Dragon Maid (6 page)

“Well, well, terribly convenient you’re here, dragon,” a deep, accented male voice purred from behind them. “And a bonus to boot.”

Jonathan jumped away from Britta. He raised his hands to draw power; the bags in his arms crashed to the pavement. He heard the whiskey bottle shatter, and the pungent scent of spirits sharpened the damp air. He spun and narrowed his eyes, raking the area around him to see who’d spoken, but he couldn’t locate a man who matched the voice. He felt wickedness, though. The air was heavy with putrid smells, dead things left to rot. Passersby scattered like rats, gagging as they fled.

Magic thrummed, hot and intense. Jonathan’s mouth went dry. He cursed his total lack of experience. He’d never faced a magical enemy, never expected to. Worse, he’d sidestepped classes the coven offered in self-defense.
Looks as if I’m about to pay for my arrogance—and my lack of foresight.

He was focusing his magic, getting ready to release it toward where evil felt thickest, when a ripping, tearing noise grated.
What the hell was that?
He glanced about; Britta’s clothes lay in shreds.
Tarika blazed into being. The dragon lifted him with her forelegs and plunked him onto her back. “Hang on, witch. I canna battle Rhukon and watch out for you.” Her leathery green wings pumped the air; the city streets fell away.

Jesus Christ on a fucking crutch, I’m flying. On a dragon.
Wonder trumped fear. Jonathan made a grab for the horns, which grew at the base of Tarika’s neck, and held on for dear life.

The biggest crow Jonathan had ever seen rose out of nowhere, blotting out half the sky. The Morrigan. Raucous cawing blasted him. Pain lanced through his skull as his eardrums ruptured. When the battle crow spoke, it sounded as if she were underwater. “Ye’ll face me, dragon shifter. Rhukon insisted on accosting you, but his blundering has begun to annoy me.” The Morrigan focused her beady, avian gaze on Jonathan. “’Tis only the beginning, witch. Afore I’m done, ye’ll wish ye were dead.”

Fury roiled through him. Jonathan had never wanted to kill anything before, but he wanted the thing hovering before them dead. More than dead. Annihilated.

“Hang onto that thought, witch.”
Tarika’s mind voice sounded grim.
“We’re going to try to lose her.”

Power buffeted him from all sides. It sizzled in the air and stung his eyes and nose. The dragon dove and banked, avoiding bolts of magic from the Morrigan and spraying the battle crow with flames. The smell of singed feathers was thick, but the bird didn’t catch fire.
She’s probably using magic to keep herself safe.
He pulled a ward around himself, realized he couldn’t project magic through it, and let it fall. There had to be a better use for his magic. He sounded a telepathic alarm. The witches in Kheladin’s cave might not be able to hear through the dragon’s warding, but any witch within about a ten kilometer radius would respond and come to their aid.

He peered down. Surely the constabulary would respond to the ruckus, but Jonathan couldn’t see Inverness at all. It was as if they’d moved to a different plane. He couldn’t hear the city, either. Maybe the clash and crash of battle drowned everything else out, but he suspected Scotland was a long way from wherever the Morrigan and Tarika were duking it out.

“Doona just sit there like a great dolt. Help me.”

The dragon’s voice startled him. “Tarika?”

“Who the fuck else? The Morrigan sure as hell willna bother talking with you.”

She already had, but Jonathan didn’t waste words pointing it out. He started to protest he didn’t know the first thing about warfare but shut his mouth. He wanted Britta—and her dragon—to respect him, not see him as worthless baggage. Jonathan reached for his magic, relieved it was more-or-less intact. “Tell me what to do.”

“Open your mind. Add your power to mine.”

It took a bit of maneuvering, but Jonathan experimented with frequencies until he felt the dragon slam into him. The linkage was a two-way street; memories from thousands of years boiled furiously in Tarika’s head. So did her hatred for the Morrigan. Her current strategy was as clear as if she’d told him with words. Tarika wanted to open a time portal, sequester them inside, and bar the Morrigan. From there they could escape to anywhere.

Sounds at least possible.
“We need to divert her.”

Dragon laughter nearly deafened his already-battered hearing. “How?”

A particularly rocky aerial manoeuver unseated him, and he bounced a half a meter off her back. “
Ooph
.” Jonathan landed hard and gripped Tarika tighter, determined not to create more problems for them. His next thought nearly flattened him. It was so obvious, he felt like an idiot for not realizing it sooner.
By the goddess! This is just like the games I design.

But they’re not real.

So? They depend on strategy. Besides, it’s not as if there are dozens of choices here.
He turned his attention to Tarika.
“Can the Morrigan hear us if we use telepathic speech?”

“I doona believe so.”

Tarika coiled magic more tightly around them and burrowed even deeper into his head. Jonathan’s muscles tensed. He expected the dragon to argue, so he couched his words as a statement, not open for discussion.
“I’m going to sever my link with you, draw magic, and transport myself back to Inverness. If this works, the Morrigan will see me as easy pickings and follow me, figuring she can always track you down later.”

Tarika spewed fire at the Morrigan and banked hard right.
“Hmm… Might work if we—”

“I doona want you to sacrifice yourself.”
Britta’s voice rose over Tarika’s.

“Be reasonable,”
Jonathan retorted, touched she cared what happened to him yet knowing now wasn’t the time for
that
discussion.
“So long as we remain together, we’ll just keep taking pot shots at the Morrigan until one of us falls out of the sky, exhausted. Even if that abomination of a Celtic god doesn’t follow me, I can find my way back to Kheladin’s and raise the alarm.”

Power jolted Tarika; she screamed her outrage—and her pain. Jonathan didn’t wait for further dialogue. He slammed his mind shut, drenched himself in power, and imagined the hawthorn grove in the park. The sensation of falling created vertigo. He’d never engaged traveling magic while airborne.

Holy shit! What if it doesn’t work?

It has to.

As a laggardly second thought, he diverted some of the magic surrounding him into as impenetrable a ward as he could create. The darkness around him grayed at the edges. Soon, he’d either come out where he’d planned or come face-to-face with an ugly surprise he could only guess at.

“No more desultory playing at witchcraft,” he muttered. “If the goddess gets me out of this one, I swear I’ll read every fucking grimoire I can get my hands on.”

He felt the ground’s approach as a magnetic pulling sensation before he actually saw it. Jonathan drew up his knees, and tucked his arms around them, just in time to roll into a landing. He connected hard with the earth but nothing broke. The second he could, he sprang to his feet, hands raised to summon power in case the battle crow was hot on his heels.

“Jonathan!” a man cried.

“Christ, mate. We heard your alarm. Where the fuck were you?” a woman shouted.

“Aye, and are ye expecting company?” another woman asked in a strong Scottish brogue.

Half a dozen witches closed around him. Relief surged. They’d heard his frantic call from wherever he and Tarika had been. “How’d you find me?”

Caty, a broad-shouldered witch with black hair that came to her knees, stepped forward. Head of another local coven, she wore power like she owned it. Her green eyes snapped. “What danger do you face, witch? To call us out on false pretenses…” Her voice faded, and her gaze rose to a ragged hole forming in the night air.

“Crap!” the man cursed.

“Battle lines,” Caty commanded.

Jonathan watched in amazement as the witches formed a half circle and dragged him into their formation right next to Caty. This coven had apparently practiced. Before tomorrow came, he’d make certain his coven at least had a plan in place—assuming he was still alive.

“What manner of being is this?” Caty jabbed him with an elbow.

“The Morrigan.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh please. I’ll see you’re stripped of every— Holy fucking godhead.” The battle crow broke through and hovered in the air before them.

Jonathan slammed himself sideways in the nick of time. The Morrigan would have annihilated him from twenty feet away if he hadn’t moved out of her path. As it was, he gulped air and rocked back on the balls of his feet, reeling from the strength of her blow. He skinned his lips back from his teeth in a feral grin. His strategy had worked! Tarika and Britta must be well on their way to safety.

“I see ye found reinforcements, witch,” the Morrigan taunted.

Jonathan squared his shoulders. “Yes, and there are more where these came from. Be gone, Celt. You’re an embarrassment to your fellow gods.”

“What did ye say?” Wing beats brought her almost beak to nose with him. Caty and her witches wove power around Jonathan. The added support warmed his heart and fueled his courage.

“I said be gone. Kheladin told us several of your fellow gods are disgusted with your antics and appalled by your alliance with the black and red wyverns.” He glanced at the six witches ranged round him. “We are seven. It is a power number. You cannot hope to prevail.”

In support of his words, Caty chanted, summoning destruction. The rest of the witches joined in at proscribed intervals. Jonathan recognized the incantation. It opened a gateway to the nether regions. At the spell’s end, a demon would appear and ask to do their bidding. Apparently, the Morrigan recognized the casting too.

“Ye havna seen the last of me, witch.” The crow snapped her beak, slashed him with it, and was gone. Searing pain ripped through his face. The smell of blood, hot and coppery, filled his nostrils.

Christ! What did she do to me?
He raised a hand to his face, shocked his warding hadn’t even slowed her down. Or maybe it had just taken her a little time to chop her way through it.

“Och, doona be touchin’ it,” the witch with the strong Scottish burr screeched.

“We can heal you,” Caty muttered. “Stand still. While we’re patching you up, tell us how it is you came to piss off the Morrigan.”

“If you’re going to heal me,” Jonathan sagged against her, “start with my ears so I can at least hear you. Both drums are ruptured.”

•●•

“Ye sent him to his death,”
Britta screeched. Fury pounded through her, but she was helpless inside the dragon.

“We doona know. Not for certain. Let us leave while we can. We canna help him—or anyone else from here.”

“Return us to Kheladin’s cave.”

“I had planned to retreat to Fire Mountain.”

“Nay. Not until I am certain of the witch’s fate. He offered himself in our place. So long as he lives, we must do all we can to help him. We canna do aught from Fire Mountain. Besides, we made a promise to the Celtic gods.”

The dragon grumbled, but Britta knew she’d capitulate. Tarika had a strong sense of honor, and Britta had reminded her of a vow they’d made.
“The witch was brave,”
she added slyly.

Tarika blew fire and pulled magic to return them to the outskirts of Kheladin’s wards.
“Aye. He surprised me. I wasna in favor of bringing him with us when I realized we were under attack.”

“Thank you for indulging me.”

The dragon paused a beat.
“He is…attractive.”

“Aye. Beyond his physical charms, he has a good heart and a beautiful soul. And power to burn. I doona quite understand what I am feeling, but I wish to explore it further.”
They hurtled toward Inverness.

Tarika chuckled.
“Are ye thinking we have been maids long enough?”

If Britta had been in her body, she would have blushed. The thought of admitting a man to her secret places was intriguing, and scary. So long as it was just her and Tarika, there were no worries about ceding power to another. Goddess knew, she and the dragon had enough arguments about who ran the show. Men, at least the variety she’d known in earlier times, all simply expected to rule everything under their purview—wives included.

Hmph. Mayhap this isna a good idea. I doona need a master, no matter how drawn I am to him.

“Who wishes entrance past my wards?”
Kheladin’s mind voice boomed.

“We are returned,”
Tarika announced in response to the other dragon’s query.
“Let us in but be certain to drop the wards only long enough to admit us.”

They melted through earth; the walls of Kheladin’s cave formed around them. Witches milled about in small groups, vying for choice spots near Kheladin. A striking man with thick, tawny hair and eyes the same green as Kheladin’s stood next to the dragon with his arm around a woman who looked like a Viking princess.

Lachlan and his mate.

Tarika made her way to Kheladin’s side and inclined her head. “Lachlan.” She bathed him and his woman—and a few nearby witches—in steam. Britta cringed, hoping the blonde-haired woman wouldn’t mind.

“Tarika.” Lachlan narrowed his eyes. “Tell us what happened.”

“Aye,” Kheladin cut in. “Where is the witch who went with you?”

“Let me out.”
Britta demanded.
“Ye can huddle with Kheladin telepathically and learn how it is he and Lachlan can exist in their own bodies. I would know so we might do the same.”

“Aye.”
Tarika ceded their form to Britta.
“’Twould be much more convenient.”

Britta reclaimed her body and shook herself.
Damn! Still naked.
All the shopping had been nothing but a colossal waste of time.

“Here.” The Viking shucked a rucksack, pulled a jacket out of it, and handed it to Britta. “I’m Maggie Hibbins.” She extended a hand, sea-blue eyes twinkling merrily. “We’ll have to find you some clothes. Shouldn’t be a problem since we’re close to the same size.”