Loyalty: A Dragon Shifter Menage Serial (Seeking Her Mates Book 4) Read online

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:

  The bears, known protectors of the land and its inhabitants, succumbed, giving way to the dragons to lead the world. The dragons’ battle still rages today, though the bears are long gone.

  (Presumed work of Fantasy, circa 1500)

  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.

  15

  Lily 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—eith
er 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.”

  16

  Conor came to a large chamber at the tunnel’s end which looked entirely too large to have been constructed under the castle itself, its walls stretching as far as the eye could see. The ceiling was as high as that of a great cathedral, arching in vaulted sections above his head. A beautiful space filled with rich columns supporting its immense structure, ornately decorated with stone carvings which seemed to depict characters who’d lived many years ago, in poses of battle, love-making and festivities of various sorts.

  The relics of a history that I was not part of, thought Conor as his eyes explored the chamber’s limits. The structure reminded him very much of the Vaults under Edinburgh itself, the ones built specifically for enormous déors like his to traverse beneath the city unnoticed.

  But ahead of him in the distance and spread around the perimeter of the room were shining silver and gold shapes; large, four-legged forms which perched in tidy rows as though on guard, protecting the neglected netherworld. They did not approach him but remained stationary, statuesque.

  He made his way towards one, a sense of familiarity of a long-forgotten image filling him. In the house in London, inside the funny museum of antiquities that his family owned, something similar sat on display: an old suit of armour, alleged to have been designed and constructed for a bear. Since he’d been a child he’d found himself fascinated by it; the wonder of its shape and size, and who might have felt inclined to construct such a thing when no bear could ever possibly have worn it.

  Here in the castle’s bowels, many such suits stood, each a variation of the last, each and every one more enormous than the last. The first was pure silver, bright and shining with engraved shapes of vines and flowers highlighting its seams. Its surface was buffed so that he could see himself in the enormous flank, which was large enough to cover an elephant’s ribs.

  The second had accents of gold, a sigil of a roaring bear etched into its shoulder.

  “They are something remarkable, are they not?”

  The voice came from the far end of the chamber, echoing, deep. Conor leapt internally, something inside ready to pounce, to change into a stronger, larger shape than his human. He resisted by the skin of his teeth, remembering not to reveal his déor to humankind.

  In the reflecting surface of the armour he saw a figure step forward; a man with light hair that cascaded down to his shoulders. He was broad and tall—or was his size merely a trick of the convex, mirrored surface?

  “They are something,” Conor replied. “Remarkable, as you say.”

  “They are the armour of your kin,” said the man. “Your long-dead ancestors. Slaughtered by the dragons, your line ended in one fell swoop.”

  “What do you mean, ‘my line?’” Though the answer was already inside his mind, he needed to hear the words spoken.

  “The great warrior bears, known as the Beorn in their time. Peacekeepers that they—you—were. Enemies to dragons, hunted by the lords who terrorized the lands, burning innocents and inflicting torment wherever they could.”

  “I’m very friendly with a few dragons who are nothing like you describe,�
� protested Conor, turning to the man.

  “Ah yes. Those mates of yours. Well, there are exceptions to every rule, as they say, and no doubt your Lord Graeme and Lady Lilliana are as docile as dragons can be. This, of course, is largely a result of their having been thrust into an era wherein they are not free to throw their significant weight around.”

  “I hardly think that Lilliana was burning villagers in her own time…” began Conor, realizing that he couldn’t vouch for Graeme.

  “Perhaps not,” said the man. “But the Ramseys were a less friendly lot, at least towards the Beorn. In a final effort to achieve peace and calm in the face of constant dragon attacks, an agreement was made to stop on our side the breeding. To retain human traits only, and to end Rituals and the breeding of shifters. And so the bears died off with the initiation of the truce. Many other lines fell around the same time, for the same reasons.”

  “And the dragons lived on…” said Conor. The pieces, the images that had tormented him, were finally coming together and making sense.

  “Yes,” said the man. “The dragons lived on. And so peace has never really come to exist, as there is no longer a creature which can take them on and keep them in check.”

  “But surely dragons in this century remain concealed. I never heard of one, in my years as a human. So what’s the point in their ensuring that other shifters die? It’s not like they run the world.”

  “Dragons are wonderful at concealment, yes. Not so wonderful at peace. They will rise up again, stronger than before. Man-made weapons can take them down, but not before they’ve ravaged cities and terrorized the people. They are a bitter lot, and I suppose they have reason to be after centuries of hostility towards their kind. They are, in the modern day, outcasts, treated like disease-ridden rats. There are none who want them; there is no love for their kind.”

  Conor paused, breathless. The love that he felt for his mates was beyond anything defined by time or place; it was intense, whole. And he knew that they felt it for him as well. For all the fabricated, cruel reputation of the great scaled déors, none were so capable of love and protection as a dragon.