Flight of Dragons

by Elianne Adams, Sadie Haller, Zoe York, Shelley Munro, Zara Keane, LC Alleyne, Skye Jones, Evanne Lorraine, Ann Gimpel

  She smiled against his mouth, feeling so happy she wanted to cry. As far as twenty-fifth birthday presents went, winning Jack’s love was a doozey. And now she’d caught the man, she did not intend to let him go. It might take him a while to get the idea, but she had patience enough for them both…

  *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

  Shelley lives in New Zealand with her husband and a cheeky Jack Russell/mystery breed puppy.

  Typical New Zealanders, Shelley and her husband left home for their big OE soon after they married (translation of New Zealand speak – big overseas experience). A year long adventure lengthened to six years of roaming the world. Enduring memories include being almost sat on by a mountain gorilla in Rwanda, lazing on white sandy beaches in India, whale watching in Alaska, searching for leprechauns in Ireland, and dealing with ghosts in an English pub.

  While travel is still a big attraction, these days Shelley is most likely found in front of her computer following another love – that of writing stories of romance and adventure. Other interests include watching rugby (strictly for research purposes), cycling, baking bread and curling up with a good book.

  Blue Moon Dragon is the first story in a new series.

  Follow Shelley Munro online at:

  http://www.ShelleyMunro.com

  http://www.facebook.com/ShelleyMunroAuthor

  http://www.twitter.com/ShelleyMunro

  A VIKING’S NEED

  By Zoe York

  Heat rating: spicy hot, paranormal, erotic romance, BBW heroine, private investigator

  Viking monk Bjorn Önnuson has chosen a life of celibacy and prayer on a remote corner of planet Midgard. Solitude is preferable to the excesses of the capital city, but when hedonistic dragon rider Britt Andersdatter flies into his life, being alone no longer makes sense.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This novella is the third in a series of connected stories in my VIKINGS IN SPACE series. The first book, A Viking’s Peace, is available for free at all book retailers for Fall 2015.

  All of my stories share a common theme of second chances, and if you like this one, I encourage you to check out my other series, all outlined on my website, zoeyork.com. If you join my mailing list, you’ll hear about all my new releases, including opportunities to read my latest story before it’s released for sale.

  ~Zoe

  1

  The year: 2255

  Lund Monastery, The Outerlands

  Planet Midgard

  Bjorn Önnuson slowed his motorcycle to a stop on his private terrace, cutting the motor before he rolled it into his room in the monastery. No technology could be used inside the sacred building, and while their religious order was liberal on many points, that was not one to be messed with.

  On the other hand, he couldn’t leave his bike out in the rain.

  Twisting to look back out the glass doors he’d just come in, he shook his head at the rolling grey clouds, fast-approaching.

  A storm was coming.

  He’d felt it when he woke up that morning, and had hurried through his chores so he could fit in a ride. Because fuel was so hard to come by, and a luxury he always felt a good amount of guilt about using in the first place, he allowed himself two rides a month.

  But when that second week hit, the countdown itched beneath his skin in a way that felt very un-monk-like.

  He secured his bike in the stand against the far wall, and stripped out of his riding clothes. The other brothers of his order always looked at him with great concern when he wore leather anything to the dining room or into the sanctuary.

  They didn’t wear robes every day—mostly because they were a working monastery and farming and carpentry in a robe was ridiculous.

  And while it was a rare day that an adventurer would need their assistance, when they did, riding a dragon up the mountainside was far easier in pants.

  Bjorn would point out that leathers cut down even further on windburn, but he’d learned over the last seven years to pick his battles with care.

  If the order wore rough, fabric trousers and shirts, who was he to suggest otherwise?

  Most days, he liked the nubby scratch against his skin; how it worsened over the day as he sweated through hard, manual labour, and eased once he’d said evening prayers and meditated. Reminded him of the foolish choices of his youth and the penance he’d be making for the rest of his life.

  Before he pulled on a clean set of the standard monk garb, he dropped to the floor and worked through a series of exercises that fatigued his muscles and cleared his head in a way his ride through the mountain pass had not.

  Release the trappings and calm shall settle. He knew the life lesson well and could counsel others on it wisely. Could adopt it in every part of his life except for his motorcycle.

  Noren’s motorcycle.

  As soon as he told his fellow monks that the bike had belonged to his best friend, the judgement ceased. Some brothers imbibed in wine, others in food.

  Bjorn’s excess was speed, as if he might one day outrun his guilt.

  And for the privilege of testing that, he went without all other vices. No wine. No lavish meals. No women.

  The last point was relatively easy on a mountain devoid of soft curves and tempting smiles.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t have urges—he was a warm-blooded male who had known the company of women before he joined the order after Noren’s death. But he also knew the urges for wine and women and anything else came at a price.

  Going without such selfish pursuits freed him to learn more about himself and his faith, however. It also allowed him more time to work, which was rewarding in and of itself, but also earned him a reputation for being a strong contributor to the off-grid, self-sustaining community.

  He could practically hear Brother Randolf cautioning him that pride was dangerous, too.

  He pushed himself harder through a final set of exercises, then climbed into the shower. One advantage of the new monastery was it’s proximity to a natural hot spring. The water washed away more than the grime and sweat, and soon his mind was clear.

  As it sometimes did, the water stirred some of those natural urges. He took himself in hand, but instead of the usual blank pleasant feelings he could usually settle his mind into—a safe space that didn’t feel too much like sinning—today he heard a voice. A laugh, followed by murmured words that crawled into his belly and tugged at the deepest, darkest desires. Dark eyes and a wet mouth.

  With a gasp, he released himself and slammed back against the concrete wall. He barely felt his skin scrape against the rough surface.

  His knees wavered, and he told himself to drop to the floor and prayer. I am yours to guide, he said to the Lord, turning his face blindly to the heavens as the water still sprayed over him. I’m sorry.

  It wasn’t a proper prayer. But he couldn’t catch his breath, and he couldn’t… He squeezed his eyes shut tighter. It didn’t matter. That laugh was inside him, and he couldn’t get down on his knees and lie to his God, even if He would know the truth.

  For all Bjorn’s weaknesses, he’d never lied to his Heavenly Father.

  It took him too long to stumble out of the shower. Too long to pull himself together and yank on his woven shirt and trousers, loosely cinching the outfit with a leather belt—a touch of himself that he’d never felt guilty about before, and now the smooth, worn material burned his fingertips as he settled it around his hips.

  He was overthinking this.

  What he needed was to get out of his head—get this imaginary, fantasy woman out of his head—and tackle the next job that was asked of him.

  It didn’t take long.

  “We need more brothers to attend at the guest house,” Brother Randolf announced as the order gathered for their mid-day meal.

  The guest house was the original monastery building, built on a plateau in the valley at the base of the mountain. The monks took turns staffing it, when it was hired out by groups from the capital region, and some
groups were more…high-maintenance than others.

  “I will do it.” Bjorn stepped forward. Beside him, Mikka sighed and nodded that he would as well. Bjorn waited until they were alone in the kitchen, serving themselves a lunch of soup and hearty bread to tell his friend he didn’t need to volunteer.

  “Of course not. Just because I moan about it doesn’t mean I don’t want to go down to the guest house. It’s not the task I mind, it’s the rain.”

  Outside, the wind had picked up and the first gusts of sharp, wet sleet were slapping against the window. Late spring was a strange time on the mountain. Warm one minute, freezing the next, and all around them, the small bursts of life trying to pop out of the land—green, yellow, white—kept retreating, hiding from the last vestiges of winter.

  Bjorn laughed and filled a heavy earthenware mug with hot water from the simmering pot on the fire. “I admit it wasn’t top of mind when I stepped forward. Tea it is.”

  “Like that will make a difference!”

  “It can’t hurt,” Bjorn said. “And the guest house has hot chocolate.”

  A luxury item never stocked at the monastery. They grew and raised most of their food themselves, but dry goods were brought in from the more populous Eastern Continent, where the capital city was situated. Spices and tea for the brothers. Those as well as chocolate and sugar for their guests.

  “Sold. I will stop whining.” Mikka grinned. Easy to please, his friend was.

  After lunch, they gathered personal belongings for a few days stay. The guest house was a few hours hike down the mountain, and the brothers that staffed it typically stayed for a week. Since they were going down mid-week, they’d probably come back on the sixth day, with the other brothers.

  Their guests would be on their own for meals on the seventh day, and invited up the path for a high-noon prayer service if they wished.

  For Bjorn and his brethren, it would be a day of worship and reflection. The restless itch at the back of his neck and the roiling guilt in his gut reminded him he needed it more this week than he had in a long time.

  Mikka did an excellent job distracting him on the first leg of the descent, chatting about the upcoming planting season and the stores of canned food they had left in the larder, and they made good time.

  After they’d stopped at a stream to refill their water bottles, Mikka turned the conversation to what they’d find down at the guest house. “Do you know anything about the new visitors?”

  Bjorn did not; nor did he care. “I’m sure they are like the others. Curious about the dragons.”

  The original monastery building had been built more than a hundred years earlier by the first settlers to the continent—a Scandinavian sect of religious observers who found more freedom sharing a planet with the hedonistic Viking explorers than the FedNat-governed world state back on Earth.

  Five years ago, when they finished the more secluded sanctuary and residence at the top of the mountain pass, they decided to open up the original building for retreats and educational trips. The funds raised helped them provide support to the Simple Lifers who lived completely off the land, further north on their wild, barren continent, and protect the great, flying beasts that drew so much attention from tourists.

  A native Midgardian, Bjorn had been raised on cautionary tales of the excesses on Earth and the risky ease of a technology-heavy life. Growing up in the outskirts of Ny København, he’d lived with rolling blackouts. Having a tablet to watch shows on didn’t matter much if it couldn’t be recharged. He’d been fascinated by the teachings of monks that spent most of their time in a far-off corner of their new world, only coming to the city in shifts to preach to the interested few. When he lost Noren, he turned to that casual faith and dug deep, finding new meaning and heavy solace.

  Out of his grief came a renewed calling to protect their way of life and show others by way of example the dangers of indulgence and the reward of following Christ’s teachings.

  At the moment, though, his calling was to scrub floors and make meals. Humor a group of Easterners who undoubtedly thought their monastery was quaint.

  The last thing Bjorn wanted anyone to think was that his way of life was a throwback or a nod to nostalgia.

  That’s where the intensity in Ny København had gone wrong, he would say if he was asked. Pageantry and symbolism had overwritten common sense and safety.

  Nobody asked.

  And so Bjorn kept his head down and focused on fixing what was broken within himself before worrying about what was broken in the larger world. And through small acts of service, he found he made a bigger difference than any attempt to rail against the machine ever accomplished.

  As they neared the guest house, maybe just fifteen minutes out, a distant rustling followed by murmurs and more rustling grabbed their attention.

  They heard the women before they saw them. Soft, lilting laughter carried up the path, and Bjorn slowed, Mikka matching his pace.

  “Guests,” Mikka said.

  Bjorn nodded, ignoring the heavy pound of his heart in his chest. That laughter…

  “Crazy easterners,” Mikka muttered. He wasn’t wrong. Who went running around in a storm? Down here it was warmer than higher up on the mountain, but it was still cold and wet, enough to give someone chills if they weren’t careful.

  A blonde woman popped into view below them. The path zigged and zagged here beneath the canopy of thick green leaves, making it the driest part of the hike. She’d obviously climbed up from the guest house vicinity to escape this latest gust of stormy weather, although it still begged the question why she’d been outside in the first place. It had been miserable for hours.

  Bjorn’s throat tightened as she spun around, another laugh carrying up through the break in the trees.

  It wrapped around him, cementing his feet in place.

  She stopped in the shadow of a giant fern tree and turned to look down the path. A friend soon appeared as well.

  “See? We can wait here until the rain stops,” she said. Bjorn watched in stunned confusion as she tugged the other woman close against her body. They both giggled, and Bjorn realized they were intimate with one another.

  He couldn’t watch this. It wasn’t right to spy, and his brain was doing weird things with the sound of a stranger’s laugh.

  “Mikka,” he said under his breath. “Let’s go back up the trail a bit. Give them privacy.”

  His brother just stared as the two women circled each other less than twenty feet below.

  “Mikka!”

  “Yes…”

  Bjorn swivelled his head, his gaze tracking from his fellow monk’s gaping expression back to the women.

  “Do I need to distract you from the big, scary thunder?” the blonde teased her friend with her words as her hands worked at the cloak wrapped around the other woman’s shoulders. It fell to the ground, baring a significant amount of skin. They were definitely easterners, Bjorn thought. The brunette was wrapped in bronze fabric—some kind of formal dress, he supposed. It accented her feminine form, but it was entirely impractical for the setting.

  Her response was lost in the steady patter of the rain falling on the treetops above them, but the way she swayed closer made her answer quite clear.

  “I was given strict instructions by your husband to keep you happy for this entire trip.” The blonde dropped her head and kissed the other woman’s shoulder, then dragged her mouth along the pale, creamy skin to the curve of her neck.

  Why could they hear every word she was saying? It was like her voice was a clarion call, piercing though the rain and their normal boundaries of modesty and restraint.

  They needed to back away.

  “Mikka. Now.” Bjorn didn’t wait for his colleague to respond. He spun on his heel and moved back up the trail and around the previous bend.

  So much for there not being women on the mountain.

  He should have prayed after all.

  2

  Britt slid her arms around Inge
and smoothed her hands up and down her friend’s elegant back. Together they sighed, then laughed again.

  “See? Distractions are good,” Britt whispered, rocking her forehead against Inge’s.

  “Kiss me,” the other woman breathed.

  That she could do. Closing her eyes, she dusted their lips together. Darting tongues and tentative tastes. Kissing was such a wonderful, delicious activity, even with a friend who was married and didn’t want Britt for more than just this moment.

  “Fredrik will be so sad when I tell him what he missed.” As she pulled back, Inge licked her lips, and Britt chased the wet streak left by her tongue.

  “Only because he’d want to watch.”

  “He’d want to do more than watch,” Inge teased.

  Yes, but while kissing and playing together was within Britt’s comfort zone, being an active third was not. Not with another couple, anyway. It was hard for her to reason out loud, so she didn’t bother.

  The gut check was all that mattered. If it didn’t feel right, she didn’t do it.

  And if it felt right, fuck anyone who thought it wrong.

  “Another?” Inge’s eyes flared bright and hopeful, and Britt laughed as she nodded and closed the gap between them.

  Yes, another. And another and another, until the rain stopped and they could get back to their group.

  She’d told Inge to wear something more substantial. Under her own cloak she wore her standard riding outfit of stretch trousers and a leather vest over a long-sleeve tunic. But now that she had the other woman in her arms, the excuse to keep her warm didn’t seem so bad.

  Tomorrow, though, she’d force Inge into sensible clothes. Because really, who needed to wear a fancy gown on a mountainside a few thousand kilometres from the nearest cultural event?

  The conversations one had to have when one was paid to entertain the wealthy.

  Entertain…kiss…take riding on the backs of dragons…