Last Dragon Standing (Dragon Kin #4)(51)

The Red swung his fist at Ragnar, but a black-scaled claw closed around it before it could connect, black talons engulfing red ones and squeezing.

The sound of cracking and breaking bones echoed through the now-silent hall. Having met the black dragon once before, Ragnar recognized the Queen’s consort and Keita’s father. Bercelak the Great, as he was known in the South—in the North he was still called Bercelak the Vengeful and Bercelak the Murdering Rat Bastard Scum—did not warn others off. It simply wasn’t in his nature, although Ragnar guessed that was especially true when it came to Bercelak’s daughters.

The older dragon, without saying a word, kept up the pressure on that red claw until he’d completely crushed it, leaving the Red weeping like a babe on the fur-covered floor. The Fire Breather’s gaze moved from the sobbing noble to Ragnar. He studied him closely with those cold black eyes before motioning to a set of stairs. “My Queen waits for you, Lightning. She doesn’t like to wait.”

Now Ragnar remembered why striking directly at Queen Rhiannon’s court was something even his father had avoided. Not because of the nobles—they seemed relatively worthless—but because of their battle dogs: Lord Bercelak and the Cadwaladr Clan.

The nobles should be grateful for the presence of the low-born dragons, because they were the only ones who kept the wolves from the door, to use a common human phrase.

Ragnar moved around the Queen’s consort and walked up another set of stairs. At the top stood the Blue and Keita. She waited until Ragnar was in front of her and her brother entered the next chamber.

“He seemed attached, that Red,” Ragnar observed, looking over his shoulder to see the Queen’s consort eyeing everyone until they looked away.

“Don’t blame me,” Keita contested. “I promised neither him nor DeLaval anything and was very honest from the beginning about what they would get from me.” She reached up and brushed her claws against Ragnar’s shoulders as if she was wiping away lint on clothes he wasn’t wearing.

“Most appreciate my honesty, but there are some who think they can get around that, that they can change my mind.” She looked up at him through her lashes, and he knew this was more about him than that idiot Red or DeLaval.

“Some of us at least have to try, my lady. But there’s a definite line between being determined and just being a pushy prat.” Keita laughed and headed into the next chamber. “I’m glad to see that you apparently know the difference.”

Keita stepped into the chamber. This one had a few nobles but many more of her father’s Clan in attendance, which, in her mind, always explained the presence of more weapons and guards and less high-priced royal trappings.

Instantly, Keita saw her mother at the other end of the hall. The queen had her arms around Éibhear, hugging him to her.

“My sweet, sweet hatchling,” Rhiannon crooned. “I’m so glad to have you home, safe and alive.”

“I missed you, Mum.”

“And I missed you.” For the first time with any of her offspring, Queen Rhiannon raised herself on the tips of her talons in order to reach Éibhear’s forehead and kiss it. Then she kissed each cheek before pulling back and looking him over. “By the gods, son. You’ve gotten huge! You’re looking more and more like your grandfather every day.”

“Thanks, Mum.”

Crystal blue eyes focused past Éibhear and onto Keita. Mother and daughter’s gazes locked, the same way they had—rumor had it—when Keita broke out of her shell at hatching. It was said that although Keita had no fire at the time, she sent a ball of smoke at her mother’s head. Something Queen Rhiannon had yet to forgive her second-hatched daughter for.

As always, Keita braced herself for what was about to happen, which was the same thing that happened every time mother and daughter met. The same horrifying, ridiculous display that, if unleashed, could destroy the innocent minds of an entire countryside of peasants.

“Remember, warlord,” she softly warned Ragnar, watching her mother step around Éibhear and move toward her, “that no matter what you see here, I am no more or less than what you thought of me before.”

“What in all the hells does that mean?”

Keita let out a breath. “You’ll see.”

Rhiannon, still safely across the hall, lifted her mighty white head, pulled her lips back over bright white fangs, opened her arms, and cried out,

“Keita! My lovely daughter!”

Keita opened her arms and shouted back, “Mumsy!” Ragnar watched in fascination as the two females moved across the hall and made what seemed to be an attempt to hug each other but then not quite bothering. Instead they kept their arms held out and kissed the air around each other’s heads rather than cheeks.

Rhiannon stepped back and, looking her daughter over, said, “Keita.

Look at you. You look absolutely…” Ragnar waited for the queen to finish that compliment, but instead she finished with, “You!”

“Mumsy,” Keita replied, the queen’s eye twitching the tiniest bit.

“Look at all that beautiful gray in your hair. It really does fit your face…

now.”

“And you, my sweetest daughter. With all that fiery red hair! Like a blessing from the gods!” She lowered her voice—a little. “It seems they even blessed your chin a bit.”