Dragon Actually

Epilogue

195 years later . . .

Snarling, Rhiannon marched back toward the family’s cave. While Devenallt Mountain held her throne, it was this cave where she raised her hatchlings. And what spoiled, rotten little hatchlings they were!

Without even thinking, she stormed past her mate, busy with his kin looking at attack plans. Her throne was at risk and they would be going to war. Already her two eldest had been given the armor of battle dragons. She didn’t want them to go, but they were old enough now to make their own choices.

Bercelak’s claw grabbed her upper forearm, holding her in place. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She tried to pull away, but his grip was like a vice.

“Leave us,” he commanded the dragons in the room. And, without hesitation, they did.

“What’s wrong, Rhiannon? Tell me.”

She yanked her forearm away and glared at her mate. “Your,” and she punctuated that “your” with the tip of her tail in his face, “viper offspring cut off his tail!”

Bercelak shook his head in confusion. “Cut off whose tail?”

“Gwenvael’s!” she shouted, so angry, she could barely see straight.

But instead of Bercelak demanding his offspring’s presence so he could tell them what horrible little bastards they were, he burst out laughing.

“I’m sure he deserved it.”

Her tail slapped him across the neck. “This isn’t funny!”

“Oh, Rhiannon, just repair it. You baby him too much.”

She slammed her foot down, shaking the cave walls. “I can’t!”

“Why not?”

“When I caught them, I yelled right as Fearghus was throwing it to Briec. He was so startled that it slipped past his hands and into the river . . . they have not been able to find it.”

Bercelak cleared his throat and worked hard to keep his face straight. “It’s an easy enough thing to happen, my love.”

Her tail slammed into Bercelak’s chest, which didn’t even budge him. “You raised them very much as your father raised you, my love. Those little bastards don’t get startled!”

Unable to hold it back anymore, Bercelak once again burst out laughing. “I know!”

“Oh!” Rhiannon turned and started to storm away, but Bercelak’s forearms wrapped around her and he pulled her dragon body tight against his own.

“Don’t be angry, love. Please. I’m sorry.” He gave a valiant try at not laughing.

“It was horrible, Bercelak. Blood was flying everywhere, and he just kept swinging that tail around.”

With one snort, Bercelak started laughing again.

“You know,” she growled, “you wouldn’t think this was so funny if it were your precious Morfyd or Keita.”

As she knew, that sobered him immediately. “No, I would not.”

“Well that’s how I feel about my Gwenvael.”

“Again . . . you baby him too much.”

“And you’re too hard on him because he reminds you of your father.”

“From the time he was twenty winters I kept finding him with my father’s kitchen staff.”

“He’s lusty.”

“He’s a whore.”

“Oh!” She pulled out of his arms. “I won’t discuss this anymore. You’re irritating me, Low Born.”

She turned to walk away from him, but his voice stopped her.

“Don’t walk away from me, Rhiannon.” There was no threat in his voice. Only delicious promise.

“Shift,” he ordered with a low purr.

“Why should I?”

“Because I told you to.”

She did her best to hide the shudder that went through her body and shifted to human. In seconds, his human arms wrapped around her from behind, then his low voice muttered in her ear, “You are much too tense, Princess.”

“Think you can help me relax then?”

“Oh, aye. I know I can.”

His hands on her breasts, he pulled her back until she knew they were right by the table with all its elaborate battle plans and maps. And that’s right where he tossed her.

Stepping between her legs, Bercelak’s head lowered until his mouth covered her breast.

Moaning, she leaned back, her legs wrapped around his waist, her hands buried in his silky black hair. After all this time, he still felt so very good.

But they kept forgetting one small thing . . . actually, five not-so-small things . . .

“Gods!” Their eldest son barked. “Can you two not find a private alcove or, at the very least, a bed?”

Rhiannon looked over to see her children at the entrance. Her eldest, Fearghus, slapped his claws around the eyes of her two youngest, Keita and Éibhear. Morfyd looked appalled and embarrassed, Briec looked bored and Gwenvael, of course, applauded.

“It’s nice to see old dragons fucking, isn’t it?” he cheered. And she suddenly wished that she’d taken his tail.

Bercelak lifted his head and roared, “Out, you little bastards! Out!”

Morfyd couldn’t move fast enough. She practically sprinted from the room, white hair flying behind her. I really will have to find a way to toughen that little dragoness up. Briec snorted and walked away, reaching back to grab Gwenvael’s wounded tail and drag the cheeky little bastard, yelling and threatening and still bleeding, from the room. Fearghus lifted up his young kin and walked out while Keita tried to remove her brother’s hand so she could get a better look, and Rhiannon’s sweet Éibhear just kept saying, “What? What am I missing? What?”

Once they’d left, Bercelak focused those black eyes on her. Eyes that her eldest son had.

“You wanted hatchlings.”

“I know. I just didn’t want those hatchlings. Personally, I blame your father.”

Bercelak’s eyes grew wide. “Excuse me?”

On a burst of laughter, she exclaimed, “Well that came out horribly wrong!”

“Oh, that’s it, Princess. You’ve got to make it up to me now.”

With that, he lifted her up and tossed her over his shoulder.

“Where are we going?” she demanded, even as she kept laughing and he stalked off deep into the cave.

“Where do you think?”

And, laughing, they said together, “To get the chains!”

And here’s a sneak peek at the next book in G.A. Aiken’s dragon series, ABOUT A DRAGON, coming in December from Zebra. . . .

They dragged her from bed before the two suns even rose over the Caffyn Mountains. She fought as best she could, but the noose they’d wrapped around her throat cut off her ability to breathe, weakening her. And they bound her hands tightly with coarse rope because they feared she’d cast a spell on them. She had none to cast, but what really annoyed her was her inability to get the dagger still tied to her thigh.

Of course, only she would get an entire town to try and kill her. Nice one, idiot.

Strong men threw the end of the rope over a sturdy branch and slowly pulled her off her feet. They didn’t want her to die too quickly. They wanted to watch her hang for a while, and it looked like they’d prepared a pyre for a good, old-fashioned witch burning.

Lovely.

The man she called husband screamed at her. He screamed how she was a witch. How she was evil. How they all knew the truth about her and now she would pay. If she weren’t fighting for her life, she’d roll her eyes in annoyance.

But what truly galled her . . . what set her teeth absolutely on edge—other than choking to death—was that the goddess who sent her here all those years ago was the same one leaving her to die.

She thought the evil bitch would at least protect her until she finally accomplished what she needed her to do. What she’d been training to do since she was sixteen.

But Talaith, Daughter of Haldane, had learned long ago that no one was to be trusted. No one would ever protect her. No one would ever do anything but use her. Eventually she’d learned to trust no one but herself.

Of course a few allies might have helped you this day, Talaith.

She coughed and squirmed in her bonds, praying her neck would finally just break. She would definitely rather not die by burning. Talaith never considered flame a witch’s best friend.

As she wondered what it would take to snap her neck using her own body weight, she saw him.

He stood out like a jewel among pigs. Her arrogant, handsome knight, still in his chainmail with the bright red surcoat over it, but without the black cape he wore that shielded part of his face and hair from her sight. She wasn’t sure if it were her imagination or if her impending death had made her sight untrustworthy, but he had—silver?—yes. He had glossy silver hair that reached past his knees. But it wasn’t the silver hair of an old man. This beauty couldn’t be more than thirty winters. At most.

Gods, and he was a beauty. The most beautiful thing Talaith had ever seen. Well, at least she’d leave this world with something pretty for her last vision.

He walked up to one of the townsfolk and motioned toward her.

“She is a witch, m’lord!” a woman—whose child Talaith saved from a poisonous snakebite the year before—screamed. “She’s in league with demons and the dark gods.”

She wished. At least the dark gods protected their own.

The knight stared at her for several moments. If she could, she wouldn’t have been too proud to beg for mercy. But, even if she could speak, she wouldn’t bother. Those cold violet eyes of his told her it would have done no good anyway.

With a bored sigh, her knight turned and walked away, disappearing into the surrounding woods.

Typical. Even a brave knight wouldn’t help her. Every day her life got more and more pathetic.

“Die, witch! Die!” How lovely. Her own “dear” husband started up that endearing chant. The bastard. She’d meet him on the other side when his time came and she’d make sure he suffered for eternity.

The noose tightened a bit and she felt more of her life slip away while they continued to pile extra wood around the stake.

Funny how one’s mind plays tricks on them when so close to dying.

For instance, if she didn’t know better, she’d swear that was a giant silver dragon ambling out of the forest. An enormous, amazing creature, with a silver mane of hair that gleamed in the morning sunshine and nearly swept the shaking ground at its feet. Two massive white horns sat atop its head and a long tail, with what looked to be a dagger-sharp tip, swung lazily behind him.

Silently, he stood behind the townspeople. So focused on her, they were completely unaware of his presence. Who knew I could be so fascinating as to distract an entire town? Of course, they could also be ignoring the dragon because it was simply a figment of her imagination. A dream of a grand rescue that would never come.

Her fantasy dragon leaned forward and nudged Julius the baker with the tip of his snout. Julius glanced behind him, nodded and turned back to her. Then he froze where he stood . . . just before he pissed himself. That’s when his wife glanced at him and behind him. She screamed, grabbed her son, who had been seconds away from throwing a rather large rock at Talaith, and ran. Soon after, the rest of the townsfolk caught sight of her fantasy dragon, screamed and bolted away.

She frowned. Perhaps she still had enough of her power so she could conjure the image of the beast, but somehow she doubted it.

The dragon shot out a few flames at the retreating humans, but nothing to do any real harm. Finally, it stared at her for several moments, turned and walked off.

Unbelievable. Even my rescue fantasies are disasters.

But as she wondered if her afterlife would be as pathetic as her current life, the dragon’s tail whipped out. The tip cut through the rope that hung her from the tree, and she dropped.

Expecting her ass to hit the unforgiving ground at any moment, she tensed in surprise as the tail wrapped itself around her body and held her.

Now that the noose was not so tight, her senses slowly came back to her. That’s when she realized a tail really did have her. A tail attached to an enormous dragon casually walking through the forest. She tried to move out of its grasp, but the tail pinned her arms—with her still bound wrists—against her body. And her noose still tight enough she couldn’t call for help.

Of course, who would she call? Her husband? Probably not? Lord Hamish, ruler of these lands? If she had the strength, she would have laughed at that.

No. It looked as if she was going to be the breakfast of a monster.

As the dragon made it into a clearing and suddenly took to the air—with her still wrapped up in its tail—Talaith had only one thought . . .

Typical.