by Ann Gimpel
Maggie raced toward the Celts. Jonathan followed her, but slowly; he needed time to think.
Chapter Seven
The mage fire enveloping Britta and Tarika receded. The dragon shook herself; green scales flew every which way. Britta took stock of her body, seeking the new magic that bound her to her dragon. The brief moments after their original bond was severed had been hell. She hadn’t truly understood how much a part of her the dragon was. “Aye,” she tapped her breastbone and blew out a tense breath, “thanks be to Dewi, our bond is back, right where it belongs.”
“Did ye doubt me?” Kheladin sounded annoyed.
Och, best not anger him. Britta trod carefully. “Nay, but Tarika was old when ye were hatched. Ye said ’twas an arcane spell, which had fallen out of usage, so I dinna understand why she dinna know of it.”
“Of course I knew of it.” Tarika blew smoke, tinged with gouts of flame, skyward. “Ye were such a courageous maid. I wonder if ye even remember how gutsy ye were when ye traveled alone to Fire Mountain to seek a dragon of your own.”
Britta felt heat rise to her face; the dragon had nailed her dead to rights. She’d been young, foolish, impetuous, but most of all, determined. “Aye, but what does my, er, single-mindedness have to do with which spell ye picked to join us?”
Tarika dropped her head low and bent her sinuous neck so she looked into Britta’s eyes. “’Twas young ye were. Would ye have been so quick to accept magic that looked different from other dragon shifters who had trained you?”
Touched, Britta hooded her eyes to shield the emotions churning through her. “Ye wanted me as much as I wanted you.”
Kheladin brayed laughter. “Aye, lass, the enchantment that draws a dragon to their mage isna so different from the love Lachlan holds for Maggie.” He paused a beat before adding slyly, “Or the love that has taken root in you for the witch-god, Jonathan Shea.”
Tarika spat a glob of fire; it landed close enough to Britta’s shoe, it smoked. “Were ye thinking I was just sitting on my scaled haunches waiting for a mage to show up at Fire Mountain and claim me?”
“Er, of course not.”
“Good.” Tarika straightened to her full, eight foot height. “I knew the minute ye breached the boundaries of our lands that we were meant for one another. I dinna say aught, but I was shocked ye were so young, not even twenty as I recall.”
“And so ye picked the binding ye thought I would accept,” Britta murmured, incredulous she’d been bonded to Tarika for hundreds of years yet knew so little about her.
“Good ye realize it.” The dragon had obviously been in her mind. “We shall remedy your lack of knowledge.”
“Doona dun yourself,” Lachlan said. “I felt much the same once Kheladin and I separated. Like a great dolt for not appreciating—and taking full advantage of—his true potential.”
“Why, thank you.” Kheladin jammed his snout into Lachlan’s back, nearly unbalancing him.
He wound an arm around the dragon’s neck. “I admit to more than a few anxious moments since ’twas more than a day afore we rebonded.” Lachlan stroked the dragon’s shiny, copper scales. “All the reasons why ye’d wish to remain free tormented me. I had no idea we could share a bond that allowed us both forms.”
Britta’s head whipped around. “Magic,” she hissed and pointed. “Over there. Someone comes.”
“Not possible.” Kheladin snorted fire and scented the air.
“Och.” A grin split Lachlan’s face. “The Celts. Mayhap they’ve changed their mind about taking care of the Morrigan.”
“Not likely,” Britta muttered. “They protect their own.”
“They should have had a wee bit more problem penetrating my wards,” Kheladin groused.
“The Celts were here afore we mated with Maggie. They know the way of your casting. So long as your wards stymied the Morrigan, who cares?” Lachlan sprinted toward the place Britta felt power emerging.
“I care,” Kheladin said and stomped after Lachlan’s disappearing form. “It means the Morrigan would have worked her way through eventually. Doona underestimate her.”
Britta leaned against Tarika; the dragon nested her head on Britta’s shoulder. She quested for words to tell the dragon how much she loved her for taking a chance on a young, untried mage centuries before, but her tongue felt thick and awkward. Mayhap ’tis like I told Jonathan about not ruining the moment with words.
“Aye, ’tis exactly the same.” Steam plumed from Tarika’s nostrils. “Ye needn’t say aught. I already know.”
“Mayhap we should see exactly who has arrived.”
“Sound plan, bond mate. After you.”
A thought slammed Britta hard. She muffled a very undignified squeal. “This means I can ride you.”
Dragon laughter trumpeted, nearly deafening her. “Aye. Hop on. Ye can practice while we walk across the cave.”
Britta chuckled. “Thanks, but I’ll wait until we can fly together.”
“I’ll look forward to it.” Tarika nudged her gently with her snout. Britta watched three Celtic gods emerge from a coruscation in the air, muttering about bowing and witches not knowing their place.
Arawn, god of the dead, shook midnight-dark hair over his shoulders as he clasped Lachlan and Maggie close.
“Move over, ye great oaf. I would hug the lass.” Gwydion, master enchanter and warrior magician, elbowed Arawn in the back. Rows of blond braids hugged his head before falling nearly to his waist. Laugh lines in the corners of his blue eyes deepened when he smiled.
“Och, the two of you.” Ceridwen laughed long and hard. As tall as the men, her knee-length gray hair was shot with black. Piercing dark eyes scanned the cave. “Is Arianrhod here? I feel her energy. ’Tis dim, yet I am not mistaken.”
“Not Arianrhod but her half-witch son.” Britta stepped forward and bowed low.
Ceridwen sniffed noisily and cackled. “Aye, I smell him on you, dragon shifter. Ye’re mated, and newly so if I’m any judge of things. I had no idea Arianrhod had other progeny. Where is this son of hers?”
“Right here.” Jonathan trotted out of the shadows and stopped a few paces from the Celts.
Maggie inclined her head toward Ceridwen. “Nice to see you again.”
“Aye, ye too, lass.”
“Are ye not glad to see Gwydion and me as well?” Arawn trained his dark gaze on Maggie. “Ye hugged us, but ye dinna say aught about—”
“Of course I am,” Maggie broke in.
“Och aye.” Lachlan threw his hands in the air. “’Tis hardly a social club. Did ye send the Morrigan packing? Surely ye crossed paths with her outside the wards.”
Gwydion drew his blond brows together and shook his head. “Donna ye know better than to ask such a question?”
Lachlan let go of Maggie and moved nose-to-nose with the Celt. “Apparently not.”
“We doona force our own to do aught.”
“Fine.” Britta joined Lachlan. She put her hands on her hips and looked from one Celt to the next. “Then how do you propose we deal with her or the black and red wyverns and their dragon shifter mages? Then there’s the little matter of her memory-altering spell. ’Twas nearly the death of Tarika and me.”
Jonathan spoke up. “If you got rid of the Morrigan, the other dragon shifter mages might retreat, along with their dragons.” Britta felt unaccountably pleased when he strode to her side and grasped her hand. She reveled in how solid and comforting and right he felt leaned against her, as if he’d always been there. His nearness stirred her in other ways, too, and she wished they were still alone.
Britta forced her attention away from the heat building between her thighs. “The only way to get rid of the battle crow,” she muttered, “would be to engage her in another war. She adores wars—lives for them.”
“There’s still one going on in the Middle East,” Maggie offered.
“Och.” Ceridwen rolled her eyes. “’Tisn’t big enough to tempt her—not anymore. Besides, she spent
years there playing.” The goddess adopted a sing-songy voice. “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe, who shall be the first to go?”
Britta clapped a hand over her mouth, but she couldn’t stifle a startled grunt of laughter. “Sorry,” she gasped. “It isn’t particularly amusing, but hearing you assign a nursery rhyme to that horror with wings and a beak just struck me as funny.”
“How about this?” Lachlan tilted his chin upward. “We begin with a clear playing field, which means we get free passage out of Kheladin’s cave.”
Gwydion cocked his head to one side; he exchanged glances with Arawn and Ceridwen. “Seems fair enough.”
“Ye’ll need a more permanent solution,” Arawn warned.
“As if I dinna know it,” Lachlan snapped.
“I propose a bargain,” Britta said in a clear, ringing voice. She set her mouth in a determined line. They couldn’t kill the Morrigan. One of the Celtic gods, the battle crow was immortal. They wouldn’t even be able to immobilize her—at least not for long.
“We doona bargain with mortals,” Ceridwen said. Though her tone was deceptively mild, annoyance threaded beneath it.
“Nonetheless, will you hear me out?” It was tempting to weave compulsion into her words, but Britta feared it would be the kiss of death if the gods had any inkling she’d attempted to influence them.
“What I’d like is to know more about Arianrhod’s get.” Gwydion stared at Jonathan.
“I’ll answer all your questions so long as you hear my…mate out first.”
Arawn chuckled. “Newly mated, indeed. So new, ye doona quite know what to call her.”
“My mate just offered a bargain of his own.” Britta jumped into the breach. Of course Gwydion would want to know more about Jonathan since Arianrhod was his sister. “What say you?”
“Spit it out, dragon shifter,” Ceridwen growled. “We doona like being manipulated.”
“I could have at least tried compulsion, but I didn’t.” Britta breathed a sigh of relief she hadn’t succumbed to the temptation. “What I propose is this. We will find a way to either kill, or otherwise dispose of, the black and red wyverns and their mages.”
“While we corral the Morrigan?” Gwydion quirked a brow.
Britta nodded. “And get her to release the memory-altering spell she loosed against the dragons. ’Tis a violation of the covenant betwixt you and us,” she added archly. “Celts and dragons have been allies since the dawn of time.”
“Seems fair enough,” Lachlan cut in. “After all—”
“No one asked your opinion,” Arawn interrupted, sounding furious.
Britta wasn’t surprised. No one liked being backed into a corner, least of all the Celtic gods. She leaned against Jonathan. He was holding his own, and she felt proud of him. Beyond that, what an incredible lover he was. Her body still hummed from his touch, and she couldn’t wait until they could snatch a few moments alone.
“Mmmm… Just what I was thinking.”
She wound an arm around his waist and turned to kiss his cheek. “Ye’re eavesdropping on my thoughts.”
“How else will I get to know you better?”
“Touché!”
Faces dark as thunderclouds, the Celts withdrew. They formed a tight circle shrouded by magic so no one could overhear their discussion. Lachlan and Maggie crowded close to Britta and Jonathan, along with the dragons.
“Brilliant,” Tarika murmured.
“Aye, wonder if they’ll accept the gambit.” Lachlan kept his voice low.
“I don’t think we need to whisper,” Maggie cut in. “The same magic that holds their words secret bars them from ours.”
“Good point, lass.”
“Aye.” Kheladin snorted, bathing them in steam. “’Twas a reason beyond her body ye mated with her.”
Maggie glanced up at the dragon. “Thanks…I think.”
“While the Celts are busy, I need information,” Jonathan said. “Is the reason Gwydion’s so interested in me because he and Arianrhod are brother and sister?”
“Probably, though the others are interested as well,” Britta answered. “Insofar as they knew, Arianrhod had only two sons, Dylan and Lleu, both conceived by magical means. She is supposed to be a virgin.”
“Hmph. At least now I understand why she delivered me to Da to raise. I’d have been impossible to explain. Wonder where she hid out while she was pregnant and nursing.”
“It wasna all that long.” Tarika’s scales clattered as she rotated her shoulders. “She could have holed up in a cave those two or three years—or on another world—and not been missed.”
“The cat’s out of the bag now.” Maggie rolled her eyes.
“It certainly is.” A corner of Lachlan’s mouth turned down. “What do ye suppose will happen?”
Jonathan cocked his head to one side. “If you were right about the Morrigan figuring out who I was, maybe she was planning to, uh, blackmail Arianrhod or something.”
“Or use the knowledge as a get-out-of-jail free card,” Maggie suggested.
“Huh?” Britta raised a quizzical brow.
“It’s a saying,” Jonathan explained. “Means she’d use her knowledge as a bargaining chip to avoid having to answer for her execrable behavior when she teamed up with the bad dragons—and their mages.”
Lachlan grunted. “Och aye. Maggie called them bad dragons too. They are far more than dragons that have run amok. What is it with you modern humans?”
“Sssh!” Britta pointed. “The Celts are headed our way.”
“We have come to a decision,” Gwydion announced.
“Aye,” Ceridwen broke in. “We shall wait to see how well you do ridding Earth of the black and red wyverns and their dragon shifter mages.”
“Once you’ve accomplished what you can, we shall decide further how to treat with the Morrigan.” Gwydion rubbed his hands together.
“She is our kinswoman, after all, no matter what she has done,” Arawn added.
“I assume our offer is acceptable.” Ceridwen’s dark, steely gaze moved amongst them.
“Why would it be?” Kheladin demanded. “Ye just said ye’ll do nothing.”
“Not exactly.” Ceridwen smiled with all the warmth of a cobra. “We dinna say nay. We said we’d wait and see. Och aye, we will dismantle her memory-jangling spell. The dragon shifter is correct. Such an act is, indeed, a violation of the covenant.”
At least ’tis a bit of a concession. Britta drew in a slow breath and blew it back out.
“Seems like a backhanded way to get us to put ourselves at huge risk, possibly for nothing.” Jonathan met Ceridwen’s gaze.
Britta tugged hard on his arm. “Doona anger them. They are still gods.”
“Excellent advice, dragon shifter.” Gwydion closed on them and focused his intense blue gaze on Jonathan. “’Twould appear ye inherited my sister’s stubbornness, witch-god. I would know how ye came to be.”
Chapter Eight
“Did your da make a habit of fucking goddesses?” Gwydion snapped. “Or was it only my sister?”
“I wouldn’t have the slightest idea.” Jonathan tried to maintain a level tone and remember Gwydion was a god. It wouldn’t do any good to snipe back at him.
“And why not?”
“In the first place, I didn’t even know what sex was until I was, maybe, ten or eleven. By then, Da had pretty much checked out.”
“Say more.” Gwydion gestured with both hands.
“Da was…disconnected from things, including me. Other than keeping food in the house—and he didn’t even do that very well some of the time—it was like living with a ghost.”
Gwydion clacked his teeth together. “I canna fathom why my sister would be attracted to a man such as ye describe.” He moved next to Jonathan and laid a hand on his head. His touch crackled with magic.
Jonathan ducked out from beneath it; his heart pounded. “What are you doing?”
“Your memory is clouded. I shall get what I need another way.
Doona fear, nephew, I willna harm you.”
Time passed. Jonathan had no idea how much before Gwydion finally withdrew from his mind. He puffed out a frustrated breath, still rattled from the forced conversation that wasn’t over yet. Once the Celt had accessed Jonathan’s memories, the warrior magician grilled him, ferreting out early recollections Jonathan didn’t know he still possessed about his time with Arianrhod.
When Jonathan didn’t see how he could possibly dredge up anything else, Gwydion’s questions just kept coming.
Britta stood by his side throughout, her arm wrapped around him. A time or two, he’d felt her ready magic. And he sensed her anger when Gwydion’s questioning became truly invasive. No matter how much probing the Celt did, Jonathan had no idea how his da had met the goddess, or if they’d lain together just the once or on multiple occasions.
Finally, Britta made a chopping motion with one hand. “’Tis enough, Gwydion. Ye would squeeze blood from a turnip. He doesna know aught else.”
“Aye, unfortunately, ye’re probably correct.”
Jonathan wanted to ask what Gwydion planned to do with the information, but the question had no sooner formed in his mind when Britta shook her head, and he kept his mouth shut.
The Celts left as precipitously as they’d arrived, with promises they’d keep the Morrigan busy for the next hour or so to allow them to leave Kheladin’s cave undisturbed.
“’Tisn’t as if we couldna fight our way out,” Lachlan muttered.
“Aye,” Britta concurred. “Six against one—even when that one is the Morrigan—are decent odds.”
“We have no idea where the black and red wyverns are—or their mages,” Tarika reminded them.
“Och.” Britta nodded. “Quite the oversight on our part, eh?”
“Ye might say so.” Tarika sounded smug.