How to Drive a Dragon Crazy

“I don’t know,” Éibhear admitted. “We’ll figure it out as we go.”

Damn gods, he thought. Damn gods with their damn centaur shit. He hated them all, but he especially hated bloody Rhydderch Hael.

“I know. He can be a bit of a prat.”

Éibhear sighed and looked to his left. She stood there, tall and strong, brown of skin, arms covered in runes. But she was no mortal being. He could tell because of what should be the mortal wound on her neck. Her throat had been slashed from one side to the other and yet she was still . . . strong. Powerful. Breathing.

“It’s not his fault really. He has so many things on his mind. My focus is very clear. Always has been. But he’s involved in so many things. And after eons of dealing with those who don’t truly appreciate him, he just got a little . . .”

“Bitchy?”

“I was going to say cranky. And you’re no better.”

“Look, I don’t have time for—”

“Where the hells did you come from?” Aidan asked.

And that’s when Éibhear realized that his friends could see her, too. It was a relief to know he wasn’t actually going insane.

“I come from blood and death and good quality steel. Battle makes up my organs and war makes up my soul.”

“Uh . . .” Uther leaned in. “Are you sure you’re all right? You’ve got a bit of . . . uh . . . well . . . a scratch on your throat?”

She laughed. “Aye. A scratch. Don’t worry. This scratch will heal.”

Needing to know, Éibhear asked, “Why can they—”

“As warriors, when you leave this life, you’ll come to me. All the Mì-runach come to me. So I allow you to see me when I choose.”

“You’re Eirianwen,” Aidan gasped. “The goddess of war and death.”

“I thought you’d be a She-dragon,” Caswyn said. “But I don’t think you are.”

“That’s because I’m not.”

“What do you want?” Éibhear asked, unable to keep the tiredness out of his voice.

“My mate, he sometimes forgets that balance is necessary in this world. Without it, I don’t exist. But Chramnesind doesn’t want balance. It’s of no use to him, you see, because he wants it to all belong to him.”

“He’ll bring you war and death.”

“Only for a short time. A few decades perhaps. Maybe a century or two. But to me . . . centuries are like seconds in a short day. So I need you, Éibhear the Blue, to stop what’s to happen. What’s already begun.”

“You mean rescue Vateria.”

“Exactly. Because if she dies here, in this spot of great power, at the hands of Chramnesind’s acolytes . . . there will be dark times indeed. Her soul is a deep well of hatred. Combine that hatred with what they actually plan to do to her . . . what they’ll have her become—and none of you will survive. Not human. Not dragon. Not your Izzy. Vateria, here and now, cannot die. For if she dies here, she will be reborn—and then gods help you all.”

“So how do I stop this?”

“Do what you do best. The Mì-runach are my greatest creation, the idea given to your forefathers millennia ago.”

“We’ll still have to get past the witches.”

“Let Aidan do the talking.” She threw a ridiculously large hammer at Éibhear’s feet, the sound of it clanging against the marble stone steps, ricocheting through the quiet of the sleeping city. “You do the hammering.” She walked around them. “And good luck to you all.”

Éibhear picked up the hammer. It was heavy even for him, but he rested it on his shoulder anyway.

“You know, Éibhear,” Aidan said as they walked up the steps to the Nolwenn temple, “I’m starting to see why you don’t go home very often.”

“I tried to tell you. . . .”

Vateria turned to run, but a tentacle shot out and wrapped around her back leg, yanking her to her stomach. She screeched and dug her talons into the stone floor. Smoke came from where the tentacle held her leg, a sizzling sound and the smell of burning scales causing Izzy to shudder.

The cultists moved forward, all of them chanting, calling out to their god. While they did, Izzy stepped back. And, while their attention was focused away from her, she did something she’d only done willingly once before when she’d been very drunk and Brannie had dared her in front of all her men.

Gritting her teeth, Izzy dislocated both her shoulders. Something much easier to do once she’d had them broken in a battle. Yet easier didn’t mean any less agonizing. She bit back a cry of pain, and maneuvered her arms down and her legs over her bound wrists. Then she brought her arms up.

She panted, working hard to control her pain. Then, making sure she still had no one’s attention, Izzy moved back to the wall behind her and faced it. Taking another deep breath, she rammed first one shoulder, then the other against the hard rock, snapping both joints into place.

“I have really got to stop doing that,” she muttered.

She turned away from the wall and faced one of the Sand dragons. Without a word, he raised his sword and brought it down. Izzy rolled forward, out of the way of the blade, but as she came out of the roll, she brought her bound arms up. The weapon slashed through her bonds but, thankfully, only scraped the inside of one palm.

Shaking off the rope, she got to her feet just as the dragon’s tail came at her face. She caught hold of it and the dragon picked her up. Something she’d realized long ago that all dragons did when something was hanging from their tail. She took the short trip until she could land on the dragon’s back. He tried to shake her off, but she caught hold of his hair and held on. He spun in a circle, his tail coming at her again. She dodged first one way, then the other, never losing her grip on his hair.