And They Shall Be Nameless: The Quickening

By Rebecca Cross and Rya Wolf

The Golden Age of Camelot was over, and the magic was gone. King Arthur was dead, the Round Table was disbanded, and necromancers like the mighty Merlin were thought to be mad lunatics. The Council of Twelve, revered dragons who were the very cornerstone of magic and had the ability to turn human, had disappeared. By a sheer token of power and luck, Merlin is given a chance to set things right – a chance to thwart the evil that had invaded the kingdom of Camelot. Research reveals that he needs two women that are descended from the Council bloodline. In order to set all to rights, Merlin seeks his deliverers out – and finds them not in the present or past, but in the future.

Free-spirited Jasin Támariz and reserved Tatiana Richfield are former college roommates and best friends. With the help of Viviane, the Lady of the Lake, they learn the ways of the Knights of the Round Table, and, thanks to their special heritage, they discover the subtleties of Avalonian magic. They take the long road to Camelot, and by the time they arrive at King Arthur’s court, word has spread of their mystery – for no one has ever seen their faces, and no one knows their names. What’s more important, no one is aware they are women. But eventually they must reveal themselves, and it shakes the very foundation of Camelot, in more ways than one.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rebecca Cross
• Release date: Jul 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310591525

Rebecca Cross

Rebecca often collaborates with author Rya Wolf under the moniker FarCrutch Productions. Find us on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest!REBECCA CROSS holds a Bachelor of Arts degree in English and takes great delight in the written word. She has been an avid reader since she was a child; as a writer, she has created castles full of fiction since the mid-1980s, has contributed several stories to fan magazines, dabbled with song lyrics and poetry, and has piles of half-finished short stories stuffed in cubbyholes and drawers around her house. She enjoys traveling, and when she’s not planning her next vacation adventure, she enjoys a quiet life in the country.

Book preview

Hesitation

The vacation had started out so well: first-class tickets, five-star hotel, and box seats in the West End. Now there was a damp, slimy wall, a bleeding and unconscious friend, and a greyish one-eyed blob of a creature with a caved-in skull.

Well. This sucked.

She huddled on the stone floor, blowing into her cupped, unprotected hands to warm them and tried to corral her flitting thoughts into some kind of order. She looked left and right, studying the empty tunnels on either side, flickering weirdly in the torchlight. There was a simple decision to be made: sit and wait for someone to find her, or go off in search of help. And yet, she hesitated.

Hesitation. Call it a sixth sense, call it a premonition, call it stupidity. Whatever name you assign to that feeling, mind how you heed it. Hindsight always wins and is clear-cut. Hesitation can result in impossible situations.

When confronted with the impossible, the imagination will begin to weave the most curious explanations into a tapestry of truth. Fight it, and you smother. Recognize it for what it is, and follow the trail where it leads. Sooner or later, all will be made clear. All you have to do is make a choice.

If you don’t, the choice will be made for you. And that choice just might change your life.

1Prologue

Go Way Back and Start Over

All the darkness in the world cannot extinguish

the light of a single candle.

– Maria Gaulier

Every legend has a prophet of its own. This one has twelve.

When God gave His creatures the command to be fruitful and multiply, they all did His bidding, including the magical creatures. This included the Dragons, the greatest legends in England’s histories, whose existence is unknown to today’s children. So sit you down and listen to a tale long forgotten.

This is the tale of Kierkegaard, a gentle female Dragon who was mated to Thaddeus, a powerful beast whose heart was as black as his hide. Kierkegaard sensed his evil nature, but in her blind faith toward her Creator and her new mate, she was certain his ways would change.

Her faith, however, was misplaced in the face of evil. Thaddeus was convinced that the Dragons were destined to rule the world and only one Dragon should take precedence over all the others. He had proclaimed himself that one. As they took their brood hunting one day at the edge of a fiery volcano, Thaddeus told his mate of his plans to order all of the creatures of the land to kneel down before him and declare him the Ruler of this new World. When Kierkegaard protested and finally refused to aid him in any way, Thaddeus, in a black rage, sent her screaming into the caldera, followed by each of the hatchlings. Madness enveloped him, claiming him for its own, and he began a journey to overtake the world as he had promised. Those that openly defied him – the Unicorns, the Pegasi, and other creatures of magic – were immediately vanquished.

It seemed for a time that Thaddeus would be victorious, but things are not always what they seem. One day, when he returned to the volcanic mountain where his reign of evil began, he discovered that one of their hatchlings had survived. It was a small, weak creature, but it was alive nonetheless. Thaddeus instantly moved to throw the little Dragon into the flames to join its brethren, but he was stopped when Kierkegaard rose up from the pits of the volcano and scooped the young one out of harm’s way. As transparent as crystal, and as pure as the power of good, Kierkegaard drew her only living child out of Thaddeus’s clutches and beyond her to safety; whereupon she delivered Thaddeus into judgment by pushing him into the caldera, as he had done to her. When his evil spirit rose like a green mist from the boiling lava, twisting and hissing, Kierkegaard trapped it in a huge ornate amphora and set it aside in a stone fortress away from the eyes of the world. She did not see that wisps of the mist fell to the earth and cooled into black obsidian pebbles that were instantly swallowed up by the borders of the caldera…but that tale is for another time.

It is written in the forgotten scrolls that Kierkegaard could not bring back the creatures of magic that Thaddeus had murdered. So she took six scales from her breast and created the Council of Twelve – twelve Dragons to take the places of the lost races, two Dragons from one scale. Instead of being crystalline like Kierkegaard, the ensuing horde had scale colors of red, blue, yellow, white, gold, and silver. The black scales of the tiny surviving Dragon were changed to reflect all these hues.

As the centuries passed, the Dragons populated the world, each individual adapting to the environments that suited them best. The original twelve Dragons, brought to life by otherworldly means, settled in Britain, where the poets and historians referred to them as The Council of Twelve. These creatures had the ability to develop Human form, which led to integration with the upcoming rise of Humanity and created a revered breed known as Dragonspawn.

The Council of Twelve was not a myth, and its members were not demigods. They were emissaries of the ancient Magic, a Magic that has dwindled in this time. When that Magic shows danger of disappearing forever, the world as we know it would end…unless someone could stop the slide.

♦ ♦ ♦

It should have been a wondrous time of the year. Winter was releasing its icy grip on the earth and the first signs of spring were tangible in the slightly chilly air. But there was something missing in this changing of the seasons, dimming some of the wonder and replacing it with despair. Once the coming of spring was heralded with the song of the bluebird and the bloom of the morning glory, but those days were long past. Now spring was discernible when the heavy winter snows changed to heavy rains, the only sign of a marginal increase in the frigid temperatures.

On this particular morning, there was a fine drizzle coming down that left all the land enshrouded in mist. The skeletal trees that poked through the seemingly impenetrable fog only added to the desolate mood that hung heavy in the air. It hung particularly heavy over a steep hilltop, still slushy with the last snowfall, where an old man stood alone, his outline a sharp contrast to the blurred, colorless backdrop of mist.

He was tall, this man – tall and lean of frame and gnarled like an age-old oak. The slight breeze that blew tousled what was left of his stringy white hair as he restlessly shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then finally gave up to lean wearily on his heavy wooden staff. Hollow eyes surveyed the land around him, coming to rest on the ground he stood upon. It used to be the very foundation of the golden age. Now it was a quagmire, destroyed by the same magic that had built it.

Fragments of memories seeped in and out of his mind. The power behind them threatened to engulf him at any time, for they were broken dreams of a time that had once been the most glorious ever. Even after a hundred years, the torture the memories wrought upon his emotions was overwhelming.

Oh, Father, how? he whispered, his gaze rising to the clouded sky. How could I have let it happen? He wasn’t really speaking with any hope of getting a reply, since he had asked the same question time and time again. The reason was simply to hear his voice.

No other living souls around would speak to him since the Downfall. They thought him a madman, a pagan horror that threatened their very existence. The man’s tired black eyes filled with tears as he thought of the many generations of people that come and go in a century, and those that had truly known him were long gone. He had only himself for company, for even his magic had deserted him – the magic that had made him an outcast and damned him to a life of loneliness and despair, but had also given him the wisdom for which he had once been revered.

He had been the last of the great necromancers. He’d been the greatest to ever enter the guild. But now his power was gone, and the world was sliding further and further into the depths of hell. That much he could see. His visions of the future were still strong and clear. But despite the terrors he was shown, something compelled him to look again and again. What was he looking for? A haven? A foothold which he could grab to suspend Humanity above the flames? Something held his despair at bay just enough for him to continue his search.

His eyes were drawn to a puddle of muddy water at his feet. Show me! he commanded silently, willing the visions to come to him again. Tell me what I need to know!

The surface of the puddle rippled slightly, though the faint breeze had ceased. The water cleared, then bubbled once or twice and a blurred blotch of deep green, like a drop of ink, began to spread throughout the water. The old man concentrated hard, unblinking, as the blotch lengthened and coiled, and finally took on the shape of a Dragon – a magnificent, shining green beast with piercing emerald eyes full of infinite wisdom.

The man’s hands tightened on his staff. Faigan! he whispered. Within the puddle, the beast raised its head and looked directly at him, and he held his breath. This was the first time the Sight had shown him the Dragon. Could this be the answer he had sought for so long? Was his torment finally ending? A small spark of hope lit within him as he met the surprisingly gentle gaze of the huge creature.

Faigan was the Dragon King, leader of the Council of Twelve, the order of Dragons that held the secrets and wisdom of the Ancient Ages. The Downfall had taken its toll on the Dragons and they had all disappeared, either into oblivion or to the outer limits of conscious being. Who went where, no one knew. Faigan, like the man who watched him through the puddle, had also lost hold on his power when the kingdom fell, but his strength and will had kept him in the mortal world while his companions had simply vanished into the void. Now he was in hibernation, waiting for the day when the Magic would return to the land.

The man stared intently into the water. His visions had always been of death and destruction, of famine and pestilence, and he always knew the final outcomes. Yet still he managed to keep a pinprick’s worth of optimism – he still hoped for a change, a slight variation, anything that would give him a clue and at least put his memories to rest. And now his hopes were being answered, or so it seemed. When there is no real end in sight, any fantasy or delusion can inspire fierce promise, and the impulse to believe kept the demons of doubt at bay.

The Dragon blinked slowly and somewhere in the recesses of a time long past, the man heard the faint echo of his name. I am here! he cried silently. Tell me, Faigan! Tell me what I need to do!

Suddenly the Dragon was consumed by a mass of hot, uncontrollable flames that practically leapt from the puddle’s configurations. The man lifted a corner of his tattered cloak to protect himself from the searing heat that suffused him like a desert storm, but held his ground. Within the center of flame, figures took form, writhing and curling in the brightness. As they coalesced, the man, tensing in anticipation, found himself looking at two young women, one with hair dark as a raven’s wing, the other crowned with the flames themselves. But what filled his eyes the most were the beasts that rose hissing from their shoulders, one blue and one green.

Dragonspawn!

The man leaned forward eagerly as the flames dissipated, his eyes watering from the strain of his concentration. The Dragon’s eyes met the man’s gaze, and it blinked slowly before the vision rippled and faded away.

The man raised a hand to his streaming eyes as he looked away from the puddle. His hand stopped halfway to his eyes as he saw another vision. Or was it real?

A few meters away from the puddle was a sword, its blade buried a third of the way into the soft earth. The tempered steel was rusted, the leather-wrapped handle was rotted, the gilded crossbar was peeling, and there were pock marks where precious gems used to sparkle. But even at its worst, the man recognized the Sword of Power, the great Excalibur.

Trembling, hardly daring to breathe, his fingers brushed against the hilt. Without warning he was surrounded by a warm, caressing aura of nearly forgotten memories, causing him to fall to his knees as the minuscule spark of hope within him kindled into a roaring flame. In a voice he thought he’d never hear again, the sword’s power whispered through his mind, welcoming him, telling him what it needed. It told him what he needed, and above all, it told him what the land needed. Tears of gratitude slid down his sunken cheeks as he listened, and his reason, almost destroyed from the years of hopeless despair, began to mend. The foothold had been found, shaky and hard to grasp, but it was a foothold that halted the slide.

No longer feeling old, the man grabbed up the sword in both hands and hurried away from the foundation on which he’d been standing; the feet that had been weighed down from a century’s torment were suddenly lighter than air. The Sword was giving him back his powers, restoring his sanity…and expecting a task in return. The man was only too glad, too grateful to comply, for the task it asked was one he had dreamed of doing but had lacked the means. Now that a portion of the magic was his to control again, he had the opportunity to go back, way back and start over, terminating the mistakes and thwarting trouble in advance.

Eliminate one catalyst. Rebuild a dream. Rebuild Camelot.

It was a task anyone in their right mind would never turn down and he least of all. He was the one who had given everything he had to build it in the first place. Its destruction had been his own fault, and he’d felt it like no one else. Now it was time to change that. Now he could finally right his wrongs.

Eliminate one catalyst.

It was the chance of a lifetime. And the necromancer called Merlin was more than ready to take it.

PART ONE

Once Upon a Time

Chapter 1

Favored Children

I talk of dreams; Which are the children of an idle brain,

Begot of nothing but vain phantasy…

– William Shakespeare

Orlando, Florida – 1988

The prelude to Wagner’s Lohengrin filtered through the spacious studio apartment on Pendragon Court, echoing in the empty rooms via cleverly hidden speakers. It floated down the hallway, crept deliciously along the elegantly paneled walls, and eventually found its way into the candle-lit bathroom, where it wrapped itself around the woman in the large Jacuzzi bathtub, soothing her mind with its intricate melodies just as the hot scented water and bubbles soothed her tired, aching muscles.

Tatiana Richfield treasured these moments of solitude. After a day of ringing phones, deadlines, and puzzling manuscripts full of spelling and punctuation errors, not to mention grammatical mix-ups that had even the presidents of the company scratching their heads, there was nothing like letting an operatic genius like Richard Wagner take her troubles away. She stretched and slid further down into the water. Her long flame-red hair, which turned an interesting shade of claret when it was wet, fanned out under her chin and she automatically gathered it into a dripping tail, pushing it behind her and out of the way. Her hand touched something soft and furry…and vibrating. It felt suspiciously like a purring cat.

Tierza, she murmured, one day you’re going to fall into this tub, sweetheart, and I don’t want to hear any complaining when you do. She turned her head just enough to look into the tiny face of her purebred Persian kitten, who was balancing precariously on the edge of the tub behind her mistress’s head. The kitten’s slanted golden eyes blinked and she mewed in a huffy sort of way before she jumped down and quietly stalked out of the room with her soft white fluff of a tail twitching and pert pink nose held high.

Tatiana chuckled at her pet’s performance. The little minx could make Zsa Zsa Gabor look like a dairy maid. She leaned back and closed her eyes as Elsa and Lohengrin began their first duet, losing herself in the music once more. As the notes grew stronger and richer, she eventually slid completely under the scented water, leaving a couple of popping bubbles in her wake. Her hair slid from the rim of the tub to follow, disappearing into the iridescence like a cinnamon sea serpent.

The only daughter of two immensely successful lawyers, Tatiana – Tash to her family and friends – had been all but buried in the wealthy coddling of upper class morality. She had been waited upon hand and foot by her doting parents and their household staff since infancy, and she had never known what it felt like to be needy. But fortunately for Tash, she had a keen sense of self-reliance, which developed early enough for her to keep her head above the swamp of overindulgence. She had held two jobs during her high school years, even though her father would have given her any amount of money. Her first car was paid for with her own earnings, and even though the used and battered Chevy Caprice looked odd next to her father’s sleek black Rolls Royce and her mother’s slate blue Mercedes, Tash was satisfied and felt that her car boldly announced her independence.

Now that she was holding her own as a top-of-the-line literary agent at the nationally acclaimed Avalon Corporation, she had long ago traded the Chevy in for a forest-green 1961 Jaguar E type convertible and had moved into a beautifully furnished studio apartment in the suave section of Orlando. She had done it all herself, without one penny from her daddy. And Jase had the nerve to call her spoiled!

Footsteps sounded in the hallway, but Tash, surrounded by watery exuberance, didn’t hear them. There was a muffled exclamation of disgust, Lohengrin stopped in mid-aria and there were a few seconds of silence before the speakers nearly shattered under the force of Bruce Springsteen’s Born to Run. Tash bolted from her haven like a dolphin from the sea, splattering water everywhere. Realizing that she wasn’t being robbed (what kind of robber would change the compact disc?), she sank back into the tub. Good lord, she muttered, trying to calm her hammering heart. Jase, you idiot… Now she heard the footsteps coming down the hall. She quickly put her head back on the bath pillow, pretending indifference. Let Jase think she was becoming used to her idiosyncrasies. Two people couldn’t endure a nine-year friendship without putting up with the little things. Well, at least some of the little things.

The bathroom door opened and a head poked inside, a head crowned with a wealth of tousled onyx-black hair and showing a face full of the energy and mischief that Jasin Támariz was notorious for. Although she could be cool and businesslike when the need arose, the mischievous side of her nature usually dominated, and Jase was forever in trouble because of it, but she brushed off any threats of danger and continued her life in the fast lane with all the joie de vivre she could manage.

No two people could have been more different than Jasin Támariz and Tatiana Richfield. Jase was part Seminole, and that heritage, combined with living on the wrong side of the tracks in a very prejudiced community, had unfortunately dropped her on poverty’s doorstep the day she was born. She had run away from her abusive drunk of a father at an early age and had luckily been taken in by a wealthy Spanish couple before she had languished on the streets. Jase never forgot her life before her adoptive parents found her and she was determined never to be that helpless and destitute again. Her perseverance had paid off, and now she was the artistic director of Orlando’s Toreador Theater, as well as the proud owner of American Babylon, one of Florida’s most prestigious Spanish/Norman equestrian ranches. However, despite her rich surroundings, she remained as carefree and cynical as a New York gang leader, acting on impulse and burrowing her way through trouble like a rabbit burrowing through a thicket of thorns.

The two had met at the tender age of fifteen, at an obscure but costly boarding school, forced to live together in the same small dorm room. On that first day of school, they had disliked one another on sight: Jase saw in Tash a spoiled snit born with a silver spoon in her mouth and her nose in the air, and Tash saw in her new roommate a first-class ticket to being booted off the campus, not to mention an invitation to life-long trouble. It didn’t take long, though, for them to realize that Fate had dealt them both a prodigious favor, for each one discovered that the other’s so-called faults were traits that the other secretly relied on. Jase needed Tash’s stability to keep her out of daily crises, whereas Tash longed for just a little wildness in her otherwise productive and tidy life. The only thing they had in common were their vivid, overactive imaginations, something that made everything they did together either one holy hell of a mess or an incredible adventure. Naturally, they became the best of friends.

No imagination was evident in Jase’s voice or manner now, however. The mischief was in full swing as she leaned against the door frame, careful not to dislodge the little white kitten that perched on her shoulder. Tash noticed that she was dressed for a night of bar-hopping – a skimpy white tank top that allowed the head of her 12-inch blue Dragon tattoo to peek over one sun-browned shoulder, sleek button-fly Levis, and her beloved, battered Durangos. Her hair, usually pulled into a horsetail-thick English braid, rippled down to her waist in a wavy blue-black waterfall, and gold hoop earrings with a circumference of at least 2½ inches sparkled in her ears. It was going to be another of those beat-‘em-off-with-a-broom nights that Jase reveled in.

The merry dark eyes took in the sight of the water-soaked floor. Did we do a swan dive into yonder whirlpool? she asked.

Well, so much for appearing nonchalant. Tash let her breath out slowly. It’s your fault, you ass. You scared me to death. There’s a doorbell out there, you know.

Give me a break, Jase replied. You’re telling me that you would have come running to welcome me at the door in your birthday suit, dripping your Calgon water all over your nice hardwood floor? Such an image. You gave me a key to avoid doorbells, remember?

Much to my regret.

"Oh, don’t moan. Besides I’m glad I interrupted this travesty of opera, candles, ad nauseum...Really, Tasher, I know you were bred to this, but enough is enough."

Tash sighed. Her dream date with Wagner had met its untimely end. You are such a Neanderthal, she muttered, closing her eyes again. All your taste is in your mouth. Don’t you know classical music when you hear it?

Sure, I’ve got some classical stuff playing right now, Jase replied, hooking a thumb behind her to indicate the racket pounding over the stereo. I can’t take violins and sopranos on Friday nights. She scratched under Tierza’s chin affectionately, making the kitten purr like a well-tuned Ferrari. Come to think of it, she mused, I can’t take them the rest of the week, either.

Nice try, Tash murmured, eyes still closed. "Let’s not forget that you’ve gone with me to see Phantom of the Opera four times –"

That’s different –

"– and you cried all the way through Faust."

Jase frowned. I did not.

Tash would not be swayed. "You did. Aaaaand I do believe I saw tears during La Boheme, and during that one scene in The Marriage of Figaro..."

Jase waved her hand in dismissal. Well, anyhow, I’m not talking about stuff like that. I mean like… She paused, trying to think of something to rest her case.

Tash opened one eye. Like?

Jase gave up. "Ah, screw it. What I mean is this is music."

I never said it wasn’t. Tash replied, tapping her manicured nails against the white porcelain of the tub. Classics aside, she couldn’t help but admit that ol’ Bruce did make her toes curl.

Jase started to jam with the Boss, making the kitten hold on for dear life. Come on, you bloody silverspoon, she growled in mid-guitar riff. Orlando gents don’t like pruny skin. Up! Out! The delights of Friday night beckon! She dropped to one knee and howled, Baby, we were born to ruuuuunnnn!

With her toes, Tash deftly hit the drain guard and lay back as the water level began to recede. When are you going to grow up? she asked in a no-nonsense tone.

Jase continued to bop. As soon as hell freezes over. She started singing again, purposefully off key.

Shut up, will you? Tash groaned. Let me get over a hectic Friday afternoon before I start on a Saturday morning hangover. She held up a handful of suds remaining in the drained bathtub. "And by the way, this is from The Body Shop in London, seventeen dollars a bottle. It is certainly not Calgon."

Well, pardon me for not smelling the difference. Jase jumped up on the sink, cat and all. You’re in a royal snit. Did you have a rough day?

Tash padded over to the shower and turned on the water to rinse off. That’s an understatement. The phone rang constantly, the big wigs want the Emerson manuscript by ten o’clock on Monday, and Tony Cesaro keeps spelling ‘all right’ as one word. Then, to top it off, Monica hit the wrong key on the ‘puter and deleted the Royhill package. Thank God I had a floppy disk backup.

Jase grimaced. Sounds like you need a new secretary.

"She is a new secretary, Jase, and she’s never messed with computers before. Tash slid the door open and grabbed her towels from their waiting hooks. Do me a favor and go turn that thing down before the Thompson’s maid calls the cops again."

Aw, let her call, Jase said flatly, parking her boots on top of the white marble sink. That old biddy would call the cops on her own mother. She shifted Tierza to the other shoulder and grinned. Besides, I haven’t had a good shouting match with a cop since the day I wouldn’t sign my last speeding ticket.

Feet off the sink, please, Tash commented, and Jase complied. You spent the night in jail, too, if I recall, Tash continued. "I’m not bailing you out again. Turn it down."

Another battle lost. Jase grumbled as she walked out and turned Bruce’s gravely growl into a barely audible purr and came back in the bathroom. You realize I just committed sacrilege? she complained.

Suffer, Tash retorted unsympathetically. No Wagner for me, no Bruce for you. She reached outside again for her green silk robe. So talk to me. I guess your day was as eventful as ever?

Jase giggled. Ian backed into my stepladder while I was touching up part of a backdrop and got doused in cadmium yellow paint. I spent half my morning running from him. I guess the man just can’t take a joke.

Tash shrugged into her robe and shook her head, knowing just how hard Jase tried to escape from Ian O’Donnell, one of the Toreador’s most irresistible leading men and the most likely candidate for luring Jase into something akin to marriage. No wonder you’re pawing at the ground, she said. I wish he’d hurry up and pop the question so you’d stop sowing wild oats all over Orlando.

"You’ve got your genders crossed, Tasher. Men sow the oats."

Tash put her hands on her hips. So what is it you do, then?

Jase grinned. Enjoy them.

Whatever. Now what are we doing tonight?

Jase threw her arms wide. Throw on your party togs, woman. We’re celebrating.

What did you do now, seduce that hot Spanish actor your cousin’s always raving about – what’s his name, Antonio Bono, Bandolier –

Banderas, Jase supplied helpfully.

Yeah, that’s it. Cause in that case I won’t celebrate; I’ll kill you – I happen to share her opinion, you know.

Don’t worry, I’m not that lucky. It’s a little closer to home, though. Lady finally foaled this morning.

Did she! Tash’s face was suddenly alight with pleasure, for The Lady of the Lake was her favorite brood mare on Jase’s ranch. "Well, that is worth a few rounds. How many does that make? Twenty?"

Twenty-two, Jase said proudly. I’ll need to expand the ranch or sell some kids – Jase affectionately referred to her horses as her kids – and it’s gonna be a while before I do that, so I guess I’ll have to con my tightwad manager into building a new baby barn.

Tash leaned forward eagerly. So tell me – does the new addition look like Cal?

You’d better believe it, Jase laughed. Black as coal, with blood as blue as the Mediterranean. She leaned back against the wall and put her feet back up on the sink again. Mr. Andalusian Stud is the best sire I’ve seen for throwing type on my Percheron ladies. The colt’s strutting around already like the Prince of the Forest. He thinks he owns the place.

No doubt you’ve named him properly.

Not yet. Thought I’d let you have the honors, since Lady’s one of your favorites.

Tash, who had just settled her expensive Vanderbilt glasses on her perfect Roman nose, turned and gaped at Jase through the crystal-clear lenses. "You’re letting me name one of your Spanish/Normans? What’s gotten into you?"

Generosity. You can pay me back by buying the poison tonight.

Tash rolled her eyes. There’s always a catch. She gave up on trying to knock Jase’s feet to the floor and jumped up on the sink herself. Now what are the rules?

Jase’s lip twisted and she gestured at Tash’s glasses. First off, leave those damned things here tonight and wear your contacts. Tash glared over the golden rim of the aforementioned damned things, which made Jase snicker. I’m just pulling your chain, Tasher. You know you look good in anything. Now think a bit – this shouldn’t be too hard for a well-read lady. You’ve read Malory. You’ve read Homer and Socrates. What would you name a colt whose sire was named ‘Caligula’s Midnight Messenger’ and whose dam was named ‘The Lady Of The Lake?’ And no funny business.

Tash tapped her fingernail against her cheek, thinking. ‘Dangerous Liaison,’ she suggested after a few minutes.

Jase picked up a jar of bath crystals, hefting them meaningfully. That ain’t Malory. Try again.

Tash took the hint. Okay, sorry. Let’s see…how about ‘Champion of the Queen?’

Jase considered. ‘Champion of the Queen.’ Yeah. Very good. Gives him a royal air.

The word prompted Tash’s memory as she vigorously towel-dried her hair. Royal…oh! That reminds me. I have a surprise for you. She slid off the sink and ran out of the bathroom.

Jase followed, groaning. Oh, no, wait a minute. I really don’t want any more of your surprises, Tash.

No, trust me, Tash said, digging through her purse. This one’s really great.

That’s what you said about your last one, Jase retorted, balling her hands on her hips. I don’t call a box of Today sponges a great surprise.

You can’t tell me you weren’t surprised, Tash said, abandoning the purse and reaching for her briefcase. You nearly yelled the office down.

And for good reason, too! Jase countered. They’re a pain in the ass. Have you ever tried them?

That would be a moot effort, wouldn’t it? Tash threw back, pushing her damp hair behind her ears. God knows you need them more than I do. Running from Ian, my aunt Fanny…Damn! Where are those things? Paper flew in all directions as she dug through the briefcase. 

In spite of herself, Jase was curious. Really, Tash, what have you got up your sleeve now?

Ah! Tash grinned triumphantly and held up a thick white envelope. "This is what’s up my sleeve. She held it out. Open it and die."

Jase frowned as she took the envelope from the outstretched hand. God only knew what was in this thing. Despite her no-fuss-and-no-muss mind, Tash had a badly twisted sense of humor. What did this contain? An unpaid parking ticket? Condoms with glow-in-the-dark pinstripes? A coupon for rose-scented Calvin Klein kitty litter? The possibilities were endless.

Jase, Tash said, "will you stop staring at the thing and just open it? Believe me, you’ll like this."

Jase sighed and dipped her hand resignedly into the envelope. It came out holding a plane ticket to…Her jaw visibly dropped and she steadied herself on Tash’s dresser.

A first-class ticket to England, she said in awe. "We’re going to England? Really?? She broke into a rousing, if slightly off-key version of God Save The Queen, substituting la-la’s" for the words she didn’t know. Jase firmly believed in singing her feelings. If the song matched the occasion, she sang it with gusto.

Oh, we’re definitely celebrating tonight, she crowed after a few minutes, when she had too many la’s and not enough words. It’s on you, right? I don’t owe a penny, right? What’s the skinny, Tasher? Did you finally get hold of some cadmium yellow? With Alex, I hope?

Tash smiled tolerantly. Jase was always trying to set her up with her co-worker. Calm down, Tonto; it’s nothing like that. I thought we could use a little vacation, so I made all the arrangements on Tuesday. And yes, it’s all on me. Call it an early birthday present. And never, ever call me a cheapskate again. She started to stuff the papers she’d scattered back into her briefcase. Think of the quaint bed and breakfasts, melting British accents, the Tower of London, Ascot, Wimbledon, Salisbury Plain…

Ah, yes, Salisbury Plain, Jase repeated, staring dreamily at the ticket.

Quit drooling on the tickets, Tash ordered. You don’t think I’m going over there without seeing Stonehenge, do you? Yes, Jase, the ticket’s authentic; we’re going to England for a whole week. She smirked. So much for buying your booze tonight. You owe me about six bottles of Glenfiddich for this.

"Glenlivet."

Who cares? Either way, your liver still rots. And either way you owe me.

Whatever, Jase said softly, still looking at the ticket.

Tash faked exasperation. "With all the money you’re making now, can’t you even offer me a bottle of old Scotch? Geez, and you call me a tightfist."

Jase finally looked up from the ticket. What made you decide to go now?

Tash was still stuffing papers in her briefcase. What?

Why now? Jase repeated. It’ll be freezing. It’s still winter.

Tash looked thoughtful. Is it? Well, hell, I thought it was June. No wonder Alex looked at me funny when I wore that bikini to work yesterday.

Jase didn’t laugh. In fact, her manner had taken a 180-degree turnaround. Tash’s eyebrows drew together in a puzzled frown.

What gives? she asked. If you don’t want to go, tell me.

Tell me why you’re in such a rush, Jase repeated. No planning, no phone calls, nothing. Why so quick? Her eyes were probing. Anything you want to tell me?

The corner of Tash’s mouth quirked. Well, all right, she said reluctantly, Don’t laugh. Jase nodded and Tash continued, feeling foolish. I’ve had this…really strange dream for the past three nights about Stonehenge. It’s all wreathed in mist – you know, hardly there. Tash’s eyes became distant as the picture sharpened in her mind. It’s exactly the same every night. There’s something in the middle of the circle. When I look a little harder, the mist seems to solidify into the shape of a Dragon, a green Dragon. It raises its head and looks at me with these incredibly bright green eyes. I want to run, but I can’t move. And yet at the same time I don’t want to move…I don’t know. Are you getting any of this?

Jase had a queer look on her face. Yeah.

Tash nodded back. Good. Then it speaks to me in this voice puts Patrick Stewart’s out to pasture. She grinned, waiting for Jase to make some smart-ass comment, and when Jase just looked at her expressionlessly, Tash made a sound of disgust. Oh, come on, Jase, we’ve thought up better tales than this. What’s your hang-up?

Jase slid off the sink and put Tierza on the floor, watching for a moment as the kitten wandered out of the room. Then she turned back to Tash and smiled a bit.

Come to us, favored child, she said quietly.

Huh? Tash was taken off guard.

That’s what the dragon said. ‘Come to us, favored child.’ Am I right?

Tash stared.