How to Drive a Dragon Crazy (Dragon Kin #6)(16)

Slowly, she turned, and looked up at her nephew, the son of Annwyl and Fearghus.

“Talan.”

He smiled. Gods. Such a handsome boy. Unbelievably handsome. With his father’s eyes and his mother’s face, streaked brown hair reaching massive shoulders and as tall as his Uncle Gwenvael’s human form. But, like his twin sister, there was something about Talan. . . .

“Auntie Dagmar.”

Although it had been disturbing that the twins spoke so little as children, Dagmar could say that when they did begin to say more . . . it wasn’t any less unsettling.

Of course when they’d just stand there and stare . . . things weren’t much better.

“Is there something you want, Talan?”

“There’s a caravan of rough-looking, grunting males. I’m assuming they’re your kin since they’re not dragons.”

Dagmar snorted a little. “Yes. That does sound like my kin.”

“They’re heading through the gates now. Should I send someone to deal with them?”

“No. I’ll go.”

He nodded, but his gaze lifted, locking on something behind her. Dagmar looked over her shoulder and clenched her fists in order to keep from snarling.

“They’ve been chummy lately,” she blandly remarked, trying not to sound concerned.

Talan shrugged and walked off, reminding her that the twins only seemed to speak when they felt like it.

Although she knew she had to get to the main gate, Dagmar stood her ground until her niece and Talan’s twin sister, Talwyn, nodded at the woman she was walking with and headed over to Dagmar.

“Auntie Dagmar.”

“Talwyn.” Her niece, like Talan, was tall and beautiful, with pitch-black hair and her mother’s green eyes. But she constantly hid that beauty under hair she rarely combed, dirt she rarely bothered to wipe off, and a perpetual glare that could scare hell’s demons.

Dagmar glanced over at the woman walking away. But she wasn’t just a woman, was she? No. She was a Kyvich from the Ice Lands. One of the warrior witches who was so powerful and feared that even the gods called on them only when absolutely necessary. Nearly sixteen years ago, they’d come to Garbhán Isle to protect the twins while their mother was off in the west waging war against the Sovereigns. At the time, Dagmar had been grateful, but she’d also been wary because the Kyvich were rarely born into their rank.... They were taken from their mothers, usually before they were even two winters old. But, on rare occasions, they had been known to take older girls. Although Talwyn was now eighteen winters, she also had a mighty strength. Her fighting skills unmatched by anyone except the most seasoned warriors. Meaning she was exactly the kind of warrior the Kyvich would want.

So seeing that the Kyvich were lurking around her niece made Dagmar feel nothing but discomfort.

“Did Commander Ásta have anything interesting to say?” she asked Talwyn.

“No.”

Dagmar, as always, waited for more, but after all these years, one would think she’d know better.

“Talwyn,” Dagmar finally said, “should I be concern—”

“Aren’t the barbarian horde at the gates?” her niece cut in.

Unwilling to delve into how Talwyn knew that the Reinholdts had arrived without actually seeing them, Dagmar asked, “Can’t you just call them family?”

Talwyn looked at her through the mass of black hair that constantly fell into her eyes and bluntly admitted, “Not and mean it.”

Snorting a little before she could stop herself, Dagmar nodded. “Fair enough.”

Without another word—she talked less than her brother—Talwyn headed to the training ring for more weapons practice than anyone would ever need, and with a heavy sigh, Dagmar headed to the front gate.

Although Dagmar and Gwenvael visited her aging father as often as she could manage, even bringing Talaith and Annwyl with them on occasion, she’d never had any of her family here at Garbhán Isle.

But her father had written her himself. Well . . . he’d dictated a letter himself to the assistant she’d handpicked for him. And her father had made this request. How could she turn him down?

She couldn’t. So she had to suck this up, as Talaith had told her.

Dagmar headed toward the courtyard, getting there just as the sons of her brothers arrived on their large Northland stallions. The oldest, Alppi, eldest son of Dagmar’s eldest brother, Eymund, dismounted his horse and stood before Dagmar. He nodded his head . . . then stared at her, frowning just like her brother often did when he was confused.

“Aunt Dagmar . . .” His frown worsened. “I . . .”

“You . . . what?”

“Thought you’d be old by now,” Alppi’s younger brother informed her. “But you look the same . . . don’tcha?”

Dagmar wouldn’t bother explaining the gift of long life similar to that of a dragon’s, which had been bestowed upon her by the Dragon Queen when she’d committed herself to the queen’s son Gwenvael. Instead, she simply replied, “I’ll look like this long after all of you are dust and forgotten.”

Her nephew stared at her a little longer before Alppi shrugged and said, “Yeah, whatever. Got anything to eat?”

She pointed toward the guards’ mess, not even considering sending any of them to the Great Hall, where, most horrifying of all, they might catch sight of sweet and unattached Rhi. The vision of the bodies of her many nephews, burned beyond recognition, being returned to her brothers woke her up some nights.