“Very little, but then, she wasn’t like you. She never provoked him.”
“Why not?”
“He’s a dragon warrior, my liege. Very unpredictable. I believe she felt it best tae keep him at a distance.”
An interesting approach. One she might be able to deploy if she understood Mavis’s tactics. “How’d she manage that?”
“With a shotgun.”
In the middle of taking another sip, Ferguson snorted. She sputtered as scotch went down the wrong pipe. “God, I would’ve paid to see that. Did he run for cover when she aimed a load of buckshot at his ass?”
“He wasn’t pleased, but it took him over a month to come back.”
“Hmm.”
“What are you thinking?”
“That I’m going to need the shotgun.”
“Are you a good shot?”
“Not particularly.”
A wicked gleam in his eyes, he set the plate down in front of her. “I have an old cricket bat somewhere around here. In the closet, perhaps.”
“Good thinking.” Setting the scotch aside, she plucked a pastry from the top of the pile.
“The more weaponry, the better,” Cuthbert said.
Ferguson couldn’t disagree.
Kruger wouldn’t give up or be dissuaded easily. He’d be back in three days.
She needed to be ready. First step—dig up more intel about the dragon pack in the area. Second step—find out why Kruger refused to walk away. She knew he had his reasons, compelling ones. The trick now would be unearthing the truth as quickly as possible, before his frustration boiled over and idle threats turned into real ones.
6
Gifted with a dragon’s-eye view, Grizgunn scanned the ground, searching for signs of trouble. A force of habit. An unnecessary one, given serious problems rarely crossed his path these days. Soon, though, he’d launch his offensive and all that would change.
He’d have nothing but trouble then.
A welcome change after months of preparation. He was ready, tired of the stalemate, sick of strategizing instead of attacking, eager to move past caution and enter the game.
Angling his wings, he swung east toward the coast. Moonlight illuminated the fog rolling along low stone walls and winding roads. His gaze tracked the ruins in the distance. Home sweet home. Ten minutes max and he’d be underground, jogging down the steps into his lair. A hop, skip, and jump away from the hot springs—a feature the warriors under his command hated, but he enjoyed more than any Dragonkind warrior should. A quirk of character he couldn’t explain—and his best friend didn’t understand. He wasn’t a water dragon, but that didn’t stop him from enjoying a good swim. Especially when it came with warm water and clean scales.
Another deviation in his nature. As a skull dragon who leaned toward venomous, he should love dirt and digging, along with the host of germs that came with it. The more bugs the better, except…
He couldn’t stand filth. Didn’t want to think about it, or have any smudged across his light blue scales. Just the thought made him sick to his stomach, which naturally led to lots of handwashing and habitual trips to the subterranean pool deep inside his new home.
Lining up his approach, Grizgunn swung south, then banked north. His night vision flickered, picking up trace energy as he adjusted his sonar, cranking the dial until blurry became pinpoint sharp. Gaze roaming a stretch of rough coastline, he widened the grid, expanding his search area.
Lots of rocky terrain interrupted by the brilliant flashes of green grass in open fields. A few animals foraging in the underbrush of dense patches of forest. No humans in sight. Nothing but stormy skies, damp air, and the thundering sound of waves.
The North Sea snarled. Whitecaps slammed into the base of the cliffs. A vicious downdraft buffeted him. The twin tips of his split tail whiplashed.
He bared his fangs, enjoying the rising tempest along with Mother Nature’s attitude. Two minutes from touchdown, he rocketed over a graveyard. Centuries-old tombstones shook. The rattle-’n’-roll rippled into open air as he banked into a wide turn above the old abbey. Ahead of him, Hakon put on the brakes. His XO’s black, red-tipped scales flashed against the night sky as he folded his wings. The male dropped like a stone, landing between two massive monoliths standing in a circle of many.
Sharp claws scraped over moss-covered stone. Static blew into his head.
Hakon’s voice came over the line. “Land, Griz.”
He really should. Sooner rather than later, before dawn arrived and deadly UV rays pierced early-morning fog. More sensitive than most of his kind, he never played chicken with the sun. A smart male understood his own limitations, but even as prudence urged him to land, Grizgunn whirled into another turn. He loved flying in heavy mists. Nothing felt better than the wet whisper of spring against his scales.
The North Sea lashed at him, crashing into the base of the crag, throwing spray three hundred feet in the air.
He grinned.
Hakon growled. “Griz—stop screwing around.”
Attention on the male glaring at him from the ground, he circled into a holding pattern. An orange line appeared on the horizon. He flipped up and over, playing in the current. Contrails whistled off the hooked tips of his wings. A few more minutes. Five, maybe six more. Cloud cover would protect him a little longer, ensuring the day didn’t dawn too brightly.
Tempting fate, he spiraled into another revolution. The smooth glide dragged his mind away from his to-do list. After hours spent taunting the Scottish pack, the quiet flight home always put him in a good mood. Every time he saw the crumbling cathedral from the air, he thought the same thing—what a spectacular find.
Off the beaten path, forgotten by the world, the sprawling ruin provided everything he needed—comfort, privacy, complete safety from a global community gone mad. No one but his pack made their way so far north. History buffs stayed away. Animals gave the place a wide berth. With the powerful shielding spell sparking—hiding his new home from human and Dragonkind alike—only creatures with a death wish would be stupid enough to approach the Danish lair.
Assessing the invisible monster surrounding his lair (one that took him almost a week to conjure), he dipped low, then flipped up and over. Nasty energy raked his scales. Grizgunn grinned. The spell was a thing of beauty: bitter, bad-tempered, vicious, even to those it protected.
Grizgunn loved its attitude.
His warriors didn’t share his opinion, disliking the tantrums the spell threw every time one requested entrance into the underground complex beneath the ruins. He heard the cursing, was aware of all scrapes and bruises, but didn’t care, brushing aside his packmates’ complaints.
With the enemy actively searching for his stronghold, he needed the extra protection. Reprimanding the spell for being too rough wasn’t productive. Neither was lessening the monster’s magical load. He wanted it strong. He needed it nasty. Ever evolving. Always adapting. Completely loyal to him and the warriors he commanded.
The game of hunt and destroy he played with Cyprus (commander of the Scottish pack) was a dangerous one. Not for the faint of heart, or a male who didn’t understand the risks and know how to mitigate them.
The Scottish pack’s reputation was well established. The warriors he taunted were vicious, without mercy, and skilled. Dragonkind commanders all over the world shied away from tweaking Cyprus’s tail. Grizgunn had chosen to do the opposite—engage instead of avoid. Provoke instead of fly away. Kill instead of choosing to just survive.