What a Dragon Should Know

“All right.” She glanced at his chest. “That crest on your surcoat.”

“What about it?”

“I’ve read that the nation it represented was destroyed more than five hundred years ago.”

He stopped walking and scrutinized the crest. “Damn,” he said after a few moments. “I hate that.”

“Kill them yourself, did you?”

“I’m not that old, thank you very much. And I think it was one of my uncles. But it’s so awkward.”

“Is it?”

“Imagine standing there, having a very nice chat with some human royal and then he gets a good look at your crest. His face gets all pale and sweaty, and you suddenly realize—gods, I wiped out the entire male line of your family, didn’t I? That’s awkward.”

“I imagine so.”

They began to walk again, and, not remotely surprising to Dagmar, he asked, “So how did you get the name Beast?”

Dagmar stopped at the large front door that would lead into the Main Hall. She lowered her eyes, kept her voice soft. Wounded. “The wife of one of my brothers nicknamed me that because I am plain. She wanted to hurt me, and she did.”

A long and large finger slid under her chin, tipping up her face. She kept her eyes averted, did her best to look nearly destroyed by it all. She’d lost count of all the stories she’d made up over the years about how she’d obtained her nickname. She didn’t lie about it simply for amusement but because the truth was something she would never share with anyone. The guilt of her actions from that day and the subsequent outcome was still fresh even after all this time.

Yet molding the story to fit whoever asked was an indulgent form of entertainment on her part and had gained her either pity or fear, depending on what she needed. She kept the tales simple and unadorned, avoiding possible traps should her memory fail her at a later date.

“My sweet, sweet Dagmar,” he said softly, seductively. “That would have been almost perfect—if you could have just managed the tear.”

Dagmar made sure she only appeared confused, rather than annoyed. “Sorry, my lord?”

“You have to learn to cry. Otherwise the whole thing falls apart at the end. Just that single tear works wonders. Right here.” He drew his finger down her cheek and Dagmar immediately pulled her head back.

The Gold smiled. “Now that’s the real you. Look at those eyes. If they were knives, they’d cut me to ribbons.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, my lord.”

“Of course you don’t. You’re just a silly woman. Without a brain in your head.” He walked around her and she felt a hand swipe across her ass. She jumped, and he had the nerve to look startled. “Come on then, silly woman. Introduce me to the more important men.”

Gwenvael followed the lying Lady Dagmar—did she truly expect him to believe that story?—into the Reinholdt fortress. It wasn’t as miserable as he expected, but he’d seen uninhabited caves that were a lot more warm and friendly.

The first floor of the building was mostly one big room with a sizable pit fire in front of rows and rows of dining tables with several boars roasting over it. There was a small group of women sitting at a table chatting, and if they saw the man asleep under their table, they made no mention of him. Dogs that didn’t look at all like the ones The Beast was breeding for battle ran free around the hall, eating whatever was left on the floor.

By the time Gwenvael and Dagmar reached the center of the room, all activity stopped and every eye focused on them.

A large human carrying a pint of ale in his hand stepped in front of them, his suspicious gaze locked on Gwenvael.

“Dagmar.”

“Brother.”

“Who is this?”

“This is Lord Gwenvael. I’m taking him to see Father.”

The Northlander examined Gwenvael closely before saying, “He must be from the south. So brown.”

“I prefer golden,” Gwenvael corrected. “It’s a tragic curse really since I live in a part of the world where the two suns actually come out during the day and don’t cower behind clouds, afraid to be seen by the scary Northmen.”

When Dagmar’s brother only stared at him, Gwenvael glanced down at the female. She was smirking, and he knew he’d been right. Any intelligence in this group had gone to the woman.

“Lord Gwenvael, this is my brother and oldest son to The Reinholdt, Eymund. And I don’t think he understood your joke.”

That was sadly true. He didn’t. “Lord Eymund.”

The Northlander grunted, but kept staring. Gwenvael had no idea if this was an unspoken challenge so he said, “The men of the north are very handsome. Especially you.”

It took a while for his statement to get through the immense skull surrounding that excessively slow brain, but when it did Eymund eyed him intently.

“Uh … what?”

“If you’ll excuse us, brother”—Dagmar motioned for Gwenvael to move toward the end of the massive hall—“we’re going to see Father.”

When they reached a plain wood door, she knocked.

“In.”

She pushed the thick door open and ushered Gwenvael in, signaling for that tasty morsel of dog to stay behind. After closing the door behind them, she walked to her father’s desk. She kept her hands folded in front of her and her demeanor as nonthreatening as possible.

“Father, there’s someone here to see you.”