How to Drive a Dragon Crazy
Annwyl fought not to laugh. “Aye. There’s cheese. I know how you love your cheese.”
“Is Daddy coming?”
“Your father, Fearghus, Gwenvael, they’re all off at Devenallt Mountain with your grandfather.”
“Ahh, important doings amongst the males.”
“That’s doubtful.”
“And Auntie Keita? Uncle Ragnar?”
“Off to Keita’s cave for the day.”
Rhi smiled at Frederik. “Are you coming, Lord Reinholdt?” And only Rhi would call a fourteen-year-old boy lord anything.
The boy frowned, deeply, but didn’t answer. Rhi scratched the back of her neck. “Well . . . hmmhm.”
Annwyl was about to ask the boy what he was doing, but a voice right behind her barking, “Mum,” startled the holy crap out of her.
“Talan!” she snapped, facing her son. “Stop sneaking up on me.”
“I didn’t.” He dropped into a chair and immediately grabbed one of the baskets and began to dig through it. The boy was a bottomless pit of hunger. No matter how much he ate, he never seemed to be filled.
Annwyl snatched the basket back. “Where’s your sister?”
“She’s not coming.”
“What do you mean she’s not coming?”
He lifted his hands and shrugged. “She’s not coming.”
Irritated, Annwyl demanded, “Why not?”
“I don’t know.” He reached into another basket and pulled out a loaf of bread. “She was out in the training area. I said, ‘Oy! Let’s go!’”
“And what did she say?”
“Nothing. One of those Kyvich told me”—and Annwyl’s son lowered his already low voice even lower—“‘My lady won’t be attending.’”
Feeling her anger begin to build, Annwyl asked, “And which Kyvich said that?”
Talan shrugged. “Don’t know. One of them burly ones.”
“They’re all a bit burly,” Rhi whispered, probably feeling horrible for even suggesting such a thing.
“I don’t mind that,” Talan went on. “Just not sure about all that shit on their faces.”
“That shit,” Rhi snapped, “is part of a sacred ritual that—”
“Blah, blah, blah, don’t care. Can we just go already, Mum?”
“Not without your sister.”
“Mum, leave it. If she wants to play sword fighter with the burly witches, let her. It’s not like she contributes to the bloody conversation.”
“That’s not the point!” Annwyl roared. “I’m queen!”
Talan sighed, his head resting against the chair back. “And we’re off . . .”
“I am queen here and I rule. I rule here! Not the gods-damn Kyvich. Not your sister. Me!”
“Mum.”
“No! I said she was going to the f**king picnic and she’s going to the f**king picnic! And I dare one of those cunts to try and stop me!”
Talan watched his mother storm out the door, her muscles taut; her fingers already twitching to grab one of the two swords that were strapped to her back and went with her everywhere—yes, even on a picnic with family.
Even as he debated exerting the energy necessary to get up and go after her, a rather large foot, considering the size of the girl attached to it, rammed into his leg.
“Ow!”
“That was horribly handled, Talan!” Rhi accused.
“What did I do?”
“How could you tell your mother that?”
“I thought I handled it pretty well. I didn’t tell her that I saw ‘Fuck that bitch queen’ in the Kyvich’s eyes, did I? That I kept to myself. I thought you’d be proud.”
“Oh!” Rhi threw her art bag onto the table, lifted the skirt of her dress, and ran after his mother.
At that point, Talan noticed the new boy. “Hey, there, Freddy.”
“It’s Frederik.”
“Yeah, whatever. You’d best get Auntie Dagmar.”
“Why?”
“Because chances are high my mum is about to cut off someone’s head.”
“Literally?”
“Oh, yeah,” Talan laughed. “Mum doesn’t like you or you piss her off . . . she’s cutting off your head.”
The boy stepped back, his mouth open in horror. “But . . . she doesn’t . . .” He cleared his throat. “She doesn’t seem like she’d do that.”
“Well, she wouldn’t do that to you, if that’s what you’re worried about, because you’re family . . . and a little too young. But mostly because you’re family.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So you’re safe.” Then he added for good measure, “Just don’t betray us. Family or not, Mum will take your head if you betray us. She’s big on loyalty.”
“I wasn’t planning to—”
“Just figured I’d clarify.” Talan ripped off some of the bread from the loaf and stuffed it into his mouth. Once done chewing, he realized the boy was still standing there, staring at him. “What are you? Fourteen winters?”
“Fifteen in two more moons.”
“Yeah, well . . . still too young to drink. Let me know when you can. We’ll go to the pub. Get some women. You like women?”
“Uh?”
Talan sat up, ignoring the way the boy quickly stepped back. He motioned him away. “Go on, Freddy,” he said, his sister’s snarled Get out here. Now! ripping through his head. “Go get Dagmar.”