Dragon Maid (22 page)

Doubts that had plagued him, silly qualms about work and where they’d live and how they’d manage, fell away. All that mattered was right here in his arms. “Tell her thank you.”

“Tell her yourself,”
Tarika’s voice sounded in his head.

“My heart’s so full, I scarcely know where to begin.”
Jonathan shut his eyes for a moment to focus his thoughts. When he opened them, he knew the best thing would be to keep it simple.
“Thank you for sharing your life with me. I’m most humbly grateful and will do everything I can to be worthy of both of you.”

“Ye picked well,”
Tarika told Britta.

“Aye, I know. See you verra soon, bond mate.”

“The Callanish stones four days hence.”

“We shall be there,”
Britta concurred.

Her mage light moved closer and dimmed. She ran her hands down his face and shoulders. “Sleep, my love. Tarika and I will take first watch.”

He felt her spell but didn’t fight it. His eyelids grew heavy. “Wake me so you get some sleep too.”

“Aye, I will. I doona need much rest.”

Cradled against her body, Jonathan slid toward sleep. His last conscious thoughts were of riding astride Tarika with Britta in front of him and the wind whipping against his face.
Dragons, magic, shifters, goddesses. I was born for this.

“Aye, love, that ye were. And we will challenge your magic to its utmost, but not until tomorrow at the earliest.”
The sweet chimes of Britta’s laughter lulled him to sleep.

Arianrhod moved briskly up steps leading to the Celtic gods’ main meeting room in Inverlochy Castle on the south bank of the River Lochy. To human eyes, it lay in ruins, but magic could resurrect most anything. The Morrigan pranced along by her side in the form of a teenaged girl, blonde curls bouncing, silken skirts rustling against the wooden risers. Arianrhod blew out a tense breath. The Morrigan hadn’t given her a whit of trouble, but Arianrhod was drained from keeping her guard up. She’d been ready for anything, from an outright attack to the Morrigan pulling power and making a run for it, but the only thing the battle crow had done was to don her current form a few minutes ago.

Arianrhod had called the other Celts telepathically. While they might not all be here to meet her and the battle crow, at least some of them would. She hoped. She was on fairly shaky ground after the revelation about her true-born, half-human son.
If I’m verra lucky, the others willna hold it against me. After all, ’twas many years ago.

She glared at the Morrigan. “Why’d ye pick a maid’s illusion?” The Morrigan shrugged. For a moment, the expression on her face was anything but what a fifteen-year-old innocent would wear. Understanding dawned. “I get it.” Arianrhod grunted. “Ye think if ye appear childlike , virginal yet slightly slutty, ’twill go easier with you.”

“Well.” The Morrigan licked her lips suggestively. “They are mostly men.”

And easily sidetracked.
“If ye’re verra skilled,” Arianrhod didn’t bother to temper her sarcasm, “mayhap ye can get a battle going in our council chamber.”

“Oooh, doona tempt me.”

Arianrhod pulled open the twelve-foot high oaken door. “Get in there,” she hissed and followed the battle crow into a huge chamber decorated with crystals and natural stone in every hue of the rainbow. Rich carpets covered the stone floors, thick wool woven with depictions of Celtic glory. A fire burned in an enormous hearth that took up one end of the room. Ceridwen sat before the fire stirring her cauldron. A handful of other Celts looked up from where they sat.

“Sister.” Gwydion got slowly to his feet. “What have we here?”

Arianrhod gave the Morrigan a push. “Get yourself to the witness seat. Ye’ve been trouble enough.”

“As ye say, mistress.” The lovely girl-woman that was the Morrigan dropped a curtsey and sashayed up the center aisle, hips swaying provocatively. She pushed her blonde curls over her shoulders and settled herself onto a plain, oak chair on a raised dais.

“What we have here,” Arianrhod strode to her brother’s side, “is the Morrigan.”

“Aye.” He nodded tiredly. “I can see through her illusion, but why have ye brought her to the tribunal?”

“Let us do this formally.” Arianrhod swept past him and up to the front of the room. She turned and faced the Celtic gods, disappointed so few had heeded her call. “I found the Morrigan in a future time. She’d kidnapped two dragons and had them chained to a tower with iron.”

A collective gasp spread through the room. Andraste, goddess of victory, surged to her feet and shook her blonde hair out of her face. “Is this true?” she demanded.

“Och.” The maid masquerading as the Morrigan cast her eyes downward. “I am afraid it is. I doona know quite what came over me, but when Arianrhod pointed out the error of my ways, I freed the dragons immediately. And I also helped do away with two dragon shifters, who’d actually chained the dragons to that tower.”

“Two dragon shifters ye’d co-opted to do your bidding hundreds of years ago,” Arianrhod inserted smoothly.

“It scarcely matters.” The Morrigan’s voice was sweet, melodic, and laced with compulsion. “They are dead and their dragons’ souls safely ensconced in Fire Mountain.”

Ceridwen rose from her place next to her cauldron. She stalked in front of the Morrigan. “Enough shenanigans. Take one of your common forms. I doona wish to look upon this new creation of yours.”

“As ye will.” The maid shimmered; the battle crow took form where she’d sat. “There.” The crow cocked her head to one side. “Am I more…acceptable?”

Ceridwen turned to face her fellow Celts. “The Morrigan admits she broke the covenant betwixt us and the dragons. What shall her punishment be?”

Arianrhod took a deep breath. Her gaze raked the small group. While she was grateful for Ceridwen’s assistance, she had a hard time believing the Morrigan would suffer at all for what she’d done.
We are not good at meting out punishment to our own.

Andraste stepped forward. “Found any good battles lately, crow?”

The Morrigan cawed. “Nay. ’Tis part of the problem. I grew bored and sought to entertain myself.”

Something in Arianrhod snapped. “Mayhap, afore you pass judgment,” she said to the Celts, “you should travel into the future. Not far. Fifty years will do. Take a good, hard look at a dying planet. All that is the Morrigan’s doing. What she isna saying is that Lachlan, a dragon shifter, found the woman prophesied to stand by his side and defeat her. All her maneuvering has been to prevent it from happening. First she targeted Lachlan’s woman, then Lachlan, and finally, his dragon.”

“It appears we need more information.” Ceridwen folded her hands in front of her.

“Aye.” Andraste nodded. “I agree.”

“Fine.” Arawn stepped forward. “We shall reconvene in one week’s time.”

“What would you have me do between now and then?” the Morrigan asked in honeyed tones.

“Whatever ye would,” Arawn replied. “We have no way to imprison you.”

“Aye, and we can find you if ye doona return.” Andraste turned her silver eyes on the Morrigan.

“Och aye, and then I’m free to leave?” The crow took an anticipatory step forward.

Ceridwen made shooing motions with both hands. “Please. I find I prefer the air in this room without you in it.”

Incredulous that all her hard work had been for naught, Arianrhod watched as the Morrigan drew power and vanished. She turned on her peers. “I canna believe—”

“Ye canna believe what?” Gwydion strode to her side. “We have no way to imprison her. We canna kill her.”

“Ye could send her to Fire Mountain for the rest of time,” Arianrhod sputtered.

“Only if the dragons agreed.” Her brother sounded annoyed to be bothered. “’Tis enough for one day. We shall see how we are feeling a week from now.”

Arianrhod plodded toward the end of the chamber, so dispirited all she wanted to do was find her bed and sleep for days. Tense from riding herd on the Morrigan—and for nothing, it appeared—every bone and muscle in her body complained. She hadn’t expected much, but this was far less than even her most pessimistic imaginings.

“Sister.” Gwydion’s voice stopped her.

She didn’t turn around. “Aye.”

“I would talk with you further about your half-human son.”

“Later, brother. Much later.” Filled with sudden purpose that infused needed energy into her aching bones, Arianrhod summoned power and was gone. She had to warn her half-human son and his dragon shifter consort. Lachlan and Kheladin too. And the witches. They had no idea the Morrigan was still on the loose. As she traveled, her thoughts took form. Maybe she’d stay with Jonathan and Britta for a span of days—if they’d have her. Just long enough to teach Jonathan more about his magic and to protect them in case the Morrigan, swept up in a need for revenge, decided to call.

Ann Gimpel is a clinical psychologist, with a Jungian bent.  She’s also a mountaineer at heart. A lifelong aficionado of the unusual, she began writing speculative fiction on a bet. Since then her short fiction has appeared in a number of webzines and anthologies. Paranormal romance and urban fantasy novels are available in e-format and print. Look for new books coming soon: Fortune’s Scion, To Love a Highland Dragon, Earth’s Requiem, and Earth’s Blood.

http://anngimpel.blogspot.com

“The alleged carnage of the werewolf pales in comparison with the actual cruelty of the human race.  The nature of the wolf is gentle, pacific; the history of mankind, especially towards its most vulnerable members, is anything but.  In view of that fact, any savagery attributable to the werewolf must be seen to derive, not from the nature of the wolf, but rather from the nature of the man.”

- Nielsen Johns, author of
Of Wolves And Men

She looked up and saw the wolves.

Once again, the back yard was wall-to-wall wolves, illuminated in the perimeter lights, with more emerging from the woods.  The lights accentuated the shimmery glow in their eyes, even more prominent, now that it was night.  Unlike before, none was sitting or lying down.  They were all walking towards the house and they didn’t stop at the flagstone patio as they had before.  They kept walking, right up to the double glass doors.

Annette sat mesmerized. The last time the wolves had appeared, a part of her had wanted to go out and join them.

Then, the impossible happened.

Annette had seen movies where people oozed through a wall or some other solid barrier, courtesy of special effects which ranged from masterful to cheesy.  In most instances, the outline of the person going through the wall went all watery and wavy, like those flashback sequences on TV shows.  It might be a neat effect, but it didn’t look real.

What was happening here was real; impossible, but real.

The wolves were coming into the room, through the glass doors, as if they weren’t there.

There were no watery, wavy outlines.  There was no broken glass.  The wolves just came as if there was no barrier, even though Annette could see her own amazed reflection in the glass.

They didn’t stop until they reached the couch where she’d been sitting.

One wolf opened its jaws and took her right wrist in its mouth.  Another wolf did the same on her left.  Two more grasped her lower calves in the same manner.  Others, her forearms.

They applied no pressure whatsoever.  There was no pain.  Somehow, Annette sensed that this was not an attack; in some primitive way, she understood that these animals were attempting to forge some type of rapport with her. 

Her mind was awhirl with a thousand impressions.  Aside from the strangeness of what was happening to her, something about it seemed
right
.  She knew that she should be afraid, under normal circumstances, she
would
be afraid, but now, for reasons she couldn’t fathom, she was not.  She felt the points of their teeth through her blouse.  She had some vague recollection that a wolf’s jaws have a biting capacity of 1,500 pounds per square inch.  Those teeth could shred her flesh and crush her bones, but she knew that that would not happen. 

Eight powerful wolves were holding onto her and she was not afraid.

The wolves began tugging at her.  Their tugs were gentle at first, then more insistent, but never with any force that could hurt her.  If she resisted, they ceased their attempts for the moment, then resumed them again, always gentle, yet always persistent.

Follow us
, they seemed to say.

I will.

The wolves continued their tugging and Annette felt her body moving in concert with them.  She was standing, but had no recollection of rising from the couch.  She was walking – had to be walking, since she was moving forward – but had no awareness of moving her legs.

She was no longer in the rec room, She had accompanied the wolves out of doors, but this was not her patio, her back yard, or even the woods beyond her property.  The trees surrounding her were not the Ponderosa Pines, Quaking Aspens, or Western Larches that adorned the mountain trails she knew so well.  In fact, there were no trails, no paths.  Only tall fir trees covered with snow, looming out of the snow-covered ground.

The wolves continued walking and she moved with them.  They were no longer holding onto her, tugging at her.  Their will was her will.  Where they were leading, she was following.

She looked up at the sky.  This night in Homestead had been clear.  The sky was full of stars.  The sky over her head in this place was a consistent, dull gray.

What was happening?  Where was she?  Where was she going?