What a Dragon Should Know
And yet again Dagmar received no answer with Esyld too busy clucking her tongue. “I see what’s wrong,” she said. “Those bastards added poison to the tips of the metal.”
“They what?” Dagmar immediately placed her hand to Gwenvael’s forehead. He felt cold. Not good when he was made of fire. “You have to do something.”
“I will. I’ll have to cut the pieces out. One by one. I made him human because it’ll be easier that way. No scales to tear open again.”
Annoyed the dragoness was just sitting there, Dagmar snapped, “Shouldn’t you be moving with some purpose?”
“Why? He’s not going anywhere.”
“The poison?”
“Too late for that. It’s already in his bloodstream.”
Dagmar lifted her shaking hands and placed them against her eyes. The calm, merciless sound of the woman’s voice was driving her past reason. Past logic.
“Now, now, dear. No need to cry. I’m sure—ack!”
She didn’t even let the female finish before she grabbed her by the back of the neck and slammed her head into the metal frame of the bed. For the first time in Dagmar’s life, she knew what it felt like to be one of her brothers—and it was quite a heady sensation.
Esyld gripped her forehead. “Ow! Are you mad?”
Dagmar stood. “Now listen well to me, Esyld. You do what you must to make him better. Mix whatever potions necessary, call on whatever useless gods you’re loyal to, sacrifice whatever animals those useless gods require—I don’t care. But you make him well. Or I swear by all reason—”
“What?” The dragoness towered over Dagmar now. “You’ll what, reason-lover? What does an obvious follower of Aoibhell think she can possibly do to me?”
“I can make sure this will be your last quiet night in these woods. I’ll make sure that every male—man, dragon, or otherwise—knows you live here. Alone. I’ll make sure that hunting you becomes a sport they can’t resist.”
“And perhaps I’ll just turn you into ash where you stand.”
“Do you really think that’ll stop me?” Dagmar smirked. “Really?”
After a moment of mutual glaring, the dragoness shook her head, her brow furrowed. “No. I believe it won’t.” She stepped away from Dagmar. “Who are you?”
She found it almost amusing the female had the nerve to ask. “I am Dagmar Reinholdt, Only Daughter of The Reinholdt.”
“You’re The Beast?”
“Some would say.”
“I have to admit, you don’t see it right off … until you look in those eyes.” Rubbing her forehead and wincing, Esyld went to a small table covered in dry herbs, half-burned ritual candles, several different daggers, and a wand. “I will say I appreciate how protective you are of him. He deserves that.”
Not about to ask the same question yet again, Dagmar instead tried, “What’s your connection to him?”
“Not what you think.” She flashed Dagmar a smile over her shoulder. “He’s my nephew.”
“Nephew?”
“Aye.” She brought a large bowl, a clean cloth, and a sharp dagger over to the bed. “My sister is Queen Rhiannon. When she came into power, I fled. I’m now called Esyld the Traitor by her court.”
“And are you?”
“Not in a few centuries. Now”—she glanced down at Gwenvael—“help me tie him to the bed. And gag him.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d woken up to find himself tied to a bed. Nor was it the first time he’d woken up to find himself tied to the bed and gagged.
But usually when he woke up bound and gagged, he was always experiencing wonderful pleasure. Not pain. At least not this kind of pain. Pain so raw and brutal he tried to shift back to his true form several times but couldn’t. He sensed it had something to do with the collar around his neck. It held great power and cut down on his.
Someone had tied him face down on the bed so they could rip something out of his body. Something vital? He had no idea. He only knew it hurt and he wanted the pain to stop. Needed it to. He couldn’t think with all this pain. Couldn’t understand where he was or how he’d gotten here. He couldn’t see because of all the sweat pouring into his eyes, burning them. Yet he could hear a soft voice telling him it would be all right. Nothing to worry about. Just a bit more. But he knew she was lying. He knew this pain would last forever, and he didn’t understand why she didn’t just kill him. No one should suffer like this. Least of all him.
He felt the blade enter his flesh again and he screamed, the sound somewhat muffled behind his gag.
Gods, why wouldn’t she just kill him?
Dagmar heard Gwenvael’s muffled scream again and she pulled her legs up onto the boulder she sat on, wrapping her arms around them. She’d tried to stay inside but her constant threats to Esyld finally forced the dragoness to order her to leave.
She’d gone, Dagmar was ashamed to admit, willingly.
She didn’t know hearing someone suffer could bother her so. She’d been through childbirths with her sisters-in-law, some of them terribly difficult, and she’d been the cold, responsible one in the room the midwife always relied upon. She’d also assisted healers when her kinsmen had been badly wounded. One of her cousins had gotten his leg crushed by his own horse. She’d been the only one who’d stayed to help the healer cut it off. He’d been awake during the whole procedure, begging them not to do it, but Dagmar knew the healer had no choice.