Light My Fire (Dragon Kin #7)(95)

Smirking, she made her way into the cavern, stopping as soon as she saw the two sisters sitting on the dining table, their bodies resting against each other, as they sang a jaunty tune in the language of the Outerplains about death and pain and life on the Steppes.

Because only the Daughters and Sons of the Steppes could happily sing about that.

Each woman held a bottle half-filled with drink, and their voices harmonized beautifully together.

As for the rest, they were passed out amongst a number of empty bottles. Even the two males who’d been trained as monks.

Except for Celyn, who’d learned to drink among the Cadwaladr Clan. He was still awake, but so drunk he couldn’t even stand. He just kept nodding to the sound of the singing while his eyes stayed closed and his hand gripped a near-empty bottle.

No, this hadn’t been what Brigida had planned. She’d thought the offspring, the Abominations, as many liked to call them, were much more advanced. Much more pointed in their hatred and bloodlust. But, for once, Brigida had been wrong.

The boy seemed more than happy sleeping, drinking, chatting with his thickheaded friend, and sizing up the women who’d accompanied his sister and Celyn. He was, basically, a pleasant fellow.

Brigida didn’t need pleasant fellows.

Then there were the two girls.

The pretty brown one either smiled too much or cried too much. She seemed incapable of finding a happy center. And forget hatred. She seemed to have none. Everyone could be redeemed in her foolish eyes.

Then there was Talwyn, the smartest of the three, which meant she didn’t trust Brigida worth a damn. There was a lovely simmer of rage there, just waiting to be unleashed on the world, but Brigida couldn’t get near her. Talwyn had her rage reined in tight and her smarts kept her from making reckless choices that Brigida could feast on for her own ends.

Who knew such deadly beings would turn out to be so useless to Brigida? Not that she’d given up, but time was slipping away from her. She doubted she had another thousand years or so to do what she needed to do.

But she hadn’t given up, Brigida never gave up. She’d learned, ages ago, that there were always other options out there. She just had to be willing to search for them.

“Look, sister,” the one called Kachka said when she and her sister stopped singing; her finger pointed at Brigida. “The old hag has returned!”

“Shh,” the one-eyed female said loudly. “I think she can hear you!”

“She’s old. She cannot hear anything. Can you, old hag?” Kachka screamed. “You cannot hear me!”

Brigida thought about removing the Rider’s mouth, but what was the point? Brigida was no longer a vicious hatchling, known for tormenting those who even looked at her wrong. She was Brigida the Foul, and she had more important works ahead of her.

Much more important.

But, there was still a small part of that hatchling in Brigida’s soul. It would never go away. So she made her long, painful way to the box that held the remaining drink and pulled out four more bottles. She handed two to each female.

“We travel tomorrow,” she told them. “So drink hearty, Riders. Drink as much as you want. So you’ll be bright and ready to face the day as soon as the crows rise.”

The sisters looked at each other and back at Brigida. They each held up their already open bottles. “To friendship between our tribes!” they cheered, then finished off the bottles in several hearty gulps.

As they reached for the others, their drunken grins wide, Brigida turned from them and headed toward her sleeping chamber.

Aye, tomorrow would be interesting. At least for her. For the rest of them?

Nothing but pain.

Chapter Thirty

It was the heaving that woke up Elina first.

A sound she didn’t hear often among her tribesmen. She was asleep on the dining table, bottles surrounding her. Horse gods of hell, had she drunk all this by herself?

Sitting up, she looked around the alcove. Celyn was asleep in a chair, his head resting on the table. Two of the Kyvich, Fia and Gisa, were sitting on the floor, their backs against the wall, their heads in their hands. They were barely holding on by a thread.

The one heaving into a bucket was the monk, Brother Magnus. Poor thing. He sounded as if he were dying. Or, at the very least, as if he wanted to, what with all the quiet sobbing in between loud heaves.

The girl twin, Talwyn, seemed well enough, able to move around without vomiting. But even in this cave, lit only by torches against the wall, she still squinted as if she’d stumbled from complete darkness to the bright morning suns shining down on her in the middle of summer.

The boy twin walked over to Elina and held out a plate of freshly made meats.

“Hungry?” he asked, his voice booming, his grin wide, which was why Elina slapped the plate of food from his hands and then, after reaching back as far as she could manage, slapped his face as hard as her weakened state would allow her.

The boy’s head snapped to one side and, startled, he stepped back and then started laughing. His good humor did nothing but make her want to beat him until he stopped smiling.

“Leave her be, Talwyn,” Celyn said from the other end of the table, his head now raised but his eyes still closed.

“I’m Talan, cousin. The male.”

“I don’t care which one of you it is. . . . Just piss off.”

Still chuckling, Talan walked off and went to help his still-heaving friend.