Forbidden Kisses

by Laurel O'Donnell

  “What has disturbed them?” she asked.

  Ormarr’s stare slid to the doorway. “Him.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  I am the only one who can save Laila. I am not afraid of the dragon. The words took up a chant in Patrick’s head to steady the quake in his legs as he stepped from the gently rocking boat onto the pebbled shore. One of the two men accompanying him shoved a lit torch in his direction and Patrick grabbed it. The man quickly regained his seat as the other pushed the oars against a rock, propelling them away from the beach, leaving Patrick to find his courage. Alone.

  The words to call them back were on the tip of his tongue, but his voice didn’t work, and the men and boat were quickly lost in the heavy mist that roiled over the water and deadened the slap-slap of waves on the rocks. Fear slid in an icy wave up his spine as he faced the enormous rock that was the centerpiece of the forbidden isle. Mist absorbed the golden glow of his torch, stealing its power. Even with limited sight, he was terrified.

  Things live here. Things I dinnae care to know about. He took a step back, then halted, a curious revelation blooming in his mind.

  I am one of those things. I am a ghost.

  He’d already died. His agreement with Soni, the 79’s wee witch, would end in little more than a day. Unless Soni had set him up to fail, all he had to do was provide the courage to defy Harald and save Laila. Surely Soni would do the rest.

  Reassured, Patrick made his way cautiously over the pebbles, skirting the large rocks that regularly birthed smaller stones and shards during the fierce mid-winter storms. Bitter wind flailed at his back, driving him forward, head bent, toward the cavern’s opening. His torch flickered, the damp wind threatening to douse the blaze—and Patrick’s newly-won confidence. With scarcely a pause to reconsider his options, he entered the cave.

  His senses vanished. The keening wind fell as abruptly as if he’d closed a door. The torch fluttered, caught between burn and fizzle. Dampness, enclosed in the narrow confines of the cavern’s entrance, clogged his nostrils, replacing the bracing scent of salt air with something dull and murky.

  Patrick hesitated, his eyes growing accustomed to the light beaming reluctantly from the torch. Water glistened on the dark stone walls all about him, flashing the glow back in a confusing manner. His ears picked up the faint hum of the wind outside, and he heard the slow drip, drip of mist as it collected on the ceiling and fell a drop at a time to the floor.

  Senses restored, Patrick drew a determined breath and advanced deeper into the cave, scanning the walls for something familiar. Something to tell him which direction to turn. He hadn’t paid a lot of attention as he’d followed Laila from the cave earlier. But the island didn’t appear to be so very large. How hard could it be to find Laila and a dragon in such a place?

  Puddles glistening as black as a moonless night dotted the floor of the passage. Patrick edged cautiously around one, only to slip into another. His leg plunged knee-deep into the hole before he realized ’twas no puddle but a deep fissure with no bottom he could see.

  His shocked gasp thudded woodenly in the narrow confines of the corridor, emphasizing the closeness of what was little more than a tunnel barely large enough to allow him to stand upright.

  How does a dragon fit through here?

  He slowly waved his torch about—which he had surprisingly not dropped when he stumbled—seeking additional height or width to the passage. But the stone scarcely cleared his head and narrowly missed grazing the span of his shoulders. With a dissatisfied shrug, he trudged ahead.

  If there is a sheen, ’tis likely a puddle—though no guarantee its depth. No sheen means no water, only a hole. Eyes down, he studied the slippery path ahead. A sigh of air told him he’d reached a cross point. He stared into the darkness, willing himself to remember if he should turn here or not. But there was naught to indicate if the new passage was the correct one. The black walls were the same. Water dripped from the ceiling over Patrick’s head. There was no gaping hole in the floor to keep him from taking that path. The decision was his alone.

  Defeat tugged at Patrick’s shoulders. I cannae go back. Harald would only send someone else. Yet I cannae go ahead—I could be wandering inside this rock for years. Or until Soni comes for me. I will be the only ghost returned to the moor. Everyone will know I failed. Perhaps Soni cannae find me here.

  Such faint hope only deepened Patrick’s frustration. Clearly, he was not a hero. Not in 1746 on Culloden Moor where the hopes of the Jacobites were dashed beyond recall, and not now, centuries earlier where he’d been given a second chance.

  The grip on his torch wavered. Sparks burst outward as a drop of water sizzled on the charred end of the stick. Patrick glanced about, new worry that the damp would extinguish his torch, leaving him stranded in the dark, overriding his morose thoughts.

  The sparks died in the dank air, but others floated just ahead.

  Floated?

  Puzzled, Patrick tiptoed silently forward, gaze intent on the curious behavior of the wee lights. They lingered just out of reach, taunting him, leading him deeper into the cave. A tinkle of sound caused him to peer harder at the sparks, but their movement defeated his eyesight.

  What are they?

  They reached another turn, another intersection, and the dancing lights did not hesitate as they flitted around the corner. Patrick hurried to keep up, winding his way through a maze of corridors, following the lights, pushing back the thought that he’d never find his way out again. He was a ghost and Soni would come for him soon.

  He skirted a large rock, barking his shin painfully against a jagged edge. Stumbling, he glanced up to see the tiny specks of light hover at what appeared to be another opening. Taking a breath to slow his racing heartbeat, he advanced a slow step at a time, torch held high.

  “Dinnae fash, wee ones. I willnae hurt ye. I wish to know what ye are.” He kept his voice soft, hoping to not send the sparks scattering once again. A chime-like noise reached his ears, as though the wee lights urged him on. Or scolded him.

  Wonderment stole over him as he approached. Tiny wings, sheer yet golden in the glow of his torch, beat the air, attached to perfectly-formed bodies small enough to sit upon the awl he’d once used to punch holes in shoe leather. As a group, the wee ones pointed inside the room, darting over his head, half-shooing, half-leading him inside.

  With a gentle laugh at their antics, Patrick stepped over the threshold. And stopped dead in his tracks.

  “Saints preserve me! ’Tis true!”

  * * *

  Laila stared at the man in the doorway. “Patrick?” She climbed to her feet, brushing her hands on her skirt as she placed the torch in its bracket. Golden light spilled over the room, accented by the sparkling pixies engaged in intricate flight patterns high above their heads.

  Patrick did not reply, nor did he glance her way. Eyes wide with wonderment, he stepped deeper into the room, then paused, turning in a slow circle as he surveyed the chamber.

  “What is this place?”

  Laila frowned at his awe-struck voice. “Ormarr’s lair,” she replied. “Have ye never been in a dragon’s den before?”

  He must have missed her sarcasm, for he didn’t flinch. “Nae. I’ve heard tales, but this is fantastic.”

  Laila shrugged, casting her gaze over the countless piles of gold, silver and jewels. Though she knew their touch to be cold, they glowed with warm invitation beneath the torchlight. Faerie light twinkled off the faceted surfaces, beckoning Patrick to partake in their greed and avarice.

  “Does the clan know about this?” he asked, finally turning his attention—at least half of it—to Laila.

  She rolled her eyes. “Do ye think a mere dragon would keep them away if they did?” she countered.

  At the mention of the dragon, Patrick startled. “Where is he? Are we safe?”

  “Safe enough,” Laila hedged, knowing he would soon see Ormarr, but hoping to give the dragon a bit more time. “Why are ye here?” she
asked again.

  Patrick’s face hardened. “I was sent to kill ye.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Wonderment and awe vanished beneath the harsh reality of Patrick’s mission. Muscles tensed across his shoulders and he ignored the twitterings from the pixies as he focused on Laila’s shocked face. Her beautiful eyes stared at him, wide and fathomless as the ocean.

  “Why? Why did they send ye?”

  “I am the only one they know who has been in the caverns and returned,” Patrick answered steadily. “I came so others wouldnae.”

  “Ye can kill me?” Laila’s brows slanted mockingly, her voice dropping with skepticism. “Are ye certain?”

  Patrick startled. “Och, no! I am here to help ye escape.” He canted his head toward the door. “They think I will kill the dragon and bring ye back so justice may be done,” he replied, repeating Harald’s words of reassurance rob the distastefulness from the job he required of Patrick.

  “Justice?” Her voice slid scathingly through the air. “Who sold ye that pack of lies? My guess is ’twas Harald—he is the leader of the group. His idea of justice is to kill what he fears.” Her eyes flashed. “He fears me.”

  Patrick cast a look about the cavern, beyond the twinkling treasure, seeking a glimpse of the dragon. “Where is he?”

  “Here.”

  Patrick’s head snapped around at the very human-sounding voice to his right. A man who could have been mid-aged or ancient—and obviously injured, his arm tucked close to his side and his stance none too steady—leaned against a stalagmite that stretched upward into the darkness.

  “Do I surprise ye?” the man drawled, his voice amused. But there was no humor in the hard, glittering eyes or the thin-pressed lips.

  Realizing he stared open-mouthed, Patrick shut his jaw with a click and squared his shoulders, marshalling his wits. “Ye dinnae look much like a dragon.”

  “Nevertheless, I assure ye, I am Ormarr the dragon.” He shrugged lightly. “Or Ormarr the Terrible. It would depend upon who ye have heard tell of me.”

  Patrick’s gaze swept to Laila. She gave a solemn nod. “Aye. He is the dragon the people fear.”

  “But I saw him—the dragon—it had wings—huge . . . .” Patrick’s voice trailed off, terribly confused.

  “I am a shifter, lad,” Ormarr told him. “I am a dragon who can take human form.”

  “He isnae as terrible as Harald has told ye.” Laila placed a palm gently on Patrick’s arm.

  Patrick blinked. This was beyond his imagination. A dragon that was also human?

  “Everything will be fine, Patrick. The lads are over-eager to place blame for the winter shortages ahead and follow Harald’s ravings. I will return home in a day or two, and all will be as before.”

  Laila’s soft eyes encouraged him to believe her, trust her. Such a lovely lass. Her da . . . . His eyes widened with dismay as he recalled the man cutting his daughter loose to her fate. Her terrible fate.

  Patrick stepped closer, drawing their attention, sorrow filling his heart for his next words. “I asked yer da if he wouldnae speak on behalf of his own daughter. He told me ye must live with yer decisions. Ye cannae go home.” He shifted his gaze to Ormarr. “How could he give up his own daughter to a witch hunt?”

  Laila bristled. “My da—”

  “Eirik isnae yer da.” Ormarr spoke firmly over Laila’s heated words. She tilted her head, brows drawn together in confusion.

  “What did ye say?”

  * * *

  Laila stared at Ormarr, ignoring Patrick’s question. “What do ye mean, Ormarr? He and my ma . . . .”

  Ormarr gave a dismissive shake of his head. “Aye, he married yer ma. Only weeks before ye were born. Eirik had his heart set on becoming the clan’s leader after yer grandda passed. Marrying yer ma was the easiest way, and he dinnae care if it meant raising ye as his own or not.” Ormarr sighed. “At least, I’d thought he dinnae mind.”

  Laila approached the old dragon, concern for her friend evident in her gentle movements. She placed the back of her hand on his cheek.

  He snorted and shied away. “I dinnae have a fever, lass. I’m nae fifl. I know who yer da is.”

  Something light, akin to hope, fluttered in Laila’s heart. “Nae, ye arenae an idiot. Ye are the smartest man I know. Will ye tell me?”

  Ormarr leaned closer and pressed his forehead against hers. “Ye are my daughter, Laila. My beautiful child of the night.”

  Suddenly it made sense. “Da—Eirik—had few kind words for me. I always thought he wished I’d been born a lad. But he treats everyone with arrogance and disrespect. He is a man who should have been employed at more menial tasks, not one needing brain power and a sense of responsibility.”

  “Ye shouldnae speak so of Eirik. He has managed to keep the clan safe and fed these past years.” Ormarr chided Laila as he straightened, but a small smile softened his face. “Though the absence of Vikings has been more by my hand than his.”

  He canted his head to one side, eyes gazing tenderly at Laila. “Yer ma and I loved each other, but I couldnae give her a home, and ’twas nae possible to raise a family in a cave with a dragon for a da. ’Twas a difficult decision she made, and I promised to stay away, hoping to make things easier for her. But she died when ye were six summers old, and I returned for a glimpse of ye. Ye had my heart from that moment on, and I am happy to give my life for ye now.”

  He tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “That is what will happen, ye know. I cannae defend myself for long once they defeat the maze. And ye will leave me behind. I can help ye much more from here. I would only slow ye down, and then we’d both be caught.”

  Sudden tears blinded her. Tears for the gift of knowledge and her true identity. Tears for the pain she knew Ormarr felt—both in his body and in his heart. Tears for the truth tearing her apart.

  Ormarr would die tonight.

  * * *

  A lump rose in Patrick’s throat. He stretched a hand toward Laila, wanting to distract her before her pain claimed his heart.

  “Laila?” Her name wafted from his mouth, tasting of beauty and promise. She lifted her head, brushing tears from her cheeks. “Will ye allow me to help ye?”

  The right corner of her lips quirked to the side, but she didn’t quite manage a smile. “For too long they have blamed the dragon for things he hasnae done. Yet he has been my friend for many years.” She gazed at Ormarr, a combination of deep satisfaction and compassion in her eyes. “Though he hunts far from here for his meals—what sense would it make to despoil his own land?—and takes care none see him now, they remember the auld legends, and the mists rising from the forbidden isle help ensure none dare enter the caves.”

  “But why would they seek to name ye a witch?”

  “There is such honesty in ye, Patrick.” This time the smile came gently to her face. “Ye are full of kindness and see nae reason others should lie and cheat. Harald has wished to marry me since I was a child—likely coveting the leader’s position as my da—Eirik—once did. But I have refused him, and a couple of years ago, did so in such a manner that called into question his honor and intentions. It was not well-done of me, and Harald took it hard.

  “A few weeks later, Harald followed me into the woods as I collected herbs. I know he had plans to harm me, but Gregor—my dearest childhood friend—had also followed. I managed to convince Gregor that Harald would not dare touch me, with him as my protector. So, Gregor merely frightened Harald. Surprisingly, the two are still friends of a sort. Harald blames me for Gregor’s actions.”

  “I considered burning Harald’s house to ashes,” Ormarr rumbled, sounding more like a dragon than a man. “’Tis too late now.”

  “Ye would have killed him?” Patrick squeaked, his bravery sitting very low as he stared at the man who could have easily towered over him—had he been able to stand upright. “What happened to ye?” he asked in an abrupt change of subject, curiosity overtaking him as the man swayed on his feet.

>   Ormarr grumbled and pushed away from the stalagmite. His form wavered, his outline blurring and Laila gasped.

  “Harald learned the truth of the dragon yester eve,” came Ormarr’s grunted reply.

  “I come here often, seeking herbs and time to visit with Ormarr,” Laila interjected. “I can guess what Harald planned this time, for he was armed with a sword. As he approached me, Ormarr-the-dragon swooped down, driving him away. Though clearly astonished, Harald drew his sword and plunged it beneath Ormarr’s wing.”

  “Damned cur!” Ormarr snarled. “I underestimated him—something I havenae done with a human in many long years.”

  “Harald had said uncomplimentary things about me before—even veiled suggestions of witchcraft if a patient recovered from a particularly injurious wound or sickness. But this time his intent was real. He swore he’d see me burn for a witch and Ormarr dispatched as well.”

  Patrick watched the viscous black fluid drop ominously from Ormarr’s side to the glistening floor. The puddle enlarging at his feet bespoke the fate before him.

  “Even I, a shoemaker, know ye are sorely injured,” Patrick murmured. “Is it true ye arenae the cruel beast Harald claimed?”

  “In the beginning of time, not long after I hatched, I earned the name Ormarr the Terrible. I was bigger, stronger, faster and more dangerous than any mere human. I disdained that which could not threaten me. There was no compassion in me, and I ruled as I chose.

  “It took a few centuries to learn nurturing over destruction, honor over pride. But there is none alive today who remembers the reality of my predations.”

  “And none who remember Vikings beyond someone else’s curse—thanks to Ormarr,” Laila added. “He has kept them from our shores for nearly sixty years.”

  “Och,” Ormarr rumbled. “Their ships supplied the wealth ye see before ye. And the hunt was enjoyable,” he added, a flash of happy memory in his eyes.