Dragon Actually (Dragon Kin #1)(13)

Fearghus shrugged. “It’s a tale they tell the hatchlings. I’m almost positive there was more to it than that.”

“Are you always so cynical?”

“Yes.”

“So you’re not immortal, but your kind clearly lives a long time.”

“Yes. About 800 years or so.”

“So, compared to other dragons, you’re kind of a baby?”

Fearghus grunted. “If you feel the need to put it that way.”

“Any siblings?”

“Yes.”

“How many?

Fearghus sighed and settled down for what would clearly be a long and painful night. He almost missed the days when she lay unconscious and near death. “Too many. And you?”

With a frown, “Is that meant to be funny?”

Oops. He actually just meant to be polite. Of course, he’d never been very good at polite. “No. Just wondering if there was anyone else besides the demon-spawn you call kin.”

“Sadly no. Or at least none that my father has claimed.” She propped her elbows onto her knees and cupped her chin in the palm of her hands. “Are you close to your family?”

“Just one sister. The others I only see at family times. And that is grudgingly.”

“Dragons have family times? Is that just a simple get together or are virgin sacrifices required?”Fearghus barked out a laugh and the girl smiled. “See? Got you to laugh.”

“That you did.”

Maybe the evening wouldn’t be that painful after all.

Chapter 5

Brastias, general of the Dark Plains rebellion and Annwyl’s second in command, leaned back into the hard wood chair and rubbed his tired eyes. She must be dead. She had to be dead. Annwyl would never disappear this long without word sent. He’d already sent trackers out to find her, but they came back empty-handed, losing her trail somewhere near Dark Glen, a haunted place most men dare not enter.

Of course, Annwyl was not most men. She often dared where others fled. She remained the bravest warrior Brastias knew and he’d met many men over the years who he considered brave.

But Annwyl could be foolhardy and her anger . . . formidable.

And yet every day for two years Brastias thanked the gods for his good fortune. On a whim they had attacked a heavily armed caravan coming from Garbhán Isle. Its cargo had been Annwyl. Dressed in white bridal clothes and chained to the horse she rode, her destiny to be the unwilling bride for some noble in Madron. And based on how heavily armed her procession was, dangerously unhappy about it as well. Once the attack began, one of his men released Annwyl and told her to escape. She didn’t. Instead she took up a sword and fought. Fought, in fact, like a demon sent from the gods of hate and revenge. Her rage a mighty sight to behold. By the time the girl finished, she stood among the headless remains of those she killed. Her white gown completely covered in blood. On that day the men had given her the name Annwyl the Bloody and, as much as she hated it, the name stuck.

They returned with her to their encampment, but no one knew what to do with her. The women of the camp shunned her. She frightened them and she turned out to be completely useless with anything domestic. But she possessed information on her brother. She knew where to attack and when. She knew his strengths and his weaknesses. And she wanted nothing more than to destroy him. Soon she brought in the financial assistance of other regions. No one wanted Lorcan in power longer than necessary. If his sister could stop him, she would have their loyalty. She protected their borders and the rebellion’s troops grew.

Eventually Annwyl took control and Brastias gave it over gratefully. She earned their loyalty and trust, and after two years the men would follow her down into the very pits of hell if she asked them.

But, if she were dead . . . Brastias didn’t want to even consider it. They hadn’t found her body. Perhaps they could still rescue her.

“General.” Brastias’s eyes shifted to the front of his tent. Danelin, his next in command, stood waiting. “There’s a witch here to see you.”

Brastias nodded once. She probably wanted to see Annwyl or, if his world contained any luck at all, perhaps she could tell him where to find his missing leader.

A tall woman entered his tent. An astounding beauty, tragically marked as a witch. He truly hoped that a special hell waited for men like Lorcan.

She walked toward him. Almost glided. He knew he’d seen her before. The people considered her a talented witch with healing powers. But he had no time for magic or witches. Even beautiful ones. He had a rebellion to win.

“Yes, lady?”

“You are General Brastias?”

“Aye.”

The witch glanced at Danelin, refusing to speak in front of him. “Go, Danelin. I will call if you are needed.”

Danelin left, closing the tent flap behind him. The woman stood before him. She didn’t speak. She just stared.

“So, what is it, woman?” She raised one delicate eyebrow and he felt as if she’d dug down into his very soul.

“I have word of Annwyl of the Dark Plains.”

Brastias stood quickly, grasping the woman by the arms; she stood almost as tall as he. “Tell me, witch. Where is she?”

She stared at him. “Remove your hands, or I’ll make sure you don’t have any.” Brastias took a deep breath and released her. “She is safe and alive. But she is healing. She won’t be back for another fortnight.”