Fury of a Highland Dragon

Fury of a Highland Dragon

by

Coreene Callahan

For my grandfather—thank you for all the stories. You gave me a passion for Scotland, our ancestral home. I loved it then and still love it now.

The Cairngorms—Scotland, the Highlands

S
tanding on top of his favorite cliff, Tydrin leaned forward to peer over the edge. Moonlight illuminated the weathered face, caressing sheered stone, slipping deep into narrow crevices, reaching toward the heart of the mountain. He squinted against the glare, protecting his light-sensitive eyes, and stared at what most considered certain death. A straight drop. A cascade of ice and snow. Nothing but the snarl of jagged rock for a thousand feet.

Nice.

Neat.

Tidy tied up in a chaotic twist.

A fitting end for someone, but not him. Jumping wouldn’t bring relief, much less undo what he’d done. Or erase the past.

Self-reproach tied a knot in the center of his chest. Barbed and brutal, the individual threads pulled, making him ache from the inside out. Not surprising. It was that time of year. Again. Like always. Inevitable as the changing tide, the seasons turned, blowing Nordic winds into arctic bluster and strands of hair into his face. Tydrin shook his head, denial rising as he raked the dark mass out of his eyes. January 7
^th
. Bloody hell, he hated the date. Despised its annual occurrence. Despaired as one month spun into the next, dragging him closer to winter and the reckoning.

Penance. Forced restitution. A guilty conscience that never abated…

Or let him rest.

His gaze on the thick curl of gathering storm clouds, Tydrin shoved his hands into the front pockets of his favorite jeans. The yawn of a large cave behind him, he settled in his usual spot, bare feet cradled by well-worn grooves, shoulder propped against the rock wall. Ice pressed against his arm. The chill woke his dragon half, sharpening his senses as he stared out into the void. Into nothingness. Into the snowy swirl of midnight and the beauty of the mountain lair he shared with the other members of his pack.

Dragonkind hidden in the wilds of the Scottish Highlands. Smack dab in the midst of human society. Amid a mountain range so inhospitable most never ventured anywhere near it. Tydrin’s mouth curved. Cairngorm, a beautiful beast wrapped in ragged terrain and subzero temperatures.

An excellent home. Perfect cover for his kind.

Blackened by time, scarred by harsh weather and covered in snow, individual peaks rose and fell, dropping into valleys, angling into sheer stone faces, shooting skyward to touch the hand of God. He huffed.
God.
Right. It was so much bullshite. Faith. Hope. The need to believe in a supernatural force that watch him from above, holding the world—and all in it—in the palm of
His
hand. Disgust drilled deep, leaving a bad taste in his mouth. So ridiculous. Beyond stupid. The dogma smacked of foolishness—of archaic beliefs set inside ancient parameters that no longer held sway.

A shame in many ways.

He could use a little faith right now. A touch of what humans held in such high regard.

But even as he searched, hope rising hard, none came. No great burst of inspiration. Not a whisper of forgiveness either. Sorrow compressed the cradle around his heart. Tydrin ground his molars together. The harsh sound echoed inside his head, killing the quiet, heightening his grievance, laying the blame at his feet. Lucifer lash him and get it over with. Would it never end? Would he ever be able to let it go? He wanted to. Longed to learn how and leave history where it lay, buried in the past, but—

“You still here?” The deep voice drifted from the rear of the cave.

Tydrin tensed. Well, shite. Talk about bad luck. And even less solitude. With a sigh, he glanced over his shoulder. A pale purple gaze met his. Tydrin swallowed a growl and eyed the bastard with enough balls to come at him from behind. “Aye.”

“Thought to find you gone by now.”

The statement tightened his chest. He should be
gone
. Ought to be in dragon form and airborne, making his annual trip to the human cemetery. That he still stood cliff-side told the tale better than any explanation ever would. But then, dread—and the promise of penance—had a way of stalling a male’s forward progress. “You thought wrong.”

Cyprus, commander of the Scottish pack, raised a brow. “Wool gathering, are ye?”

 He shrugged, refusing to add fuel to the fire. His older brother didn’t need to hear about the guilt plaguing him anymore than he wanted to talk about it. So instead of answering, he changed course, deviating into the only subject guaranteed to turn his brother’s attention. “Any word from Vyroth?”

Eyes shimmering in the gloom, Cyprus left the shadows and walked into the open. Moonlight fell across his face, illuminating aristocratic features. Deceiving in many ways. Sure, his brother looked like royalty—played the part from time to time as well—but anyone who knew the male understood the truth. Cyprus might be controlled, but he was also the loveliest sort of lethal. Was a stone cold killer when warranted, just like the rest of his pack.

A hard glint in his eyes, Cyprus stopped alongside him. “No word yet. The little prick. ’Tis a fine time for him tae disappear.”

Tydrin’s lips twitched, finding humor in the name calling. Particularly since
little
in no way described Vyroth. “Tempted tae call him out when he gets home?”

Cyprus snorted. “I could use the fight, and my twin never disappoints.”

True enough. Irrefutable, in fact, ’cause well…if Cyprus epitomized vicious, Vyroth tripled the effect, then multiplied it by ten. Aye, the two might be identical in appearance, but sharing a womb before birth didn’t make them the same. The twins differed in personality: one night, the other day. Steadfast and even, Cyprus excelled at leadership, providing the stability and guidance each member of the pack required. But Vyroth? Tydrin stifled a snort. Shite, the male was the picture of unpredictable. Toss in unreliable. Mix it up with a bad attitude and…uh-huh. No way around it. Vyroth did as he pleased, always had—to hell with the rest of the world.

Which explained his absence over the last few weeks, didn’t it?

Unconcerned by protocol, Vyroth always left without a word. No head’s up. No see-yah-later. Nothing but silence and an empty bedroom. He and Cyprus had come to expect it. Both of them understood the male’s restlessness, his need to get away, explore the world, be one with his dragon half. His most recent trip, however, concerned Tydrin. It wasn’t like his brother to stay away so long. A couple of days—a week at most? Certainly. But over a month without any word at all? He frowned. Nay. Such overt disregard wasn’t Vyroth’s usual MO.

“Any leads?”

“Vyroth is still tae far away for me tae track, but…” His brother rolled his shoulders, working out the kinks. “I can feel him. He’s still alive.”

“Good.” Tydrin exhaled in relief. His brother’s claim made sense. Closer than most siblings, the twins possessed a special bond. The cosmic link coupled with identical DNA allowed Cyprus to connect to their brother’s life force over great distances. A handy skill. The best, really, with Vyroth MIA more often than not. “Let me know when he makes contact.”

A furrow between his brows, Cyprus nodded.

“Later then.” Onward and upward. He couldn’t put it off any longer. “Donnae expect me before dawn.”

Pushing away from the wall, Tydrin stepped closer to the cliff edge. Cold stone brushed the soles of his feet. He ignored the chill. As a fire dragon, his temperature ran south of hot. Which meant he went shirtless most of the time. Tonight was no exception. Bare skin steaming, he flexed tense muscles, preparing to leave his perch. Time to shift into dragon form and get airborne. Avoiding what must be done wouldn’t make it go away. He knew from experience. Had tried time and again to forego the annual trip.

To no avail.

Self-recrimination refused to let him ignore it. Call it impulse. Call it compulsion. Call it duty touched by honor. The exact cause didn’t matter. He needed to pay homage. The small show of respect served as an excellent reminder: of his loss of control, of his crime, and the consequences of a violent temper.

“Hey, Tydrin?”

The concern in his brother’s tone drew Tydrin tight. His hands curled into fists, he waited for Cyprus to continue. He knew what was coming. Same argument, different year. But no matter how many times he explained, Cyprus didn’t understand. Instead, they went round after round, the quarrel forever the same.

“’Tis time tae put it behind you, brother,” Cyprus said, his tone so reasonable Tydrin wanted to rip his head off. Let his fists fly. Do some damage. Hammer his sibling into the ground for interfering. Yet again. “It cannae be undone, lad. And twenty years spent punishing yourself is twenty years tae many.”

Untrue.

He deserved to be punished. Over and over. Again and again. Forever, if necessary, for what he’d done. A human couple lay dead, cold in their graves. Bad enough, but even worse was the lass. The wee innocent who’d been robbed of a happy future with loving parents. His fault. One hundred percent his doing. Now his eternal cross to bear. Tydrin exhaled a stream of frigid air. The white cloud puffed in front of his face. He shook his head. So much time, and still guilt ate at him, stripping away his worth until he felt naught but remorse and a keen sense of responsibility.

Young and foolish. Both described him well—at least, back then. Now, though, after years of training, he knew better and understood more. Could curb the rise of his explosive temper by taking a deep breath and choosing another path. One that resulted in peaceful endings, not mayhem and murder.

“Tydrin,” Cyprus murmured. “Brother, please—let it go.”

Tydrin didn’t answer. He leapt off the ledge instead. Ignoring his brother’s curse, he freefell toward the jagged rocks below. Bitter wind blew his hair back. The smell of midnight melded with a hint of heather, soothing him with the scent of Highland moors. Halfway down, he shifted, hands and feet turning to claws, body lengthening beneath black purple-tipped scales, the hum of magic in his veins. Wings spread wide, he banked into a tight turn. A brisk north-easterly lifted his bulk, gifting him with an updraft. He sliced between two vertical rises. Shale broke away, tumbling down the cliff face. The rattle echoed over mountain peaks, dipped low into valleys as he rotated into a rolling flip, powered up a cloaking spell, and flew east.

Half an hour later, he rocketed past the city limits. Into the heart of Aberdeen. Into a city steeped in a history rich with feuding clan chieftains and incompetent kings. The place he called home. But as he scanned the deserted cobblestone streets, following the inky, serpentine curve of the River Don, he wondered for the first time if that was true. Was it really his home? Tydrin frowned. He didn’t know anymore. Mayhap Vyroth was onto something. Mayhap a change of scenery would cure what ailed him. Mayhap the separation would bring clarity, enough to remedy the keen sense of loss he suffered, night in and night out…

Day after sleepless day.

Wheeling into a tight turn, he increased his wing speed. Frosty air rushed over his scales, bringing relief as bright streetlamps blurred into streaks below him. The smell of peat moss rose, smoke twisting from stone chimney tops. Grey wisps swirling in his wake, he leveled off, gliding over the small cottages and tiled rooftops west of town. Almost there. Another minute and—

Ah, there it was…the source of his disquiet. His annual destination: Nellfied Cemetery, the last place he wanted to be, but knew he couldn’t avoid.

Divided into three walled sections, the graveyard sat silent and dark, skeletal tree limbs as still as the world around him. He circled overhead. His night vision sparked, allowing him to see the smallest details. Not that Tydrin needed it. He knew the desolate place by heart. Had memorized every inch: the pale face of every tombstone, each gravel covered path, the open area behind a semi-circle of evergreens where he preferred to land. Folding his wings, he dropped through frigid air. His talons thumped down. Frozen blades of grass crackled in protest before flattening beneath his large paws. Razor-sharp claws cutting into the soil, he scanned the shadows. His eyes narrowed. Huh. Strange, but…

A tingle crawled over the nape of his neck.

Already taut muscle cranked a notch tighter. He tilted his head and listened harder. Nothing. Not a whisper of sound, just an odd vibration in the air. Gathering his magic, Tydrin held it a moment, then released it in a rush. His sonar pinged, casting a wide net, blanketing the area as he searched for the source. A buzz lit off between his temples. Tydrin bared his fangs on a silent snarl. Shite. Trouble. The kind he couldn’t identity, but knew lay just beyond the thick copse of evergreens.

Somewhere close to the grave site he intended to visit.

Shifting from dragon to human form, he conjured his clothes. Jeans and leather jacket…check. Heavy-duty combat boots on his feet…double check. Senses seething on violent swirls…tick the last box. All systems go. He was ready to roll. Footfalls silent and pace even, he circled right, headed for the edge of trees, hunting for the threat.

“I’m sorry. So, so sorry.” The whispered words tapped along his spine. Unease, and something more—a
something
he didn’t recognize—twisted his instincts. The murmur came again. Tydrin’s brows collided. The voice belonged to a female. One whose cadence held no hint of a Scottish accent. “I should have visited before now, but…I’m sorry. I know it isn’t right, but I haven’t been able to…to…oh, man. This is way harder than I thought it would be.”

The halting apology made him pause. Curiosity urged him to move closer. Unable to resist the pull, Tydrin stepped from behind the cluster of evergreens and—

Stopped short.

Surprise stalled the air in his chest, strangling his next breath.

Feet rooted to the ground, he stared at the female. He blinked to clear his vision. Nothing. No change in his visual field and—bloody hell. It couldn’t be. He must be seeing things. Must be imagining the impossible. But no matter how many times he forced himself to refocus, nothing changed. She remained front and center, kneeling in the dirt, head bowed, hands resting on her thighs. The submissive position drew him tight, messing with his ability to think for a second.