by Ann Gimpel
Jonathan wound an arm around Britta’s waist. “Shall we?” Magic crackled as he loosed a traveling spell.
“See you verra soon on the beach Britta chose.” Lachlan’s voice faded away.
Maybe because Britta fueled his casting with her own power, a windswept, rain-washed beach formed nearly as soon as the walls of Mauvreen’s home disappeared. “This is it?”
“Aye, we did well.” Britta walked toward the waves, shucking clothing as she went.
“Where are you going?”
“To visit the Selkies. ’Tis why we came to this deserted place.” She turned to face him, a wild look in her golden eyes, and crooked a finger. “Want to come?”
Selkies! The wonder he’d felt at seeing a dragon resurrected itself in spades. “Sure. Will I be able to breathe?”
“If ye doona think too hard.”
For the barest moment, he wondered what she meant, and then he slithered out of his clothing and followed her into the dark gray waters of the North Atlantic. I’ll work it out somehow. Unlike many other Scottish beaches, this one dropped off quickly. He body surfed, trying to figure out where Britta had gone, when she tugged on his ankle and broke the water’s surface, treading salt-smelling foam.
“Ye must either follow me or return to shore.” Concern wrinkled the corners of her eyes. “There is no middle ground.”
“Tell me what to do.”
“Doona worry about holding your breath. Believe ye’ll be able to use the water in your lungs the same way ye used air, and ’twill happen for you.”
“Do you have a destination in mind?”
“Aye. The Selkies’ court is a league out to sea on the ocean’s floor. ’Tis easier if we swim along a diagonal course under water rather than fighting the surf.”
“I’m ready.”
She nodded. “If I turn and ye are not behind me, I shall find you on the beach where we left out clothes. Wait for me. I couldna stand to lose both of you.”
He brushed his lips over hers. “I’d wait until the end of time, but I’ll be right behind you—at least until I drown.”
Her mouth curved into a grim smile. “Ye willna drown. Draw your magic. Imagine the water is air.”
Britta jackknifed her body away from him and dove for the depths. He opened his mouth to fill his lungs and then stopped. Either this would work—or it wouldn’t. Instead, he linked to the rich vein of magic living within himself and leaped after her. The water this close to shore was murky. He peered through it, caught a glimpse of Britta’s kicking feet, and thrust himself through the water before he completely lost sight of her. Bubbles rose from his mouth and nose. With a start, he realized he was breathing. His lungs weren’t seizing. He wasn’t in danger of losing consciousness. Who would have guessed? He grinned and water rushed into his mouth. It felt natural, like it belonged there.
Britta had been right about it being easier to make headway beneath the surface swells. By the time he caught her up, they’d closed much of the distance to a structure right out of The Little Mermaid. Coral towers in pastel hues rose in a pattern suggestive of a castle. Glowing fish graced its corners, and some variety of numinous kelp hung from what looked like parapets.
The largest seal-creature he’d ever seen emerged from between two pylons and swam straight toward them. “Och, aye.” Britta used telepathic speech for obvious reasons. “’Tis Aegir. I am so glad he yet lives. He was named after the Norse sea god and is just as brave.” She embraced the black Selkie, turned, and gestured for Jonathan to follow them. He swam along behind, chiding himself for all the times he’d bypassed opportunities to learn more about other magical beings. The only thing he knew about Selkies came from children’s stories. There had to be more to them than their ability to take human form while carefully hiding their skins so they wouldn’t be trapped on land. Britta had seemed pleased the Selkie sentry was still alive. How long did they live, anyway? Centuries, it appeared.
If there’s ever a break in the action, I’m going to study every magical book and scroll I can get my hands on. Beyond that, if he went back to work designing computer games, he’d have way more grist for the mill. Yeah, bet my new games could make us rich. Then he remembered Tarika and her endless treasure, shook his head, and turned his attention to the twisted coral stalks they swam around and through. Reminiscent of a maze, they reminded him of a reconstruction of the Minotaur’s lair he’d visited in Knossos, except far more beautiful.
The coral opened into a grand hall. Selkies swam in small groups but formed rows once Aegir clapped his flippers together. “Thank you for the hospitality of your welcome.” Britta’s words held a formal edge. “We seek information, and there is no time to waste.”
“Introduce your associate, first.” Aegir’s voice was cool, guarded. “We must know who is in our midst.”
Britta half-turned and extended a hand to Jonathan. He swam to her, took it, and inclined his head toward Aegir. “I would have you meet my mate,” she said. “Jonathan Shea is a descendant of Arianrhod.” A murmuring susurrus ran through water far clearer than it had been on the surface. Apparently the Selkies were familiar with Arianrhod’s supposed virgin status.
Aegir opened his mouth, but a coal-black Selkie with a gold circlet around his forehead eddied between him and Britta. “Tell us what you need, dragon maid. We will help if we can.”
Britta bowed low. “My undying thanks, Sire. Tarika and another dragon came to your islands seeking sustenance. They were set upon by evil forces—”
“Yes.” The Selkie’s snout wrinkled in displeasure. “I and a retinue of my knights were near the surface. We’d heard the dragons trumpeting and wished to see them again. It has been long since their kind roamed the Earth.” He waved a flipper and five more Selkies swam to his side, ranging in color from pale golden to black. Jonathan intuited these were the knights the Selkie king referred to.
“Did you see them disappear?” Britta leaned forward, golden eyes a study in anguish. Jonathan felt helpless. He wanted to protect her from anything that would cause her pain or discomfort, yet he understood he was out of his league. He listened carefully, intent on what the Selkie regent and his knights had to say.
“Not exactly,” one of the knights, a light brown Selkie, replied.
A reddish Selkie pushed forward. “One moment I saw Tarika—I’d know her anywhere with those bright green scales—and another dragon with copper coloring laying on their bellies in the scrub grass on the beach gorging on fat cattle. The next a dark cloud dropped over them.”
“We couldn’t see through it,” the Selkie king cut in, “but it looked serious, so we rushed from the water. By the time we got to where the dragons had been, the cloud was blowing away, and the dragons were gone.”
“Och, my poor Tarika,” Britta wailed. Jonathan wove an arm around her waist, trying to infuse strength into her.
“Be strong, love. We’ll find her.” He focused his mind voice only for her and added, “There are many words I’d use to describe your dragon, but poor isn’t one of them.”
“Tarika is resourceful,” Britta murmured. “But I still feel as if one of my arms is missing. And a piece of my soul.”
“If there is anything we might to do to help you,” the Selkie king said, “you’ve only to say the word.”
“Ye’ve already helped,” Britta said. “I know now ’twas foul sorcery that spirited them away from here. If ye might send just one knight to the beach to show us the exact spot.”
“Of course,” the Selkie king agreed. He moved to Jonathan’s side and placed a flipper on his shoulder. “Any friend of Britta’s is a friend of the Selkie. You are welcome in our kingdom anytime.”
“Thank you.” Jonathan bowed low. He was certain they could use magic to track what had happened on the beach, but if Britta felt better with a Selkie escort, he’d defer to her judgment. After all, he was living a miracle every moment his lungs filtered oxygen from sea water. He’d never have guessed it possible without Bri
tta’s prodding.
He swam after her and the reddish Selkie, who seemed to know Tarika. There was a story behind that. Jonathan was sure of it. Maybe he’d get a chance to ask the Selkie how it was he knew Britta’s dragon.
Chapter Twelve
As soon as Britta’s head broke the ocean’s surface, she saw Lachlan, Maggie, and the two witches hovering on the shoreline. Power shimmered about them like a veil. They’d apparently done enough of a reconnaissance to feel the need to protect themselves. The Selkie swam by her side. She leaned into his cool hide. “Thank you for your help.”
“It’s little enough I can do,” he replied telepathically. Selkies couldn’t manage human speech in their seal form.
“Och, ’tis glad I am ye remember Tarika.”
Jonathan swam to Britta’s other side and stroked for shore. “Is there a particular reason—?” he began.
“Yes,” the Selkie broke in. “When I was but a youngling, a wicked Druid found my skin and hid it from me for long years. He forced me into service, flogged me, and starved me. One day as I sat on the shore bemoaning my fate and wishing for death, Tarika appeared in the skies.”
“’Twas long afore she and I were bonded,” Britta said. Shore was closing fast. She dropped her legs and felt her toes brush the rocky bottom.
“The dragon must have rescued you,” Jonathan said to the Selkie.
“I have never forgotten. She found my skin almost immediately. I hadn’t laid eyes on her since that day, so when I sensed her nearby earlier, I rushed to volunteer to be a part of Sire’s retinue.”
Britta walked toward the small group on shore, pulling enough magic to dry herself as she went. Jonathan joined her, and the Selkie waddled beside them, still in seal form. Britta didn’t blame him for not shifting and going through the whole rigmarole of folding and hiding his skin.
Lachlan broke from the others and raced toward them. “What did you find?” he cried.
“I brought one who saw our dragons disappear.” Britta patted the Selkie’s smooth hide and bent to retrieve their clothes. Jonathan sorted his from the pile in her arms.
“Tell us.” Lachlan’s tone was terse. “Everything.”
Britta and Jonathan dressed while she and the Selkie shared what little they knew. The Selkie showed them the place a hundred yards up the beach where the dragons had dragged their kills. Britta examined two cattle carcasses, which were mostly bones. “At least they filled their bellies afore they were taken.”
“Aye,” Lachlan nodded, his face pinched with worry. “There is that.”
“We traced the path of evil while we waited for you,” Mary Elma, who’d been uncharacteristically silent, cut in.
“And figured out it came and went that way.” Mauvreen pointed to the skies.
“I would return to the sea,” the Selkie said. “If you have need of my race, let us know, and we will do what we can to right this misfortune.”
“Thank you.” Britta held out her arms; the Selkie laid his great head on her shoulder and then shuffled toward the surf. She watched his head bob in the waves until it disappeared beneath them.
She set her teeth together and turned toward Lachlan. “What think ye?”
His green eyes were narrowed in anger. A muscle twitched in his jaw. “My first guess is either Rhukon or the Morrigan, or both, spirited our dragons somewhere else in time. They must know we canna bend the strands of time without the dragons.”
“What about the Celts?” Mary Elma asked.
“They werena particularly helpful a little bit ago in Kheladin’s cave,” Lachlan muttered.
“Probably no reason they’d have changed their minds,” Jonathan agreed.
“I’m beginning to feel verra sorry I let ye talk me into the separation spell.” Britta eyed Lachlan.
“How do ye imagine I’m feeling?” he countered. “It seemed a good idea at the time, with better access to each of our magics, but it doesna appear so just now.”
Mauvreen sidled to Jonathan’s side and hooked an arm through his. “How would you feel about asking your mother for help?”
His eyes widened as he stared at Mauvreen. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“No. I figure she owes you since she hasn’t been much of a mother.”
“But,” he sputtered, “even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t have the first idea how to find her.”
“Somehow, I don’t think that would be a problem.” Mary Elma turned her dark gaze on them.
“Mayhap, ’tisn’t such an outrageous idea after all,” Lachlan said, sounding thoughtful.
“Why?” Maggie asked.
“Unless I miss my guess,” Lachlan replied, a knowing smirk on his face, “Arianrhod will be in the midst of a phalanx of embarrassing questions right about now.”
“Aye.” Britta nodded. “I am certain Gwydion wasted no time finding his sister and confronting her.”
“Hmph. So you’re thinking she’d welcome any excuse to escape her fellow gods.” Jonathan inhaled sharply. “Escape is one thing. Helping us quite another.”
“Remember,” Lachlan held up an index finger, “she’ll be angry and embarrassed and probably more likely to do something forbidden—like helping mortals—than she’d have been if this had happened afore her secret slithered out of its hidey-hole.”
“I’m game.” Jonathan’s amber gaze scanned the group. “Any ideas for how I might go about it?”
“If I’m recalling correctly, there is more than one stone circle in these islands,” Britta said.
“Good call.” Mary Elma clapped her hands together. “We need a place that concentrates power. One the gods can’t eschew if we call them.”
“Sounds like the Callanish Stones would be our best bet.” Jonathan’s nostrils flared. They’re on Lewis Island in the Outer Hebrides.” He turned to Britta. “Where exactly are we now?”
“I may not have modern names for you. But we are on the western shore of what was once called South Uist Island.”
“It’s the same,” Mauvreen noted.
“Och, and I know Callanish well,” Lachlan said. “See you at the Stones.” The air shimmered around him and Maggie.
“Hold.” Britta ran to him. “’Twould be safer if we formed a power circle and traveled as a group. I doona wish to lose any more of us betwixt here and there.”
He clamped his jaws together. “It pains me to admit it, but ye’re likely right.” The arm he’d slung around Maggie tightened.
Britta gestured to everyone. “Who’s seen Callanish most recently?”
“Probably me.” Jonathan stepped to her side. “I spent a holiday on Lewis Island just last year.”
“We’ll lend the power, ye can guide the spell.”
•●•
The amount of power thrumming through him was shocking. Jonathan had no idea how to command so much magic, but he felt intoxicated by the possibilities. If this was how it felt to straddle the continuum between man and god, he wanted more of it.
The Callanish Stones rose around him; their uneven obelisk shapes amplified the blend of magics so the very air turned color—greens, blues, violet, rose—and hummed with a craving to shape spells. He’d been impressed by the Stones when he’d visited them, had understood why ancient magic wielders sought out power spots such as this one. In this moment, surrounded by dragon shifters and two strong witches, he understood he’d barely tapped the beginning of the Stones’ potential.
Humans strolled past, oblivious to their group. “What should we do about them?” Jonathan gestured.
“Nothing,” Mary Elma said. “They won’t remember a thing.”
“In fact,” Mauvreen flicked her fingers at two different groups, who turned toward the parking lot, “they’re just leaving.”
“What if others arrive?” Maggie asked.
“I’ll manage them,” Mauvreen said tersely. “Let’s just get on with this.”
“Good idea. Before Arianrhod decides to flee to another time—or world—to esc
ape her shame,” Britta added.
Jonathan placed himself between two stones and laid a hand on each. He still felt the others’ magic surging through him. The stones amplified it until it crashed from side-to-side in his soul. “Arianrhod.” He called her several times. Magic built to a crescendo; he felt as if he’d laid hands on a raw power source, one which could injure him badly if he didn’t stay on top of things.
“Try Mother.” Britta spoke into his mind.
Knowing he’d have to let go of the magic soon, before it chewed him up and spit him out, Jonathan cried, “Mother,” over and over again.
“For the love of the goddess, shut up.” A strikingly tall woman with silvery hair that reached the ground formed out of the mists between the stones and stared across at him with her odd-colored eyes, one gold, one silver. Arianrhod wore hunting leathers that fit her lithe form like a glove. A bow was slung over one shoulder, and knee-high leather boots were laced about her lower legs.
Jonathan blinked stupidly. He hadn’t expected their ploy to work. Not really. Lachlan and Britta were quick to bow. Jonathan, still feeling dazed from channeling so much magic, was slower on the uptake. He grappled for words, but his tongue wouldn’t cooperate.
“Well?” Arianrhod glanced from one to the other of them. “You summoned me. What the hell do you want?”
Jonathan’s throat tightened. He fought anger burning a path up from his belly. This was his mother? She didn’t have the maternal instinct of a sand fly. He opened his mouth to tell her she’d been a piss-poor parent, but she stalked in front of him. Lithe as a large jungle cat, she glared at him with about as much warmth as a predator might have for cornered prey.
“Doona bother debating what to give voice to. I can read your thoughts.” She brayed laughter. “Even if I couldna do that, they’re written plain as a scroll on your face. What would ye have me say? Your da was a very compelling man. He wooed me in the Dreaming, visited me there. In a weak moment, I followed him to Earth, and ’twas my undoing.” She jabbed a long-nailed finger into his chest. “I birthed you. I nursed you. Once ye dinna need me anymore, I delivered you to your da to raise.”