Dragon’s Call: Dystopian Fantasy

by Ann Gimpel

  “Nay,” Patrick said. “We have tools and seeds and food aplenty. Far more than we’ve had in many a long year. Eating our fill will strengthen us and make it simpler to tend the growing crops.”

  “Where will you go from here?” Hilda asked me.

  “Home. Neither of us have had much rest since we battled the griffon. From there, we’ll be in Vanaheim for a while.”

  “Battling a griffon sounds like quite a tale.” Patrick nodded knowingly. “Some evening, around a fire, I’d love to hear about it.”

  “We’d be happy to accommodate you.” Bjorn smiled.

  “Why Vanaheim?” Hilda raised her gray brows into question marks.

  My life was so intertwined with the coven, they had a right to know. I wasn’t certain if my new role as Dragon Heir was supposed to remain hidden, but I wasn’t about to keep a secret like that from my family.

  “It’s all right,” Bjorn urged. “Go ahead and tell them.”

  “Tell us what?” Patrick’s question held a protective edge. Bjorn wasn’t the only one who’d go down fighting to protect me, but the witches were fragile by magical standards. I wouldn’t let them take on any more danger than they already faced.

  “You already know I carry dragon blood.” I took a measured breath. “Apparently, a title comes along with that. I’m what’s called a Dragon Heir. Precisely what that means has yet to emerge, but Nidhogg—”

  “The Norse dragon, Nidhogg?” Patrick asked in a tone tinged with wonder. “Was he the one who killed all those goblins and trolls the other night?”

  “Yes to both,” Bjorn said and gestured for me to go on.

  I nodded. “Anyway, Nidhogg told me he’ll be sending dragons to teach me that side of my magic. The lessons will begin immediately.”

  “Good for you,” Leif said. “You’ve always had more magic than you’ve known what to do with.”

  “Will you be able to shapeshift?” Hilda asked breathlessly.

  I laughed. “First thing I asked too. Bjorn said no; the dragon said maybe. I’m hopeful in that regard because flying would come in so handy.”

  “Where does Vanaheim slot into things?” Patrick asked.

  “I have a cottage there,” Bjorn said. “’Tis filled with lore books and ancient scrolls. Nidhogg tasked Rowan with learning all she can about dragonkind, their history, and their magic.”

  “Do what you need to.” Patrick’s tone was solemn. “We’ll be fine now since that mother of yours isn’t breathing down our necks.”

  “Oh I won’t be gone long.” I glanced at Bjorn. “I haven’t exactly run this by you, but I was thinking maybe we could gather up a few source materials and bring them back to Earth. Once we’re done with them, we can trade them out for the next batch.”

  “We can experiment,” he said. “Some of the scrolls might not take kindly to leaving my cottage, let alone Vanaheim.”

  Hilda walked to me and gave me a long, hard hug. “I’ve always known you were destined for greatness, child. I’ve seen it when I cast my runestones and in my tea leaves.”

  I hugged her back, holding her close as her cinnamon and fennel scent soothed me. “You never told me.”

  “No reason to. I might have been wrong and gotten your hopes up for nothing.”

  Laughing, I let go of her. “Ha! My fears more like. Destined for greatness sounds like enough responsibility to crush anyone.”

  “Aye, but you’ll do just fine.” She patted my arm. “Now get moving. You’ve better things to do than to stand around chewing the fat with us.”

  “See you soon,” I said. “Where are those bins of food? May as well begin transferring them.”

  Two witches scurried around the side of the castle. When they returned, they carried hard-sided containers. I took three. Bjorn tucked two beneath one arm.

  His power, with its scent of the sea and sunbaked clay, settled around us. He built a travel spell amid a chorus of goodbyes. Inverlochy’s courtyard faded, replaced by the walls of my small chamber beneath Ben Nevis.

  “Wow! Precise,” I told him. “I’m lucky if I get within a meter of the cave entrance.” I set my three bins off to one side.

  Bjorn piled his next to mine and shrugged. “Once I’ve been somewhere, I can always find it again. Oh my. Someone was expecting us back.”

  My eyes followed his gaze, and I saw a small loaf of bread, chokecherry preserves, a tureen that probably held soup or gruel, and the ever present pot of tea. Crossing to the food, I knelt and lifted the lid of the teapot, inhaling the fragrant herbal mixture.

  “This is Tansy’s work,” I said. “Come eat.”

  I settled on the floor in front of the low table. Bjorn sat across from me. For long moments, we ate without talking. Finally, he said, “Toward the end there, when Odin and the Celts were blood bonding, did you notice a change in the feel of their magic?”

  I set down the cup I’d been drinking vegetable soup from and thought about it. When thinking didn’t get me very far, I reconstructed the scene with a touch of magic, and smiled.

  “Yes. A definite change, although at the time I chalked it up to being tired and emotionally wrung out.” Picking up a piece of bread made with potato flour, I sopped it into the soup and ate it. “Why did you ask?”

  “Mostly to reassure myself I hadn’t imagined it,” he said around a mouthful of food. Once he’d swallowed, he added, “It was really kind of Tansy to leave this for us.”

  “It’s her way of doing what she could to ensure our safe return. I’m certain the food was imbued with witch charms meant to draw us back.”

  He scooted around the table until he sat next to me, and then he draped an arm around my shoulder drawing me against him. I should have pulled away, but he felt so good. Warm. Solid. Caring oozed out of every pore. The combination was impossible to resist.

  He tucked my head into the hollow between his neck and shoulder. Desire for him kindled. It had never really gone away. He stroked the side of my face and my tangled hair. If I’d been a cat, I’d have been purring.

  As if on cue, Mort ambled into the room, tail high, ears pricked forward. With a heartfelt meow, he vaulted into my lap and made himself at home. For once, he didn’t chide me for being gone, just made it obvious he was happy to see me.

  Bjorn ran a calloused thumb across my lips. Despite my thoughts from earlier, the ones where I’d predicted being lost forever if we made love, I angled my head so my lips hovered near his.

  Our breath mingled, hot and sweet, before he kissed me. Nothing gentle about this kiss. His mouth crushed down on mine; his tongue thrust into my mouth. Somehow, I ended up crosswise in his lap, arms around his neck, as we kept right on kissing each other.

  Mort did a bit of clawing for purchase, but he clung tenaciously to his spot on my lap even though he was smushed between our bodies.

  We traded deep kisses for little light butterfly ones. Sometimes, I strung kisses over to his ear. Sometimes he ran his mouth down my neck. He cupped one of my breasts and rubbed the nipple. The flutters in my belly turned to a torrent of lust. Reaching between us, I pulled my tunic up and out of the way to give him contact with my bare skin.

  His cock swelled and hardened against my thigh.

  Breath burned my lungs as my heart rate accelerated. If we were going to stop, we had to do it now, before my entire brain turned to a lust-saturated quagmire.

  Bjorn stopped what he’d been doing, moving a hand from one breast to the other and flicking my nipples with his fingers. He raised his mouth from mine. “You’re uncertain about this.” His words were gentle, not accusatory at all.

  I nodded, not sure how to articulate what I needed to say.

  He dipped the hand that had been caressing my breasts to the vee between my legs. “We don’t need to make love until you’re ready. You’ve been through so much, I’m amazed you haven’t made a break for a borderworld. Let me pleasure you, darling. And then we’ll sleep.”

  I should have said no, but heat thrummed b
etween my thighs. I was so close to release, I’d come embarrassingly quickly. The sensation of his hand on my vulva, his fingers drumming a tattoo on my sensitive nub were impossible to resist. My legs separated, and I undid the fastenings on my pants to give him better access.

  Mort had twisted out from between us and lay on the floor still purring.

  Bjorn pushed my pants down enough to touch me. He inscribed small circles around my engorged nub, murmuring endearments. I wanted him to rub harder, faster, but he teased me, tantalized me. Brought me almost to the edge, and backed me off until I thought I’d die if I didn’t come.

  In a single movement that I didn’t follow at all because I was focused on the heat pouring through me, he rose to his feet with me still in his arms, and laid me on the bed. Next, he knelt between my legs and covered my clit with his mouth. Fire surrounded me as he licked and sucked. I threaded my fingers into the silk of his hair and rocked my pelvis against his face.

  The climax that had spooled in my belly, eluding me, crashed over and through me. I came so hard I may have blacked out as I turned into a panting, screaming, writhing mess with Bjorn’s mouth still attached to my clit.

  A second climax seeded itself from the first. Now that I was on a roll, it blasted through me with all the subtlety of a runaway train. He didn’t show any signs of stopping, so I wriggled from beneath him with an agenda of my own.

  “Ye’re not done,” he said in Norse. “I promised ye a hundred of those.”

  “Not all in the same day,” I panted and crawled to where I could unlace his breeches. It was awkward, so I pushed until he lay on the bed and turned him over. His cock was hard, hot, and heavy as it sprang into my hand.

  I swirled my tongue around the velvety head of him, licking fluid that had pooled from the opening. He tasted of musk and salt and desire. Still so aroused all I could think about was sex, I took as much of him as I could into my mouth, making up the difference with my hands.

  He groaned and made deliciously male noises as I worked him between my hands and mouth, paying special attention to the sensitive head. He wove his fingers beneath my hair, holding my head as he fucked my mouth. I may have cheated and added magic to heighten his pleasure, but I wanted to give as good as I’d gotten.

  I knew when his control shattered. I felt it go as he abandoned all pretense of going slow. I sucked hard, tightened my grip on his shaft as I willed him to climax. His cock quivered in my hands just before shudders ran through it. It swelled even bigger than it was, and semen pumped into my mouth. I swallowed and swallowed, until there was no more.

  With his cock still buried in my mouth, he reached for me, moving me around until he could tongue my sex one more time. My pants had slid down a few more centimeters, and he jammed a hand between my legs, slid two fingers inside me, and licked my swollen nub.

  Third time’s always a charm. I came fast because bringing him off had been such a high I was almost there anyway. Waves of sensation swept through me as I sucked hard on his still-erect shaft.

  We collapsed against each other, breathing hard. I don’t remember how we ended up lying side by side so we could kiss again, but we did. “You taste like me,” I murmured.

  “Aye, and ye taste of my jism,” he said, still in Norse as he smoothed hair off my sweaty face. He kissed my forehead. “However we love one another, ’tis a gift.”

  I tried out combinations of words, and opted for the simplest ones. “Part of me wants us to be together. Another part is scared as shit.”

  “We have all the time in the world, darling. Ye’ll let me know when you’re ready.”

  I nestled into his arms. I didn’t believe his assessment about having lots of time. Every magical sense I had was screaming time was running out, but I didn’t want to ruin the moment by saying so. What we’d shared was mystical, magical. It may not have bound us in the same way as actually making love, but it wasn’t far off, either.

  He cradled the back of my head in one hand. “Sleep. When we wake, we’ll go to Vanaheim.”

  I didn’t need encouragement. My eyelids were heavy, and I couldn’t have stayed awake if I’d tried. Being surrounded by his arms and legs and the scents of the sea and sunbaked clay made me feel safe. Alarm bells tolled, but weakly and from a great distance. Nothing and nowhere was safe, and I’d be an idiot to forget it.

  * * *

  It’s so tough to decide how to break these long tales into three books, but this feels like as good a spot as any to end this one. A lot will happen in book two as Rowan learns about her magic, the threats to Midgard escalate, and Bjorn and Rowan’s relationship hits a few rough spots. She’s not the only one carrying secrets around her birth, and his may well tear them apart.

  Dragon Heir continues in Dragon’s Blood. Read on for a sample.

  Book Description, Dragon’s Blood

  After discovering she’s half dragon, Rowan figures it can’t be any worse than being related to the Celts. That’s the thing about assumptions, though. They come round and bite you in the ass.

  * * *

  The second book in a magic-laced, fast-paced, fantasy trilogy. With dragons.

  * * *

  I’d rather fight than study, but I’m stuck poring over dusty scrolls. I promised I’d learn about the dragon part of my magic, but I’m having a hell of a hard time believing there’s some concealed strain of power just waiting for me to kindle it. Meanwhile, my friends the witches are playing fast and loose with remaining hidden.

  My Celtic kin won’t bother them anymore—at least I don’t think they will. But far worse things rove Earth than the Celtic gods. The Breaking has developed an energy all its own. The longer it runs wild, the harder it will be to contain.

  Soon, very soon, no magic in the Nine Worlds will be enough to counteract it. Once that happens, the few remaining mortals will go first, but the rest of us won’t be far behind them.

  Dragon’s Blood, Chapter One, Rowan

  Fire painted the sky and the ground, so much fire I saw red even through my closed lids. Keeping my eyes shut was a very bad idea, though. Dragons surrounded me. Maybe not more than a dozen, but they were so freaking big, it felt like more. They were ostensibly teaching me how to fight, except I already possessed that particular talent. In between salvos, they chittered merrily among themselves like a pack of oversized crows. Occasionally, I picked up bits and pieces of their mind speech.

  Coming out victorious in a good scrap has always been high on my list. I haven’t had a hell of a lot of choice in the matter. Mostly, it was fight or be vanquished. It’s not possible to kill me, but there are many, many punishments that would make me long for my own death.

  Anyway, it surprised and annoyed the crap out of me when a red dragon who hadn’t introduced himself—herself?—announced that today we’d shore up my battle talents. If he’d asked, I’d have replied, “No thank you.”

  I’m at the bottom of their pecking order, though. Probably less than the bottom. No one ever asks me jack crap.

  A cloud of ash and smoke billowed around me, followed by trumpeting. Clearly, one of my tormentors—er, teachers—had discovered my attention was wandering. Wracked by coughing from all the smoke, I resorted to telepathy.

  “Stop!”

  Ysien, one of the blue dragons, hooted laughter. “Aye. And the enemy will surely cease if ye but tell them ye’ve had enough.”

  No one made fun of me. No one.

  Trapped between embarrassment and fury, I made a grab for Bjorn’s power. He had to be out there somewhere beyond the impenetrable blanket of smoke. We were amazing fighting together, but today for whatever reason, the dragons had apparently told him to sit this one out. He’s not the type to take orders, so they must have forced him to remain off the field.

  Blech. Dragons.

  When Nidhogg, the chief Norse dragon who was conveniently absent today, told me I had to learn about the dragon half of my blood, I’d reluctantly agreed. I’d had zero idea about the non-Celtic sector
of my parentage until a scant handful of days ago. Anyway, at the time Nidhogg floated the idea about tutors for me, he’d intimated a single dragon would show up each day.

  I had no fucking idea why I merited the attentions of so many. Were they bored? Had they come to examine the one and only Dragon Heir ever who was a mix of Celtic and dragon bloodlines?

  Was one of them my father?

  So far, everyone had been closemouthed about that little tidbit. So secretive, I wasn’t expecting a dragon to burst out of the ether and scoop me up in his scaled forelegs, greeting me as fathers did in my imagination. The dragons had known about me since my birth, and no one bothered to show up with flowers and a pile of excuses about why they’d left me in Ceridwen’s care. Or non-care, which was closer to the way things played out.

  My thoughts may have taken off at Mach 10, but I can think and fight. My current mission was lobbing jolts of defensive magic to clear a circle around me. My bid to locate Bjorn had failed, so the dragons’ barrier between us must cut both ways. If he could have reached me, he would have.

  Bjorn Nighthorse is another mystery, but I didn’t have time to pick it apart right now. With his ice-blond hair and eyes like a restless ocean, he’s so striking it’s sometimes tough for me to look at him. Feels like I’ve fallen off a cliff into a dangerous no-man’s land. One where the only way out is to wrap my body around his and never, never let him go.

  My defensive perimeter had expanded to a ring a meter wide. Within its boundaries, the smoke had almost cleared. Being able to get a full breath into my lungs helped.

  I resorted to the same strategy I’ve always used. Nothing fancy about it. When I’m surrounded, I pick ’em off one at a time. I live in a body that looks human, but most of the bastards I fight are bigger than me, or they have thick hides or horns or scales or other impediments—like poison—that make it tough to do anything straightforward. Like reaching inside them to stop their hearts. Hell, some of them, like trolls, don’t even have hearts. Goddess only knows what keeps them upright.