by Renee Wildes
Wasn’t that interesting?
Dragonkind couldn’t abide the touch of iron, pure or blend. ’Twas a binding poison on their powers. The wounds Dara had borne had been grievous and soul-deep. That it was absent here was interesting indeed.
Ponderous footsteps announced the old man’s return. “Ye’re to wait in the library. Follow me.”
Reed winced. Trystan wondered why and kept his eyes glued to the rigid set of Reed’s shoulders, the uncharacteristic hesitancy in his step. Reed paused afore entering the room. Trystan viewed it cautiously from the doorway. At first glance it looked downright cozy. A cheerful fire burned in the hearth, comfortable furniture, oil lamps on the wall for lighting enough to read by, a fine woolen rug on the floor. But the room reeked of lust and sex, pain and darkness. It curled around Trystan, and to his disgust he felt his body harden in reaction.
Niadh and the children were nowhere to be seen.
He tore his mind from the allure by studying Reed. The shadow within the big sea captain permeated the rug. Whatever had been done to bind him had been done here. Now he knew where he’d felt such a stirring afore. Dara. That fierce golden allure screamed dragonkind, but this was nothing like the clear passion that marked her presence. This was a brutal, dark twist on it, a bend of subjugation, enslavement, possession. Everything the guardians were supposed to stand against. How could a guardian go so wrong? How was Trystan to stand against it when his very body strove to weaken his mind?
’Twas all wrong. Trystan clenched his jaw. He was badger as well as wolf. Closer to the earth than most, in it as well as on it. Therefore, he should be stronger than most.
“We can have something to drink whilst we wait,” Reed said. “There’s drenieval acorn whiskey, or wine if you’d rather.”
The last thing Trystan wanted was to weaken his mind further with spirits. “I’ll pass, thanks.”
Reed shrugged and poured himself a generous portion of the whiskey. The sharp scent of home cut through the drugging incense, clearing Trystan’s mind. Home. East and north. Cold mountains, cozy fires. Fenia and Rybyk, Moira and Hengist. Dear old Agata, the shaman. The guardians—badger, wolf, bear. Dragon. They also called the border mountains home. How could guardians stray so far from their essence, their very reason for being?
He couldn’t wait to get home again. If he never saw that accursed sea again, ’twould be too soon. But how could he return there, look Dara in the eye and tell her the only blood kin of hers he’d found were enslaving people?
“And just what do you think you are doing?” a warm, melodious voice demanded. It reached around, within, resin-warm, resin-thick. Ready to harden to amber, trapping one forever. The wolf within Trystan reacted, crouching with flattened ears and a low growl of defiance. The human Trystan turned to confront a tall aristocratic red-haired man with chilly gold eyes and a sardonic twist to his mouth. That cold reptilian gaze pinned Reed, and to his horror Trystan saw Reed drop to his knees and bow. Just like that.
“Forgive me, my lord.”
The man turned to Trystan, and something red and unpleasant flashed within the gold of his eyes. “I am Lord Spiridon. You have come to serve me in my trading venture?”
Serve? In his dreams. Guardians served the people, not the other way around. “I only serve me goddess, me mother and me people,” Trystan stated. The sensual racial resemblance to Dara was unmistakable, but Dara had always ignored her allure. Never had Trystan conceived of a dragon wielding it as a weapon.
“I’d forgotten the stubbornness of those that dwell in the mountains, living in caves like dens of bears instead of civilized humans,” Spiridon sneered.
“Yer people come from those verra mountains,” Trystan said. “Ye’re no more a lord than I am.”
Spiridon seemed to swell to twice his original size. “I am a creature of the elements, of earth and fire, of magic. Power goes to the powerful, to those who can wield it. None can stand against me.” He indicated Reed, still on his knees, head bowed.
Now where had he heard that afore? Why couldn’t a bully ever come up with a new line? “Release him. I have much t’ discuss with ye, but Reed isna a part o’ this. Release him.”
“Who are you to order me about?”
“One who says ye dinna demonstrate true power by pushin’ about those weaker than ye, as if ye were naught but a schoolyard bully,” Trystan answered. “Ye should be above that, my lord.”
“Reed knows to respect his betters.”
“Respect is earned, no’ forced. Ye’ve but forced him t’ bow t’ one more powerful than he. It proves naught o’ ye bein’ better than anyone—just stronger. An ox is stronger than a man, yet do men bow t’ the ox? Release him.”
The red in Spiridon’s eyes glowed brighter, yet the dark cord about Reed snapped, as if a rope cut by a knife. “Ye may go, Captain. Do not return again until summoned…or I shall be most displeased.”
“Aye, m’lord.” Reed left without a backward glance.
Trystan shook his head. “Why waste yer time here? Ye’re meant for so much more.”
“And what’s that?” Spiridon looked amused. “What is it you think I am meant to do?”
“Where are they?” Trystan demanded. “The children stolen by the seal-men? I know they were brought here.” The feel of a burning cord encircled his throat, cutting off his voice. He could neither speak nor move.
Spiridon approached, his eyes blazing. He reached out a hand to caress the dragonscale hauberk. “Where did you get this?” he demanded. There was an odd hoarseness to his voice.
Trystan found the cord loosened enough for a whisper to trickle out. “Recognize it? ’Twas made from the shed skin o’ a guardian. ’Tis verra old. Made afore I was born, afore the last guardian dragon disappeared from our mountains fore’er. Where’s Niadh? Where are the children, ye rotten beast?” He found himself choking for air and dropped to his knees, gasping.
“I could kill you now, you half-breed abomination,” Spiridon growled. He bared his teeth in a parody of a smile. “Did no one pass along the tales of a dragon’s allure? I could make you crawl over here on all fours and pleasure me, and make you enjoy it.”
Trystan found strength enough for a whisper. “I’m no’ interested in men.”
Spiridon laughed. “I’m not a man, you poor fool. And it wouldn’t matter.”
A wave of pure unadulterated lust swamped Trystan. His body hardened, his member ached. He’d never desired anything like he yearned for the perfect creature standing afore him. Tearing his mind from the sensual allure was like pounding forge-fresh spikes straight into his brain. He reached for one of his knives, not to throw—he’d no strength for that—but to grasp a blade. The pain of the cut gave him something else to focus on.
Spiridon stood afore him, his hips level with Trystan’s face. “First things first.” His sharp gaze scanned Trystan’s clothing. “There we go. That’s what I was looking for.” He reached out to pull one long sable strand of hair from Trystan’s body, where it had caught in the edge of the dragonscale. Spiridon tsked. “Not your color, guardian.”
The door opened, and through a red haze of fear, lust and pain Trystan focused on the approach of a dark-haired man. “I brought you the children, as promised, wizard, plus the wolfling as a bonus. Now what have you for me, according to our pact?”
He spoke as an arrogant princeling—spoiled and selfish. Trystan watched the swirl of darkness in his soul, the stain of blood.
Spiridon smirked. “Who am I to deny true love?” he taunted. He kissed Finora’s hair and whispered a litany of guttural hissing phrases. The hair glowed and crackled. “Come to me,” he called in common, and with a “pop!” an oilskin-wrapped parcel appeared on the nearest table. Spiridon unwrapped it. A tumble of sable-colored velvet hide unfurled in his grip.
Matteo sucked in a breath. An unholy yearning gleamed in his eyes. “Give it to me.” His voice was raspy and hoarse. “In the name of Cilaniestra, honor the pact.”
&nbs
p; Thunder rumbled in what Trystan knew was a clear blue sky. Spiridon cast the selkie a surprisingly sulky glance and tossed him the skin. “Begone, merchant. I still await the second half of your bargain.”
“And you shall have it.” Matteo glared at Trystan. Stalking forward, he reached out to take hold of the wolf-eagle amulet. Afore Trystan could blink, Matteo had torn it from Trystan’s neck. “This will come in handy. Finora won’t be able to walk for a week when I’m done with her tonight.” He turned and left.
Rage consumed him. Trystan fought to stand. Just that quickly he fought to breathe.
Spiridon laughed. “This is going to be more entertaining than I thought. Come in, my dear.”
Dara walked through the door. Trystan gasped for air, shook his head to clear it. Dara wasn’t here. She was safely back in Poshnari-Unai, with Loren. This woman had no humanity softening her chiseled draconian features. Clear gold eyes glowed back at him. She toyed with a lock of long, red hair. Trystan felt the sweep of that hair caressing his bare skin, tickling his balls and teasing the head of his rigid shaft. He groaned. She was exquisite. Her beauty, her soft skin, her scent, and that hair… Spiridon he could fight. This other…he didn’t want to fight.
He tried to summon some sort of resistance. Somewhere under the aching lust jangled a discordant note of concern. Niadh, wounded and bleeding, somewhere in the manor house. The children, scared and helpless, hidden away somewhere. Finora about to fall into the hands of a patricidal, fratricidal madman with delusions of grandeur.
The dark queen ran a hand through his hair, caressing down his cheek to his lips. They tingled at her touch. He felt the burning pool deep, straight to his groin. He felt her presence, in the rug, in his soul. Reed hadn’t stood a chance against these monsters. The human didn’t have a fraction of a guardian’s strength.
A guardian’s strength… Trystan forced his mind from his body, focused past the burning lust to the dragons’ aura. They were guardians, twisted in a manner he’d never conceived of. He studied Spiridon and his…daughter. She was his daughter. Trystan noted a subtle cord of binding betwixt them. Spiridon had bound her to him. She was unaware of it. Trystan watched the cord as the young queen approached. The scent of her desire curled around him, through the drug-induced haze. It pulsed down the binding cord from her to her father. Trystan caught Spiridon’s subtle glow as the slight shimmer of power disappeared into his body.
He was leeching power from her, his own daughter, like a bloody parasite.
Trystan opened his mouth to say something. Her lips brushed his, and his body came alive with heavy need. Her tongue stroked his, and his fingers ached to touch her. Sun and moon, she was glorious!
“He’s all yours,” Spiridon said. A door opened and closed.
The queen pulled back, her lips glistening a whisper from his. Just like that, Trystan could move again, and speak. “What’s yer name?” he asked. The taste of her was intoxicating. He shook his head to clear it.
“Anuk.” She cocked her head. “Why are you here, Badger-Wolf?”
Badger-Wolf. Clan. Guardian. Great Mother of All, give me strength. “Ye, dragon. Anuk.” He laughed mirthlessly. His body raged with burning need. “I’m here for ye. To bring ye home. May the Great Mother help us all.”
Chapter Twelve
Finora paced about the room as Storm watched from his spot on the rug. A part of her reluctantly grinned at how their positions had reversed. The rest of her seethed. Trystan and Niadh were in deep trouble—she felt it as a sense of dread in the pit of her stomach. Niadh hurt. Trystan alone. Her children stolen. Why? What purpose would two half-human bairns serve anyone?
She made a pot of tea, but her hands shook so hot liquid sloshed over her hand. With a muffled curse, she plunked the cup on the table. “Bree!”
“What’s going on?” Bree again sounded so distant. Finora said a quick prayer of gratitude that they could hear each other at all through the spirit-wall of earth that Trystan had erected.
“Selkie bulls stole my children and took them to the local dragon-wizard.” Finora caught Bree up on the current crisis. “They wounded Niadh. Trystan went to confront them.”
“Alone? That’s brave. Not too smart, but courageous. Are you ready to carve that on his gravestone?”
Finora shuddered. “They don’t bury their dead. They burn them. Trystan’s not dead yet, Bree. How are things with Freine’s pod?”
“Bloody. Sharks are happy.” Bree sounded grim.
“Tell my father what’s happened. Get Freine’s cow to my father. He’ll protect her.”
“Your father won’t interfere in rival politics. His truce ended with Freine’s death. And we never interfere in land affairs.”
“I know. But my father might be interested in my children’s fate for the sake of shared blood.” For my sake. How she hoped she’d not imagined the softness in her sire’s eyes when he’d gazed on the children.
“All right. I hope Trystan knows what he’s doing.” Bree vanished.
Storm stared at the door. A low growl rumbled.
“Finora!” Matteo’s voice sounded through the thick wood. “Open up. I have to talk to you.”
“What have you done, Matteo?” Finora demanded.
“My sire could no longer rule. He was weak, dying. You know how it is. The pod must have a strong leader. It’s time for a new era to begin, a new alliance betwixt your sire and me. Only then can we put down the rebels who stole your children.”
What? What had he said? “Are you saying you’re not responsible for taking Braeca and Ioain? For wounding Niadh?”
“That’s what I’m saying,” Matteo answered. “I did not injure your…friend’s…wolf. Your sire’s alliance with my pod ended with my sire’s last breath. I was coming to speak to you, to ask you to be an intermediary betwixt your sire and me. Once we were promised to each other. I still value our connection. Why would I risk alienating you when your goodwill is much more to my advantage?”
Finora snorted. “You, who’ve said no word to me these past seven years?”
“I ran into Trystan on the way to town. I’ve gone to gather reinforcements, to help him get your children back. Come see what he gave me as a token of our agreement. By Cilaniestra I swear, I have seen Trystan and I hold something you will want to see.”
Finora noticed he did not address their long separation. She waited for Cilaniestra to strike him dead for telling her a falsehood in Her name. When nothing of the kind happened, she frowned. Every instinct told her to not trust Matteo, that he was unworthy of confidence. But he did not lie. He knew the price of invoking Cilaniestra’s name. He passed Her test. And Trystan couldn’t do it alone. If Matteo pledged his own troops in a rescue, as a token of a future alliance, she would represent him to her sire wholeheartedly.
Storm lumbered to his feet. Another low growl rumbled through the room like distant thunder. To her shock, he planted his immense body between her and the door she reached for.
“What are you doing, you daft dog?” Finora scolded. “Move. Back. Get out of my way.”
Storm’s brow wrinkled as he gazed at the door, then back at her. Amazing how a dog could look worried. Conditioned from birth to obey, still he moved to resist her command.
“It’s all right,” she reassured him. “We have to help Trystan. We have to bring the children home.” Finora rubbed his ears. “Storm, go lie back down.”
With visible reluctance, Storm returned to the rug.
Finora reached for the door. Opened it. She was careful to stay just inside, though.
Matteo stood several feet back. His stance was confident, but relaxed. He was alone. An aggrieved look crossed his dusky face. “See? Surprised She didn’t strike me dead? I’ve been called many things in my life, princess, but liar has never been one of them.”
She bit her lip. “What have you got, Matteo?”
He held out an amulet.
Finora stared at the familiar wolf’s head and eagle’s beak. She
couldn’t imagine Trystan parting with it short of death. And somehow she’d know if he were dead—with or without the earth bond. She’d just…know.
“He wanted me to give it to you. He wanted you to keep it safe for him.”
Matteo’s voice was steady, his eyes level.
Finora stepped through onto the walkway. “How is he?”
“Having a drink with the wizard and his daughter. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She’s very beautiful, the daughter. Red hair, gold eyes.”
“A dragon’s allure.” Still, the barb stung. Surely he wouldn’t fall for another? Surely he’d stand firm, like the earth that anchored him? That now anchored her? Finora reached for the amulet, and Matteo’s fingers brushed hers as he handed it over. She placed it around her own neck and closed her eyes. Please keep Trystan safe.
Matteo reached around her, pulled her to him in a surprising hug. “Don’t worry about the children,” he stated. “I swear no harm will come to them. Things are going to be fine, you’ll see. They’re the way they were meant to be.”
Something soft, warm, familiar brushed her shoulders, clung to her back. Finora gasped in disbelief at the almost-forgotten tingle of magic, of home, as she…melted. Shifted. She blinked, disoriented, up at him. She opened her mouth. Only a muffled bleat emerged. She staggered to balance on flippers. The sea roared in her ears, in her blood, in her soul. It drowned out the earth. She didn’t belong here. The sea called, beckoned. She needed to go home.
Matteo’s eyes gleamed in triumph. “Time to go home, princess. Your dam misses you.”
Home. Mother. Little Aingeal. Father. Finora took off running, desperate to silence the calling, the lure. She rolled down the path at a waddling gallop, Matteo—now also in bull-form—nipping at her flank. She barely noticed the rocks digging into her skin. The rocky shoreline, the water beyond. The sea.
Home. She was almost there…
That glorious, churning alive sea.
Incredibly, just as she reached her destination, something jangled at the edge of her awareness. A sense of wrongness. She hesitated, torn. There was something here, something she didn’t want to leave. If she could just remember what it was…