Last Dragon Standing

“Is there something else you want to ask, my lord?” Hoping to open up their conversation again, he asked, “What about Esyld?”

She looked away. “I don’t know.” Then, under her breath, “But I think he knows something.”

“Who knows something? Lord Reidfurd?”

Keita began to speak, looking as if she planned to confide in him, but she stopped and forced a safe, bland smile. “It’s nothing,” she replied to his question.

And in an instant, they were back to the boring noble and the insulting warlord…again.

Ragnar couldn’t stand it.

“Keita—”

“We should get back. More travel tomorrow and I do need my sleep.” She gave a small bow of her head as royal etiquette would dictate—and it made him want to throttle her—and said, “Thank you so much for your assistance this evening, my lord. It was greatly appreciated.” But he didn’t want to end it like this. He was, in all honesty, becoming desperate. A feeling he was not used to and did not enjoy. “Keita, if you’d only talk to—”

But without waiting for him to finish his thought, she headed off down the road, and Ragnar was forced to follow. Again.

Keita found Ren hovering a few inches off the ground, meditating.

How he did that, she didn’t know. She needed actual wings to fly.

Without her saying a word, he sensed her presence and lowered himself to the earth.

“How did it go?”

She shook her head and pulled off her clothes. She dove into the lake, shifting from dragon to human several times before settling on her human form and swimming up to Ren’s side. He’d also shifted to human and waited for her in the water by the lake’s edge.

“Athol played games,” Keita said when she broke through the surface.

She had no intention of telling her friend about what had happened with DeLaval. It would only upset him, and there was nothing to be done now, was there? “I didn’t like it.”

“You think he knows something?”

“Perhaps. I don’t know. He was always a little odd.”

“Maybe he hoped you’d barter as some of his guests do.” Keita chuckled. “I can say with all honesty, I’ve never bartered my pu**y or any other orifice on my body, and I’m not about to start now.” She rested her arms on the lake’s edge, resting her cheek on them.

“Perhaps when we get home I can send word to Gorlas. Maybe he can get the truth for us.”

“Perhaps.” Ren kissed her shoulder. “What else happened there?”

“Oh, nothing much. That idiot followed me, though.”

“Good,” Ren said, surprising her. He’d been livid with the warlord ever since Keita had told him their wager was off and why. “I didn’t like you going there alone.” And Ren had been right to be concerned.

“Athol wouldn’t have trusted you, Ren.”

“But it went all right, though? With the Northlander by your side?”

“He came as a monk. So it worked out perfectly.” And, Keita realized that in the end, she’d been quite grateful for Ragnar’s presence. He’d protected her and kept her safe.

Too bad, though, he still hadn’t apologized to her. Instead he kept trying to “talk” to her. She hated that. If Keita f**ked up, she said she was sorry and tried to make it right. What she didn’t do was try to explain away what she’d said or how she’d meant it or any other load of centaur shit that males like Ragnar came up with rather than simply apologizing. Until he did that, she’d have no reason to “talk” to him. No matter how pathetically sorrowful he might appear.

Ragnar found a quiet spot close enough to the campsite to deal with any problem, but not so close that the constant chatter of a big blue dragon would distract him. Once he’d settled down, thankfully back in his dragon form, he did what he always did when he felt this way—although he didn’t think he’d ever felt this bad. Ragnar opened his mind and called out. A few seconds later, came a reply.

My son.

Mother.

What’s wrong?

Ragnar sat down on the ground, his back legs bent at the knees, his elbows resting on them so he could drop his head into his claws.

I’m an idiot, he told her simply.

He heard his mother’s sweet laugh inside his head, felt eased by it.

Oh, my sweet boy. There’s nothing I can do about that, I’m afraid. It’s in the bloodline. Like the lightning.

Chapter Twelve

Fragma heard the warning horn blast through her tiny Ice Land village and, terrified, she caught hold of her youngest daughter. The other women of her village all did the same thing. They grabbed the youngest of their female children and quickly took them into their homes, away from the streets, away from the danger they knew lurked hundreds of leagues behind the mountains framing the north side of their village.

But they were coming closer, down through the dangerous mountain pass and through the village, smashing all in their way that might deter them—even for a second—from their final destination. Or, even worse than that, perhaps they’d stop. Perhaps Fragma’s little village would be their final destination. Perhaps it would be Fragma’s daughter that was claimed. Or her friend’s daughter. Or her neighbor’s daughter. It could be any of their youngest girls, and absolutely no mother Fragma knew was willing to take that chance. Because once anyone’s daughter was taken—she was never seen again.