try as she might, she couldn’t determine what the underlying grain was.
The waiter thumped a fresh bottle in front of Jonathan. At his nod, he stripped off the seal with a small knife, left, and returned moments later with two plates heaped with raw greens and what looked like shaved cheese.
“Pepper, madam?” The waiter brandished a wooden container.
“Nay.”
“Sir?” Jonathan nodded and the waiter twisted the wooden decanter. The sharp smell of ground pepper tickled her nose.
Once he’d gone, she picked up her fork and began eating. The greens were fresh enough but tasted bland. Not like what she remembered at all. “Whatever is wrong with the food?” she demanded.
Jonathan shrugged. “Chemicals they use to grow it. Overused soil. Water contaminated with agricultural products.”
“Ye may as well be speaking Greek. How can ye stand to live here?”
“It’s all I’ve ever known.”
“Aye, makes sense.” She returned her attention to the greens. They ate in silence until their plates were empty. She poured more whiskey and waggled the bottle at him.
He shook his head. “No. Like I said earlier, one of us needs a clear head. I have to make certain nothing gets in the way of us returning to Kheladin.”
Her gaze softened. “Ye’re taking care of me. I sniped at you about it a little bit ago, but I canna remember when anyone ever did afore. It hasna happened since I was a girl.”
Jonathan sucked in a breath. “Maybe you never let them.”
She smiled crookedly and tilted her chin up. “Touché. Mayhap, we could speak of other things.”
He looked right through her with his glowing witch’s eyes. “Getting a bit too close to home, eh? Looks as if you’re off the hook. Our dinner’s here.”
She craned her neck and glanced over one shoulder. Sure enough, the waiter, laden with a large tray, headed toward them. Her stomach growled at the rich, meaty aroma. She welcomed the diversion; the conversation had taken a decidedly personal turn, and it made her uncomfortable. The witch had read her far too easily for comfort. She’d have to do a better job shielding her thoughts.
She’d eaten about half her steak when Jonathan asked, “What was going on when we walked back to our table?”
For a moment, her mind was blank. “I doona quite know what ye mean.”
He bent close and spoke low into her ear. “When we were following the waiter to this table, you were talking to someone. I couldn’t make out the words, yet I felt the telepathy magic.”
“Och aye.” She turned her head so it touched his. “’Tis the Morrigan’s memory curse, to be sure. Tarika wasna pleased. ’Twas she I conversed with.”
“Does she sense something?”
“Nay. She was simply worried we wasted time and wanted to return to Kheladin and Lachlan with all due haste.”
Desire for knowledge flickered in his eyes. “How did you talk her out of it?”
“I dinna. We merely put it off until after we’d eaten. She’s as hungry as I am. If it was up to her, we’d take to the skies, locate likely prey, and feast on a cow or sheep.”
“Good thing you didn’t. The farmers around her
e take their herds and flocks seriously. It would be a good way to get yourselves shot.”
“Ye canna shoot an arrow so high as we fly.”
He laid a hand over hers. “I wasn’t talking about arrows. I was talking about bullets. And high-powered hunting rifles. They’ve improved substantially since the muskets you probably remember.” He hesitated a beat. “What year did you and Tarika leave Earth for Fire Mountain?”
She returned to her steak, thinking. “The middle of the eighteenth century. I canna remember the precise year. ’Tis a miracle I even recall that much. We tired of Fire Mountain after a while, though, and returned to the sixteen hundreds.”
“Why then?”
She shrugged. “’Twas one of my favorites. Tarika’s too. There was enough modernity to take the edge off the ignorance of the Dark Ages, yet people still believed in magic—and dragons.”
“This reminds me of my conversation with Kheladin.” Jonathan looked thoughtful. “There’s a fine balance point between science and those like us, er you.”
“Ye had it right the first time. ’Twould be us.”
He resumed eating, finished his scotch, and poured a dribble from the whiskey bottle into his glass. “Just wanted to taste it.” He smiled. Britta looked at him, really looked at him, and liked what she saw. Classic facial bone structure, with a high forehead, sculpted cheekbones, and strong jaw, hosted expressive eyes and full lips. Very straight, white teeth were visible when he smiled. Dark stubble dotted his cheeks, and his hair was braided in one of the ancient Celtic warrior patterns. She hadn’t seen the like of him in a very long time. Her gaze moved downward, taking in broad shoulders, slender hips, and long legs, which disappeared beneath the table. She squirmed a bit as unfamiliar sensations coursed through her.
He got an odd look on his face and moved his chair a few inches away. “You promised not to do that.”
“Aye. Sorry.” She felt her face heat and reached for the basket of bread and a small tub of butter. I’m aroused. I want him. Breath caught in her throat. She’d never felt anything beyond mild curiosity about what a man’s body might be like, but she wanted to remove Jonathan’s jacket, unbutton his shirt, and run her fingers over the skin beneath.
•●•
Jonathan watched her with a sidelong gaze. Something between them had shifted a few moments before. He’d felt her scrutiny and then a stab of heat as his cock came alive with lust. It wasn’t like in Kheladin’s cave, though. She was aroused too. He sensed it, smelled it, saw the way she averted her eyes. If she truly was a virgin, she’d have found ways to sidestep her sexuality, bottle it up. Yet she was blushing like a schoolgirl and very interested in buttering a slice of bread—twice.
“I think you can probably eat it.” He grinned. “If you put any more butter on it, it will crumple to shreds.”
“Ye dinna have to say aught. If ye were well-bred, ye would have remained silent.” She stuffed half the bread into her mouth and chewed furiously.
He tried to swallow laughter and failed. When he could talk again, he sidled his chair even closer to hers. “What? If I were a gentleman, or some such archaic description of how men are supposed to behave, I wouldn’t have noticed your, um, interest in me?”
She nodded. Her face got redder still. “We should finish our meal.”
“I’ve had nearly all I want.” He waged a brief battle with common sense and lost. “I’m much more interested in how you’re feeling about me. You spent a while just looking me over. Did you like what you saw?”
“Och!” She cut more meat, chewed it, and swallowed quickly. “Men! The lot of you are impossible. All you think about is what’s between your legs.”
The waiter had been headed their way. Jonathan saw him spin and walk quickly in the opposite direction. Poor man. First Britta had treated him like trash, and now he’d overheard something that didn’t comprise most people’s notion of polite supper conversation. Not good. The idea was for them to blend in, not become the waiter’s prime conversational gambit once he went off shift.
Jonathan reached for the whiskey bottle and ran his hands over places he’d seen the waiter touch. He gathered enough of the man’s essence to send a spell his way.
“Whatever are ye up to?” Britta sopped up the last of the meat juice on her plate with the last piece of bread.
“The waiter overheard too much of our conversation. I simply made certain he’d forget about us.”
She grinned. “Would it include him forgetting to collect for our food and drink?”
“Now there’s a fine idea. It wasn’t in my mind at the time, but—” Jonathan held up a hand in response to the shocked expression on her face. “Never fear. I’m planning to leave money on the table for what we ate. I’ve never stiffed an establishment yet, and I’m not starting now.”
She blew out a breath. “Thanks be to Ceridwen. ’Tis bad luck to cheat.”
He patted her hand. “Good. I have someone to keep me on the straight and narrow. Are you finished?” She nodded and he dug for his wallet, counted out pound notes, and added a generous tip. The waiter wouldn’t remember them, but he would know this had been his table. “What do you want to do with the rest of the whiskey?”
“I’ve had enough. I suppose we could bring it along with the other things we bought.”
He located the stopper and placed it back atop the bottle, hoping it wouldn’t spill. Britta was already on her feet, gathering shopping bags into her arms. He picked up his rucksack, and the rest of the shopping bags, before following her out into the evening. The street was much quieter than it had been when they’d entered the restaurant. Light was finally fading from the long summer day. It had to be around ten thirty, maybe even eleven. People still strolled up and down the boulevard, some alone, more arm-in-arm with someone they cared about.
“Can we travel from here?” she asked.
He’d been so taken by her beauty, he hadn’t noticed her voice before. It was rich and low with musical under notes. Jonathan felt her spell take shape. People were passing them, so he answered her telepathically. “No. We can’t just disappear. Come on. We’ll go back to the park where we started.” He wanted to take her arm, but his hands were full.
She looked about. “Which way? I canna remember.”
Illuminated by a nearby streetlight, her face was so beautiful and so vulnerable, it touched his heart—and drew him like a magnet. He stopped thinking, bent his head, closed his mouth over hers, and waited for the fireworks.
She didn’t slap him, though. Didn’t even draw away. Instead, she opened her mouth to his kiss and, unbelievably, kissed him back. Her mouth tasted sweet like the Irish whiskey. Her tongue sparred with his. Jonathan wanted to drop the shopping bags crushed between them so he could wrap his arms around her and feel her body pressed against his. His breathing quickened; so did hers.
“Well, well, terribly convenient you’re here, dragon,” a deep, accented male voice purred from behind them. “And a bonus to boot.”
Jonathan jumped away from Britta. He raised his hands to draw power; the bags in his arms crashed to the pavement. He heard the whiskey bottle shatter, and the pungent scent of spirits sharpened the damp air. He spun and narrowed his eyes, raking the area around him to see who’d spoken, but he couldn’t locate a man who matched the voice. He felt wickedness, though. The air was heavy with putrid smells, dead things left to rot. Passersby scattered like rats, gagging as they fled.
Magic thrummed, hot and intense. Jonathan’s mouth went dry. He cursed his total lack of experience. He’d never faced a magical enemy, never expected to. Worse, he’d sidestepped classes the coven offered in self-defense. Looks as if I’m about to pay for my arrogance—and my lack of foresight.
He was focusing his magic, getting ready to release it toward where evil felt thickest, when a ripping, tearing noise grated. What the hell was that? He glanced about; Britta’s clothes lay in shreds. Tarika blazed into being. The dragon lifted him with her forelegs and plunk
ed him onto her back. “Hang on, witch. I canna battle Rhukon and watch out for you.” Her leathery green wings pumped the air; the city streets fell away.
Jesus Christ on a fucking crutch, I’m flying. On a dragon. Wonder trumped fear. Jonathan made a grab for the horns, which grew at the base of Tarika’s neck, and held on for dear life.
The biggest crow Jonathan had ever seen rose out of nowhere, blotting out half the sky. The Morrigan. Raucous cawing blasted him. Pain lanced through his skull as his eardrums ruptured. When the battle crow spoke, it sounded as if she were underwater. “Ye’ll face me, dragon shifter. Rhukon insisted on accosting you, but his blundering has begun to annoy me.” The Morrigan focused her beady, avian gaze on Jonathan. “’Tis only the beginning, witch. Afore I’m done, ye’ll wish ye were dead.”
Fury roiled through him. Jonathan had never wanted to kill anything before, but he wanted the thing hovering before them dead. More than dead. Annihilated.
“Hang onto that thought, witch.” Tarika’s mind voice sounded grim. “We’re going to try to lose her.”
Chapter Four
Power buffeted him from all sides. It sizzled in the air and stung his eyes and nose. The dragon dove and banked, avoiding bolts of magic from the Morrigan and spraying the battle crow with flames. The smell of singed feathers was thick, but the bird didn’t catch fire. She’s probably using magic to keep herself safe. He pulled a ward around himself, realized he couldn’t project magic through it, and let it fall. There had to be a better use for his magic. He sounded a telepathic alarm. The witches in Kheladin’s cave might not be able to hear through the dragon’s warding, but any witch within about a ten kilometer radius would respond and come to their aid.
He peered down. Surely the constabulary would respond to the ruckus, but Jonathan couldn’t see Inverness at all. It was as if they’d moved to a different plane. He couldn’t hear the city, either. Maybe the clash and crash of battle drowned everything else out, but he suspected Scotland was a long way from wherever the Morrigan and Tarika were duking it out.
“Doona just sit there like a great dolt. Help me.”