What a Dragon Should Know (Dragon Kin #3)(8)

“Forest …” He shook his head. “Right. Whatever. It’s yellow.”

“Yellow?” Dagmar tapped her finger against the desk, being as plodding as her kinsmen and loving the fact they had the nerve to hate when she was. “They don’t have yellow dragons, brother. Do you mean gold?”

“Yes. Fine. Gold then.”

Dagmar blinked. “A Gold? This far north?” She desperately tried to remember what she’d learned about dragons over the years, which hadn’t been much. It wasn’t that she hadn’t believed they existed, but she had doubted they had much to do with humans. Why would they?

The Horde dragons of the north lived deep in the highest mountains, keeping mostly to themselves. Their colors were distinct but simple, ranging from deep dark purples to near white, and they held the power of lightning within them. Like her Northland kinsmen, they were mostly warriors and pit fighters.

The Southland dragons came in an array of colors and had their own queen. Fire was their internal power, and they were often scholars and teachers.

“Who cares how far it’s come?”

“You should. Father should. Why else would a Gold come this far and risk clashing with the Horde dragons? It’s my understanding they’re sworn enemies.” She eyed her brother. “And why does Father want me out there? You do know it’s a myth what they say about virgin sacrifices and dragons, yes?”

“Of course I know that,” he snapped in such a way that Dagmar knew he believed the myth to be true. “And after them three marriages, you ain’t much of a virgin yourself, now is ya?”

“Those last two barely counted.”

“Look, woman”—Fridmar tossed his apple core onto her floor and Dagmar gasped in outrage—“that dragon outside demanded to see Da, and Da demanded to see you.”

“It demanded?” She widened her eyes and blinked at her brother. Her “surprised look” she called it. “You’re letting a dragon demand things of The Reinholdt? Where’s your bravery? Your honor?”

“Would you shut up?” A small tick began in her brother’s jaw. “You get mad when we start killing without … without …” His face twisted up a bit as he thought really hard. It pained her to watch her kin try to think. It honestly physically hurt. “What’s that word?” he finally asked.

“Provocation?”

“Yeah. Right. You get mad when we start killing without that ‘prov’ word, and now you’re mad cause we haven’t killed it yet.”

“I’m not mad you haven’t … there’s a difference between …” She shook her head. “Forget it.”

“Where the hell is she?” Valdís—second-born son to The Reinholdt and most nervous ninny—stormed into Dagmar’s room. “What’s going on? Why are you still sitting here? Father has summoned you.”

“And I don’t jump at every demand. Go find out what he wants first.”

“What who wants?”

“The dragon.” She motioned both away with her hands. “Go and find out.”

Without another thought toward her brothers, Dagmar went back to her work.

Sigmar Reinholdt, Protector of the Reinholdt Lands and People, Warlord of the Northwest Properties, Eighteenth Born to Dechard Reinholdt, Killer of Dechard Reinholdt, and Sire of The Beast turned to face his male offspring.

“She said what now?”

One of his sons—don’t ask him the name, because he really couldn’t remember and didn’t care enough to try—shrugged. “She said to ask the dragon what he wants.”

“And you let her get away with that?”

“You know how she is, Da. Besides, she looked real busy.”

“Busy doing what?”

One son glanced at another son whose name Sigmar couldn’t remember.

“Well?” he pushed when they didn’t answer quickly enough.

“Readin’ … I think.”

“Readin’? You couldn’t pull her away from reading some bloomin’ book?”

“You know how she is,” he repeated.

’Twas quite true. They all knew how she was. After so many bloody sons, Sigmar had held out hope for a daughter. A sweet, tame thing who would bring a solid marriage connection to the Reinholdts and then perhaps a few granddaughters. But he’d gotten Dagmar. The Beast. Cruelly named by his long-dead nephew, but she’d been living up to that moniker ever since. Yet she always seemed the tamest of them all.

Sigmar grabbed his second oldest by the collar and yanked him close. “You take your scrawny ass back to her room and you tell her to get her royal self out here … now!”

“I’m here.” Dagmar glanced at her brother. “I somehow knew Valdís wouldn’t get it right.”

Seconds away from asking who the hell Valdís was—and then realizing it was the son whose collar he still held in his hand—Sigmar snarled and snapped at his daughter, “Dragon. Outside.”

“Yes. I’ve heard.” Always calm that Dagmar. Always controlled and unruffled. Like a crow watching from the top of a building, knowing it was too far up to reach with a bow and arrow. “He’s a little far north if he’s a Gold. But if he hasn’t attacked yet, I’d say he has a purpose here.”