How to Drive a Dragon Crazy
“Albrecht?” Dagmar faced Briec. “You burned Lord Pombray’s son?”
“He was trying to hand her flowers. We all know where that will lead.”
Dagmar’s hands curled into fists. “By all reason, what is wrong with you?”
Briec shrugged nonchalantly. “Nothing. Why?” And Talaith knew that he truly didn’t understand why everyone was so concerned.
“You’d best get Morfyd,” Talaith told Dagmar before the woman could find a way to remove Briec’s scales while he slept. “She can heal the boy.”
Dagmar headed toward the exit but stopped long enough to glare at Briec.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
The Northland female snarled at Briec and stormed off.
“I don’t know why everyone is so upset. Did any of you really think I’d let some ludicrous boy get close to my perfect, perfect daughter?”
“I am not perfect!” Rhi argued. “Why do you keep saying that?”
“Because I’ve graciously decided to overlook any minor flaws you may have gotten from your mother. Tragically, those can’t be helped and I love you in spite of them.”
And if Rhi hadn’t caught Talaith’s arm and held her, Talaith was positive she would have ripped the smug bastard’s nose off!
“My brother did what?”
“What part of that statement did you not understand?” Dagmar demanded of her mate’s Dragonwitch sister, Morfyd.
“But . . . but why?”
Dagmar sighed. “Apparently young Albrecht gave Rhi flowers. I think he’s smitten.”
Morfyd fell silent, eyes briefly gazing off, before she replied, “Well . . . that was clearly a bad idea. He’s not all that handsome.”
“Morfyd!”
She refocused back on Dagmar. “Don’t yell at me.”
“Don’t make me! Rhi is a lovely girl. Boys will be showing interest. That doesn’t mean your brothers can go around burning them all.”
“Of course not. But still . . . my father—”
“Is not known for his rational thought when it comes to his daughters. It’s why I’ve never questioned the decision to name your Brastias general commander of Annwyl’s armies. The mere fact he’s survived this long with your brothers and father in close proximity says much about the man’s survival skills. That being said, Rhi will continue to grow only more beautiful as the years go by and I cannot afford to have this reign known for its dragons burning every young man that comes near her.”
“This reign? Don’t you mean Annwyl’s reign?”
“Morfyd!”
The Dragonwitch held up her hands. “Calm yourself. I’ll have him healed by nightfall. I don’t see why you’re so upset,” she muttered as she headed toward the guest house. “I was only saying that Briec wasn’t necessarily irrational during all—”
And that was when Dagmar stopped listening. Instead, she rubbed her now throbbing head and tried to think of how the rest of her day was going to go. But as she stood there, fingers against her temples, she knew someone was standing behind her. She wasn’t always so observant, but like the time she’d been out alone in the woods surrounding her father’s lands and she’d sensed a hungry wolf watching her from a nearby boulder, Dagmar always knew when a predator was close.
Slowly, she turned, and looked up at her nephew, the son of Annwyl and Fearghus.
“Talan.”
He smiled. Gods. Such a handsome boy. Unbelievably handsome. With his father’s eyes and his mother’s face, streaked brown hair reaching massive shoulders and as tall as his Uncle Gwenvael’s human form. But, like his twin sister, there was something about Talan. . . .
“Auntie Dagmar.”
Although it had been disturbing that the twins spoke so little as children, Dagmar could say that when they did begin to say more . . . it wasn’t any less unsettling.
Of course when they’d just stand there and stare . . . things weren’t much better.
“Is there something you want, Talan?”
“There’s a caravan of rough-looking, grunting males. I’m assuming they’re your kin since they’re not dragons.”
Dagmar snorted a little. “Yes. That does sound like my kin.”
“They’re heading through the gates now. Should I send someone to deal with them?”
“No. I’ll go.”
He nodded, but his gaze lifted, locking on something behind her. Dagmar looked over her shoulder and clenched her fists in order to keep from snarling.
“They’ve been chummy lately,” she blandly remarked, trying not to sound concerned.
Talan shrugged and walked off, reminding her that the twins only seemed to speak when they felt like it.
Although she knew she had to get to the main gate, Dagmar stood her ground until her niece and Talan’s twin sister, Talwyn, nodded at the woman she was walking with and headed over to Dagmar.
“Auntie Dagmar.”
“Talwyn.” Her niece, like Talan, was tall and beautiful, with pitch-black hair and her mother’s green eyes. But she constantly hid that beauty under hair she rarely combed, dirt she rarely bothered to wipe off, and a perpetual glare that could scare hell’s demons.
Dagmar glanced over at the woman walking away. But she wasn’t just a woman, was she? No. She was a Kyvich from the Ice Lands. One of the warrior witches who was so powerful and feared that even the gods called on them only when absolutely necessary. Nearly sixteen years ago, they’d come to Garbhán Isle to protect the twins while their mother was off in the west waging war against the Sovereigns. At the time, Dagmar had been grateful, but she’d also been wary because the Kyvich were rarely born into their rank.... They were taken from their mothers, usually before they were even two winters old. But, on rare occasions, they had been known to take older girls. Although Talwyn was now eighteen winters, she also had a mighty strength. Her fighting skills unmatched by anyone except the most seasoned warriors. Meaning she was exactly the kind of warrior the Kyvich would want.