Loyalty: A Dragon Shifter Menage Serial (Seeking Her Mates Book 4) (8 page)

G
raeme had grown
up within the walls of his family’s castle and he was curious to see it again now, centuries after the last time he’d slept within its walls.

It lay out on a vast green field which, in his day, had been protected by rolling hills on either side that time seemed to have worn down over the centuries, changing shape and morphing into gentle slopes which made the castle appear constructed on a scenic spot rather than a strategic one.

The stone building itself was well-preserved and obviously cared for, its enormous bricks kept clean and relatively moss-free, though its base was coated in a thin layer of green, the earth attempting to reclaim its walls over time as it did in Edinburgh itself. It seemed at times as though all of Scotland was a marsh, inhospitable for human habitation.

A group of American tourists was wandering about when Graeme arrived, and he nodded to them awkwardly as he proceeded through what had always been his own front door. In his day it would have been flanked by large men in armour; shifters, though generally not dragons. His father employed wolves or wildcats, usually, known for their speed and ability to chase down any would-be infiltrators in small spaces.

“Now that’s a proper Scotsman,” Graeme heard a cheeky English woman say as he proceeded by another small group, and he couldn’t help but smile. Had she only known the truth about him, she would have eaten her words. Nothing like a proper Scotsman. Now, a proper
dragon
…

He paid the entrance fee inside, though his instincts told him to insist that he should be admitted for free into his own abode. That wouldn’t have gone over well, though.

The interior was almost unrecognizable. Structurally it was the same old building, high-ceilinged and broad, its interior imposing to anyone but the largest of men. But now it was hung with works of art that had no doubt been accumulated by the family over the centuries, or added by wealthy locals who felt that the grim grey walls required sprucing up. No self-respecting dragon hung a lot of art; one swipe of the tail would render a Renaissance painting worthless in a flash, not to mention what happened to marble busts.

Portraits of people Graeme had never seen, in Napoleonic-era waistcoats and other fancy dress, hung here and there. So much formality. In his day they’d been happy to get down and dirty, the clansmen, coated often in mud and blood. That was, of course, when they weren’t in their déor forms, attacking the enemy and winning. Always winning.

He made his way through the building, down long hallways, noting the old family rooms which had become rather more feminine over the years, floral curtains and pretty accent rugs thrown about. Graeme wanted to run around, tearing them up and dumping them out the windows. Or at least lighting them on fire. The building wasn’t flammable, after all; it wouldn’t catch if he shot the odd flame at some offending frivolous article.

In a dark, cavernous room that in his day had been used for feasts hung still more works of art; paintings of events which hadn’t yet occurred in his time, a historical documenting of the centuries that he’d missed.

The most prominent of them seemed not to fit in for its strange subject matter, though, which appeared to have been inspired by mythology rather than fact. It had a title: “The Great Battle, Won by the Residents of ***** Castle.”

The painting itself must have been twenty feet across and fifteen down, and depicted an army of dragons flying through the air as they rained flames down upon their enemy: a vast army of enormous bears coated in armour, accompanied by smaller creatures which looked helpless against the onslaught. In his day Graeme had never seen anything of the sort; their battles were generally contained against a few enemies. This one looked like a world war between shifters.

Many bears lay dead on the ground; others fought, standing on hind legs and exposing their huge teeth in foolish attempts at bravery.

Under the title the work was explained:

Graeme had seen many a bear in his time, but never coated in this shining armour, and none so huge as the ones in the painting. And little did he know that at the same time, Lily was studying the same painting miles away, a copy of the original which hung in Graeme’s family home.

“Work of fantasy indeed,” he mumbled, whistling as he walked away, denying internally that there could be any truth to the scenario. Some painters, he told himself, had a vivid imagination which needed reining in. Though, he acknowledged, of course the dragons were real.

What he didn’t notice as he moved away from the painting was the man who stood in its corner, cloaked, observing the carnage from within the woods, a large white owl hovering overhead.

Further along was a glass case displaying several old tomes: historical documents presented as more works of fantasy for visiting tourists. Illustrated records of the family’s experiences over the centuries. They told of the old clan wars, beginning in the ninth century and leading all the way to present-day.

Graeme searched for the 16th century, eager to learn more about these dragon wars which had allegedly led his kind to world domination—at least the world of shifters.

He found it in the third huge tome, which was open to a page showing an etched black and white depiction of a bear and a dragon having it out—apparently that was the trend of that era—and text, describing the lead-up to the conflict and its aftermath.

“A Dragon Lord defeats the
Beorn
,” it said, the lettering drafted with a quill by a skilled hand.

The dragon looked very much like Graeme’s, but of course it had no discernible colour other than its various shades of grey. It flew at the bear, who reared up on his hind legs, a suit of armour failing to protect him against the torrent of flames which came at him. Still, he seemed to fight valiantly.

Whether this was meant to depict Graeme himself or a descendant, he didn’t know. He moved away, reminding himself that his fighting days had changed; he was no longer a medieval soldier, but a man of the new era. Fighting bears on open battle fields was for others. His own battle was under cover.

His mind wandered as he imagined the offspring who might one day take up his mantel: dragon young, the product of his coupling with Lilliana. But then, there was Conor to consider, and his déor. It had never occurred to Graeme to wonder if their young would be dragons; he’d simply assumed that they would. But, he supposed, if Conor’s déor were a dire wolf or the like, their children might be something like Lily’s brother Rohan.

Graeme had liked his lover’s twin, and they’d enjoyed some very pleasant hours together when they’d first met. Rohan was intelligent, witty and brave, and had the impressive gift which allowed him to shift into any déor that he chose. Yes, he could happily accept such a child as his own. A dragon was not a necessity, after all; only a bonus.

Regardless of what their children might be, they were a product of affection, mutual admiration, respect. Nothing ill could come of their Rituals; he was certain of it.

It was in another chamber, one tucked away to the side, that Graeme saw the work of art which would pull him out of the amusement of fantasy and into grim reality.

It was so odd; old-fashioned and yet strangely modern, its colours vibrant, compelling, drawing his eyes towards each detail. The opposite of what he’d seen elsewhere—this painting seemed
alive.

It was as though the etching from the book depicting the single dragon and bear fighting had been expanded to include an all-out war; many dragons now soared above the field of battle where creatures of every shape and size fought, including human. All had their eyes trained on the fire-breathers above the fighters on the ground, though, and their leader, the largest among them, was a dark-coated bear.

Graeme moved in to study the creature, displayed in full colour now. Over his fur-covered flesh was a covering of armour so bright that it caught the flames in its reflections. But around the armour were many wounds, so that the bear bled, its pain seeming to fuel a rage within as it ran at the largest of the dragons: a red one with light turquoise eyes, determined to take down its adversary.

The bear had one other distinguishing feature: one eye was gold, with brown flecks. The other a light shade of aqua.

It can’t be,
muttered Graeme, backing away as the image that his friend—the man he’d called his
brother
—had so often seen in his mind’s eye came to him like a cruel blow.

“Hello, Graeme.”

The young dragon shifter started at the voice rumbling deep from behind him. Turning, he knew already whose it was, but how it had come to be in this place and time was a mystery.

“Hello, Father,” he said.

L
ily sat
on the edge of the bed in the hotel room, awaiting her mates’ arrival and doing her best not to tap fingers impatiently against dampening bedclothes or to allow her mind to stray to the place of worry. But there was within her a feeling of detachment; a severing of sorts, as though she’d lost track of her mates. Though she’d never grown fond of modern technology or cellular phones, she longed for something along those lines now, as her mind failed to connect with either man.

She stood and advanced once more to look out onto the courtyard. The sun still shone through the clouds, lighting the space in a less foreboding manner than the previous night. But the absence of a man—either man—walking through towards their hidden inn was beyond bothersome.

At last she decided that a bath might calm her frazzled nerves, and perhaps her dragon would enjoy basking in a steaming pool of water. It too needed calming, settling. More than her human mind, her dragon’s was filled with apprehension, wanting to perform a job but not yet knowing what that job was.

The phoenix blood within her had always made her into a problem-solver; she was no good at sitting about and waiting for events to occur. She needed to control, to initiate. And yet, until Conor and Graeme walked through that door, there was nothing to be done.

She threw on a robe, kindly provided by the innkeeper, and ran the bath, returning to the bedroom once again to perch in wait.

It was just as she turned the water off that she heard a knock sounding at room’s main door.

One of them must have forgotten his key,
she thought, hopeful as she sprang out of the bathroom to greet whomever it was.

But as Lily stepped forward, a moment of panic hit her. The time spent traveling to the door was only a few seconds, but in that brief moment she was hit by a series of pictures: on the other side of the door, no Graeme, no Conor.

Instead, she saw Conor underground, in a dark, wide corridor, lit only faintly by the glow of flame. Graeme in a vast space, speaking to a man whose face was a familiar blur.

And then they were both gone.

She leaned forward and looked through the peephole which gave her a fish-eye view of the hallway, only to see the kindly face which prompted her to swing the door open inward.

“Merry,” she said as the tall man greeted her with a smile which isolated itself on his lips, leaving his eyes out of any joviality.

“What are you doing here?” Lily asked.

“May I?” asked Merriman before answering the question.

“Of course,” she replied, gesturing to enter the room.

Her guest sat down on the only chair in the space; a wooden one which had been tucked under a small, infrequently used desk.

“I followed you three to the city,” he began. “Not for any nefarious purpose. Only because I thought you might need my help. And, as my friend Kyne tells me, help was welcome yesterday.”

“Yes, it was,” said Lily. “I suppose we were a little arrogant, thinking that we could travel all the way here unseen.”

“Well, no matter. It isn’t at all surprising that the Stranieri would be aware of your presence. And I am glad to see you safe.”

“Well, I appreciate that.”

“I trust that you’ve learned a thing or two,” added Merriman.

“Yes, and all unpleasant,” said Lily. She stored inside her mind the image of him and Barnabas from the painting she’d seen, unsure of whether to mention such a thing.

“You haven’t seen Graeme or Conor,” Lily added, realizing how serious the old man looked.

“No. I haven’t.”

“They went to see their family properties. I expect them both back any minute now.”

“Do you?” Merriman asked, fixing his eyes on her own.

She searched her mind again for her mates, for some further sign of them beyond the grim spaces in which she’d pictured them, and could find nothing. It was as though they’d now disappeared completely—as though they didn’t even exist.

“Where are they?” she asked slowly.

“Graeme,” said Merriman, “is with his father.”

Of course. That’s why the man in her mind had seemed familiar; Lily had met him that night at Dundurn; the night when she’d found out about the Tournament which had brought Graeme into her life.

“As for Conor,” continued Merriman, “I’m not sure that even he knows where he is now, and I have lost him. I imagine that you too have found your link severed, and that you’re aware that something isn’t quite right.”

She reached out for Conor once again. The old shifter was right; it was exactly as though the narrow thread that had held them together had been cut. But in her mind was a solitary, fuzzy image, growing in intensity: Conor standing in that dark space, now speaking to a stranger.

“He met…someone,” she said.

“What do you see?” asked Merriman. It was the first time Lily had ever managed to employ the Sight beyond the older man’s range of power, and she knew that it was her connection, her strong bond with Conor that created this brief ability to visualize him.

“A large man, who doesn’t belong in this century. Talking to Conor. He’s…”

“Can you see who it is? This is very important.”

A moment later she understood: like her own life flashing before her eyes, a series of events unfolded, telling her what the Stranieri wanted; why they’d pursued Conor, of all people.

She moved back as her knees went weak, sitting down hard on the bed. “I see,” she said. “I see what he is.”