Last Dragon Standing

“Oh, piss off!”

Vigholf choked back a laugh, and Meinhard took a drink of his ale.

“No, I will not piss off. Who do you think you’re talking to?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?” she asked before walking off, the Blue following right behind her.

Branwen stood there a moment longer before she shrugged and said,

“I have nothing to say to any of you.” Then she disappeared into the growing crowd on the dance floor.

Vigholf nodded. “I like her honesty.”

Meinhard slammed down his mug. “Their ale tastes like piss.”

“More like watered-down piss.”

“If all you two are going to do is complain—” Ragnar began, but again he was cut off. This time by Keita.

As soon as his brother and cousin saw her, they both stood straighter and smiled at her. “Lady Keita,” they both said. They might not be pissed at Ragnar for having swooped up Keita, but since he hadn’t Claimed her, she was still considered fair game by Northland standards. The cold-hearted bastards.

“My lords. I see that you’re not a fan of the ale.”

“Oh, no, no. It’s fine.” Meinhard picked his mug up again and forced himself to take another sip. “It’s…smooth.”

Keita laughed, bright white teeth flashing, smooth human throat stretching as her head tipped back. Gods, he wanted her so badly, he could barely breathe.

“I do appreciate you forcing that down, Meinhard,” she said. “But don’t worry. I have something that should help.” She raised her arm and snapped her fingers. A servant carrying a tray rushed to her side. “My father’s brew,” she said, handing each of them a mug. “He’s around here somewhere with my mother. Avoid him if you can. This ale is quite popular with his Clan and Dagmar, although my brothers wouldn’t touch it if you held a knife to their throats.”

Ragnar stared into his mug. “Sure it’s not poisoned?” he couldn’t help but tease.

“Only yours,” she whispered back. “Now that I’m nearly done with you.”

While he debated whether she was serious or not, his brother and cousin tried the ale. After a deep sip, they both nodded in approval.

“That’s nice.”

“Real nice.”

Shrugging, Ragnar tried his. As it burned its way to his stomach, he thought the evil wench really had poisoned him!

Ragnar bent over and coughed, unable to hide the pain he was suffering.

“Don’t mind him,” Vigholf said, slapping Ragnar on the back.

Something that did not help his current situation. “He’s always been kind of weak with his drink.”

“I see that. Well, no worries.” Keita took the mug from Ragnar and, while he watched through the tears in his eyes, drank all that brewed acid in one hearty gulp. When she was done, she slammed the mug on the table behind them and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Ahhh. My father’s brew has only gotten better over the years.”

“Oy! Your royal majesty!” one of her brothers yelled from the floor.

“You coming out here or what?”

“My kin call,” she said with a laugh. “But I hope you three will stay and enjoy yourselves.”

She smiled again before turning on her heel and moving out into the dancing crowd.

Ragnar quickly picked up the mug she’d put down, and all three of them looked inside. “She downed every drop of this bile.” Together they all looked up and watched her dance by with her silver-haired brother, Briec. She moved as if she hadn’t had anything to drink, as steady as she ever was, making him wonder exactly how much she’d drunk that night with her cousins and aunts.

Then Meinhard said what they were all thinking….

“She’s absolutely perfect.”

Fearghus grabbed his daughter and turned away before the girl’s mother could get her hands around her throat.

“You little viper!”

“Annwyl—”

“Shut up!” She wiped the blood from her face. “Look what she did.”

“I’m sure it was an accident.” He was lying, of course. He’d seen his daughter grab hold of that eating dagger before he could and throw it with a skill he’d taken decades to master. Barely two years old and her skills rivaled his, her mother’s, even Bercelak’s. The worst part was, he knew that Talwyn threw that dagger not out of rage, but curiosity. Hitting her target was her only concern. Although her skills in doing damage were far in advance of her age, her understanding that throwing knives, swords, plates, cups, chairs had consequences was still far from being grasped by her.

“Don’t be hard on her,” he told his mate.

“We need a nanny.” Annwyl took the cloth one of the servants handed her and pressed it to her latest wound.

“We’re working on that.”

“Work faster.”

Fearghus held his daughter up to her mother. “Say you’re sorry, Talwyn.”

“What are you doing?” Annwyl asked him. “You know she can’t say it.”

“Can’t and won’t are two different things. She talks to her brother more than enough.”

“Whispering plots is not talking. It’s whispering plots.”

“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. You’re too hard on— ow! You treacherous little demon child! ”