Golden Coils: The Warlock, the Hare, and the Dragon, #2

By L. Rowyn

They saved his soul ... now it's time to save her world!
 
When Bia is forced to flee the Mark Isles, Sir Kildare brings her to his native Dumagh to seek asylum. Bia knows Kildare feels indebted to her for her part in his salvation. But she loves him too much to want him bound to her by gratitude. 

Since they banished Fiona Gascoigne's demon, they assume she no longer poses a threat. But there is a reason Gascoigne has never feared damnation, and her ambition and capacity for evil extends far beyond anything Bia or her son could imagine... 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Delight in Books
• Release date: Jan 24, 2018
• ISBN: 9781540117571

Book preview

Copyright © 2018 by L. Rowyn and Delight in Books. All rights reserved.

Visit the author online at www.ladyrowyn.com

Cover art by Ilse Gort – http://ilsegort.artworkfolio.com/

Delight logo courtesy of Tod Willis.

Subscribe to L. Rowyn's mailing list at http://eepurl.com/cedZTb

First release 2018 (v1.04)

To Alinsa, who made this book happen. Thank you, my wuff.

Well-Earned

*** Less than a minute after the dragon had broken the doors of Huwka’s house and fled, the healer arrived. Huwka sat in a wide chair one boy had righted for her; the rest of her living room was a shambles. Even with the stinger pulled out, her arm felt like something was alive inside it, trying to worm its way to her shoulder. She had her right hand clamped over the bicep, as if fingers on flesh could force it to stillness.

The healer was human, to Huwka’s surprise. No local, either: he had dark brown skin and colorful clothing, a knee-length vest that flapped over a loose shirt and trousers. He was recognizable mainly by the witch’s caduceus on his shoulder. Didn’t you tap for Grahklik? she asked Kwat.

He nodded, eyeing the stranger. Uh huh.

The healer gave a short bow and said, I was closer. May I?

Huwka grunted her assent. The man drew to her side and removed her hand. The flesh was livid blue and black, swollen into dark, twisting ropes that covered much of her arm. The healer inhaled with a sharp hiss.

Hah. That don’t look good, Huwka said. ’s a sting from some scorpion-tailed beast from Hell.

Yes, I know his kind. You are Christian, lady? He perched beside her, kneeling on the broad arm of her chair as he rifled through his bag.

Yep. Should I be prayin’?

He flashed a smile. Always, lady.

Izzit as bad as it looks?

The human took a small pot from his bag and uncorked it. A pungent odor rose from it, crushed leaves and rendered fat. Yes and no. He is trying to kill you, the sting. But we will not let him, you and I. Your arm, she will be fine. You will not even have the scar from him. He dabbed his fingers into the pot and smeared the goop over her arm. She could barely feel his touch. Her arm ached as if chilled: not a numbness, but an icy burn.

Huwka stared at him. You kiddin’ me?

Another quick smile. No jest. She snorted in disgust, and he blinked. You are displeased?

"You gotta ask? Buddy, I fought hellspawn for this. I watched hellrifts open up under my feet and a dragon breathin’ white fire to my left and my right, and me with nothin’ but a club, swingin’ it for all I was worth. And I ain’t even gonna have a scar to show for it?" She snorted.

…you wish for one?

Damn straight I do!

This time his smile stayed. Well, lady, in such case, perhaps I can manage something.

Escape

*** Kildare staggered out onto the cold grassy slope of a hillside meadow, catching himself just before he stumbled into Miss Gardsmark. Folds drawn on the ground always left him disoriented at best, and often flat on his face. Madden and Miss Gardsmark had managed all right, though the dragon was craning her head about in bewilderment. So where are we, Sir Kildare?

Dumagh, my lady. Not far from the grounds of my old school. He gestured vaguely downslope as he turned to get his bearings. Tall trees screened the meadow, blocking the buildings of the school campus from sight. A few little dirt trails led away from the glen and into the woods. How are you bearing up, Miss Gardsmark? She looked – better, much better, than she had when he’d regained consciousness. But her bandaged wings were stiff at her sides and he couldn’t help worrying about her.

I’m fine, she answered in sensible but nonplussed tones. Why did we come to your old school?

Because the schoolboys have a secret hideout in a cave up here. At any rate, we did when I was a student and I doubt the teachers have cracked down on it since. Kildare took a purposeful stride towards one of the paths.

Umm. You mean to conceal me in a schoolboy hideout?

The grey man turned around again. Both Miss Gardsmark and Madden looked as if they thought he’d gone mad. No, no, not at all – that wouldn’t – ah— He held up one hand, trying to collect his scattered thoughts. Madden, will you use your key to fold back to the office and bring the roll of paper back here? And anything else you think we might need, as long as you can get it quickly. I don’t know how long we’ll have and we need to do more folding.

Madden opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again with a snap. With a you’d-better-explain-when-I-get-back look, he put his paw to his key and vanished.

Miss Gardsmark, will you be all right for a minute by yourself? I’ll be right back.

She twisted her head to look around the empty meadow. I think so. What do you have in mind to do, sir?

I’ll explain when I get back. Won’t be a moment! Kildare said, dashing away. He felt giddy and lightheaded, in a way that had nothing to do with lack of sleep or angled folds. An almost irrepressible desire to laugh aloud filled him. To laugh with joy from the ecstasy of being alive, of feeling his legs stretch beneath him with each stride. I’m alive! I’m not damned!  No, better than that: I am saved. He could still feel that moment of surrender. That moment of being filled by a white fire that no longer burned or weighed him down, but buoyed him up. He’d felt a fierce pride that wasn’t his own, but another’s for him: that of a father to his beloved child. The sure knowledge that his struggles were not in vain. That against all odds, against everything that Hell had threatened and demons had promised, his Creator loved him beyond measure and forgave him all his trespasses.

He surrendered, and God took him. Mine.

Yes, Yours, my Lord. Now. Always. Forever, he promised in silence, an unrestrained smile on his face as he pelted through the woods.

At the same time, Kildare was aware of the disconnect between the way he felt and the predicament Miss Gardsmark faced. The danger she was in was his responsibility, and part of his mind raced with the speed of folding to address it, to do whatever was in his power to protect her. She rescued me from the demons of Hell; the least I can do is keep her away from a merely mortal military, he thought as he reached the cave. Nonetheless, he expected to be rather less competent in holding up his end than she’d been at hers.

Yet – I’m saved! And Madden and Miss Gardsmark are both with me!  Kildare could hardly imagine being happier. He ducked as he entered the cave, trailed one hand along the low ceiling, and summoned a witchlight (on the first try!) with the other. On the fourth turning, the cave widened into an open space. A worn and pitted table, legs hacked down to knee height, occupied part of the space, with cushions to sit at around it, and an old trunk to one side. He opened the trunk and rifled through the stash of card decks, game boards, half-empty liquor bottles and dirty pictures until he found what he’d come for. He activated the charm and smiled in satisfaction to find it still worked. Sorry, boys. I’ll replace it for you soon as I’m able. In earnest of his promise, he produced his wallet and left fifty pounds in the chest in its place.

Then he fled back to the clearing where he’d left Miss Gardsmark. While he was on his way, he felt Madden fold in again. Thankfully, a spirit-sized fold took much less time to prepare than a full-size one. Privacy charm, he said, panting as he came to a halt beside the hare and the dragon. I know your father said you’d be protected, Miss Gardsmark, but I feared someone might find you by looking for Madden or I. Where should we go next, Madden? We need another remote place, doesn’t matter where as we won’t be staying there.

The hare finished unrolling a length of paper large enough to accommodate Miss Gardsmark. Remember that peak Croftley and his best friend spent three days hiking to the top of, and you met them at the top by folding to it? There.

Kildare beamed. Perfect. He took out a chalk and began the arch for the portal, kneeling against the paper. And you got the RACBOR, too, good thinking.

I grabbed some reagents for large folds and a brazier, too. But Kildare – that old charm isn’t going to hold long against ward-breaking seers. Madden took his chalk again and began adding runes to the fold Kildare was constructing.

I know. But it’ll make us harder to track for a little while. Long enough to make the fold after this one, I hope.

And what then, Sir Kildare? Miss Gardsmark was eyeing the charm in his hand curiously.

He smiled at her. With luck, we get a better privacy charm.

***

*** Well. This could’ve gone worse, Chancellor Fiona Gascoigne reflected. Her arms were wrapped snugly about General Whitsmythe’s waist, her tear-stained cheek against his armored shoulder as she sat behind him on his warhorse.

She and Whitsmythe were three ranks back in the cavalry unit. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of soldiers filled the streets and the sky above the church square. Gardsmark’s ward, in the form of dozens of translucent armored angels bearing swords and shields, ringed the square in its defense. Arrows, fire staves, lightning rods, and meteor cannons were raining destruction upon Sir Gardsmark’s wards. As far as Fiona could tell, Gardsmark’s angelform defenders were deflecting or absorbing all of the attacks, though at the cost of considerable damage to the surrounding streets and buildings. The fury of explosions, smoke, and fire made it difficult to discern what was happening inside of the wards, but the shape of the dragon as she disappeared through Damon’s portal was unmistakeable. Fiona wasn’t sure if it was good or bad that the dragon had gotten away. Probably good. Certainly better than her being captured; perhaps even better than her being killed, all things considered. She gave a pitiful, overwrought sniffle and rubbed her cheek against the general’s surcoat. The other side of her face had been bitten by that cursed spirit who associated with her son, and she kept that injury faced outwards to enhance her poor brutalized victim look. She considered her next move. Hmm. Yes, the dragon will be far more useful to me alive.

Gardsmark yelled something that, despite amplification, was almost inaudible over the thunderous roar of weapons fire. Fiona caught a few epithets and the words ‘we surrender’.

Whitsmythe hollered ceasefire orders to his troops, who were too terrified and deafened to comply at once. Fiona clutched at the general and spoke in his ear. Oh, no, General! You can’t mean to surrender to that horrible beast?

"What? Whitsmythe roared back. Fiona cringed, putting a pale delicate hand over one ear at the noise. He disengaged his authority charm to add, No, no, Chancellor, Gardsmark’s surrendering to us. The dragon’s gone."

The general’s warhorse danced backwards as a deflected meteor scorched between the ranks of the armored cavalry to embed itself in the street at its feet. Fiona blinked guileless blue eyes at Whitsmythe. "Then shouldn’t he stop attacking us first?"

He’s not – just deflection – gentlemen, hold! Whitsmythe turned back to his troops and reengaged his amplification charm. "Hold your fire! Hold!"

Surely even one of Gardsmark’s wards couldn’t last long under this kind of barrage, not when it’d already taken a battering from hellspawn. If she could just distract Whitsmythe long enough to let the confusion of battle do its work – Oh, general, what if it’s a trap? That monster might be back any moment! She gave a helpless, terrified shudder and clutched at him, one hand around his waist and the other gripping his shoulder, including the epaulet that held his voice-amplification charm. Oh, please, sir, you must protect the Isles! Fiona focused her magesense on the authority charm to see if there was any inconspicuous way to shut it down or break it.

Unfortunately, it was a military-grade device embedded in enchanted armor; it could only be manipulated by the wearer and it’d be easier to kill Whitsmythe than remove it. "Relax— Whitsmythe disengaged the charm —relax, Chancellor, we’re in control. I said hold, damn your eyes!" His orders were starting to have an effect, curse him, as his nearest subordinates passed and reinforced the order.

Oh no, general, look out! Fiona pointed at a reflected lightning bolt at the same time that she used an inconspicuous illusion spell to make it appear the bolt was forking towards them. Their warhorse sidestepped and the false lightning crashed with a thunderous boom into the scorched divot left by the meteor strike.

The angelforms of the ward shifted their stance: they released their swords, the weapons vanishing into aether, and braced with their shields centered directly before them. They were no longer actively deflecting the assault, instead soaking up the damage the Mark Isles military was unleashing upon them. That would burn out the wards even faster. They’re preparing for the dragon’s return! Fiona wailed, a hysterical edge to her voice. She could just catch Gardsmark’s amplified voice repeating We surrender! from inside the square. Neither his surrender nor Whitsmythe’s bungled attempt to calm his soldiers had penetrated the military yet—

—then the angel shapes shifted to images of fluttering white flags. Damn that man’s skill. In that shape, the ward was a poor defense, but even the most terrified man could recognize that sign of surrender, and the fire soon abated. Fiona cowered shivering behind Whitsmythe’s back. Oh, do be careful, do, general, you daren’t trust them.

The insufficiently incompetent old fool patted her hand. "There – there there, my dear, don’t you fret. The dragon is fled, and our modern military is more than a match for a single dragon in any event. As it no doubt realized." The ranks of cavalry parted before him as he kneed his mount forward. Fiona risked a timid glance over his shoulder and into the church square, and gave a horrified little gasp. Some of the attacks had penetrated Gardsmark’s ward: the fountain’s basin was cracked, one of the ornamental bushes along the border was on fire, and the paving stones were pocked with scorch marks. Most importantly, however, Duke Plent was prone and bleeding, although some strange little brown man in colorful robes was tending to him.

Walter! Fiona cried out. She slid from the warhorse to rush to his side, but let Whitsmythe check her when he caught her shoulder. She calculated the threat the rest of the scene posed: Gardsmark was facing her, his expression concealed behind his helmet. The obnoxious clergyman who’d produced the host at that critical juncture was unharmed but had a stunned, shellshocked expression, similar to that of the warlock lieutenant who’d folded Gardsmark in earlier. The intimidated-looking schoolgirl was of even less interest.

Wait, wait here, m’lady, let us handle this, Whitsmythe said to her.

Gardsmark was on his feet, still in full armor, but his sword, bow, and quiver were on the ground before him. He pulled his helmet off and tucked it under one arm, leveling cold brown eyes on her. General Whitsmythe. I will surrender to your custody, but I must insist you arrest Chancellor Gascoigne as well.

This was a disappointment, but not an unexpected one. Fiona gasped, hurt, and covered her mouth with one hand, widening shocked blue eyes to meet Gardsmark’s. Helpfully, Whitsmythe spoke for her: What the devil are you going on about, Sir Gardsmark?

She has trafficked with at least one demon and engineered this hell-born attack upon the Mark Isles. Arrest her.

Stephen! Fiona blinked long-lashed eyelids. H-h-how can you say such, such awful, untrue things? She sniffled.

Gardsmark was unmoved. I’ve had enough of your playacting, Gascoigne. Tell General Whitsmythe where your familiar is now.

Fiona burst into tears. Bewildered, Whitsmythe dismounted to stand next to her. He was a short, rotund man and had to reach up to give her shoulder an awkward pat. There now, my dear, I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for all this.

"Yes! That’s she’s a traitor and a devil worshipper. Tell him what happened to Precious, Gascoigne." Gardsmark’s eyes never wavered from her.

The dazed clergyman looked up from his position beside Plent. It’s true, he told Whitsmythe. I heard her offer her soul myself. Plent groaned and stirred. He tried to sit up, but the healer urged him to lay still.

Fiona dropped her head and sobbed into her hands to draw attention from them. "That, that, that monster, it, it— she gulped back a sob, tears streaming down her cheeks. She parted her fingers to make her bruised cheek visible, and raised her eyes to give Gardsmark a betrayed look. Then she leaned into Whitsmythe’s shoulder and wailed, —it ate him! Oh my poor sweet Precious! She embraced the role of the grieving, empty-headed enchantress, feeling real sorrow for a butterfly-winged spirit kitten that had never truly existed. Emotion choked her. What will I ever do without him?"

Whitsmythe gave her a helpless one-armed hug and offered a handkerchief with his other hand. Good lord. How utterly hideous, m’lady. He glared at Gardsmark.

Even Gardsmark was momentarily shaken by her performance, but he rallied. "Don’t be fooled by her act, Whitsmythe. That monster was Precious."

"What, are you telling me her familiar was a dragon?" Whitsmythe asked, incredulous.

Not the dragon, you fool! The demon we were fighting!

It’s true, the clergyman said again, although he sounded a little uncertain. It answered to Precious.

Fiona took a deep, ragged breath. My Precious was no monster! Stephen, how can you tell such terrible lies? General, the dragon called those demons, I’m sure of it! I don’t know what they fell out over or why Stephen was defending a dragon, but— she sniffled, dabbing her eyes with Whitsmythe’s handkerchief "—my sweet little Precious had nothing to do with it!"

You cannot let yourself be taken in by this woman, General. Gardsmark stood straight-backed and determined. She is a terrorist, a saboteur, and a demon-trafficker. It is your duty to arrest her.

Whitsmythe looked into Fiona’s tear-filled eyes: they were even larger and more luminous in grief, the streaks of tears curving elegant paths down porcelain cheeks. Even spirit’s bite did not spoil her looks, only enhanced how pitiable she was. Gascoigne knew the importance of looking beautiful under every circumstance. It didn’t matter what you’d done: if you appeared lovely and innocent, people would excuse anything. The general patted her shoulder again, his expression kindly. His eyes hardened as he glanced back to Gardsmark and scowled. Chancellor Gascoigne is not the one I caught red-handed aiding and abetting the escape of a dragon and an enemy of the state, Sir Gardsmark. You are in no position to be lecturing anyone on duty. Soldiers! he barked. Take all of these people into custody. His gesture encompassed the scene – Gardsmark, the half-conscious Duke Plent, the schoolgirl, the clergyman, Gardsmark’s lieutenant, and the healer. We’ll turn them over to the city constabulary and they’ll get to the bottom of this mess.

You cannot be serious! Is stopping the devil’s work a crime now? the clergyman asked.

"If that’s all you were doing, Whitsmythe said, with obvious disbelief, and you weren’t, say, offering aid and comfort to the enemy, I’m sure you’ll be exonerated."

Walter too? Fiona asked. She looked anxiously to the healer. Is he all right, sir?

Plent coughed and narrowed his eyes at her, while the brown man finished his work and raised his head. The look in his eyes as he met hers struck her speechless. The blood drained from her face. It was as if he could see right through her, past her superficial beauty, her faked perfection, her feigned emotions, her network of lies and deceptions, and into her soul. In that instant, she felt for the first time that she had a soul: a withered, diseased, corrupted thing, filled with the ugly truths she worked so hard to conceal.

The healer sighed. He must rest, but he will be fine.

Oh thank goodness. Shivering with a genuine fear that she hoped would be put down to her overwrought emotional state, Fiona sniffled. She dabbed at her eyes, using the gesture to cover looking away from the disturbing man. For a moment, she actually wished she was the image she presented to the world: a weak, bubble-headed, too-sweet creature who adored cute things, had never met a man she didn’t like, and cared about helping people.

The moment passed. Whitsmythe offered her a hand up onto his warhorse. Come, come, m’lady, he said gently. Let’s you get you home, shall we? What a terrible ordeal this has been for you.

Over the disbelieving stares and protests from the arrested men, Fiona gave a shaky nod and accepted his offer.

***

*** One of the advantages of drawing the fold on paper: Kildare had a spell to disintegrate paper that would trigger after the portal on it was terminated. Its primary purpose was clean-up, so that one didn’t litter the world with spent one-way folds. In this case, though, it would help to hide their trail a little longer. Kildare propped the portal against the slope before casting, to ameliorate the unpleasant sensation of emerging from a fold at a different angle to the world. Even so, the disorientation hit him hard along with the chill air of the mountaintop. Maybe a high and icy mountain peak in March wasn’t the best choice. He staggered, blinking as sky and ground seemed to swap places around him. This time, he didn’t catch himself as he stumbled.

Sir Kildare? Miss Gardsmark caught him with one hand as he toppled face-forward. Are you all right?

Kildare stared at the long, steep slope before him as the dragon set him back on his feet. Here at the peak, patches of snow lingered and little grew beyond a few tough grasses. Several hundred yards below, scrubby trees clung to the sides of a narrow valley between peaks, while a stream ran down the center. They stood on a comparatively level patch of ground, with a handful of yards between him and the steep dropoff. Even if Miss Gardsmark hadn’t intercepted him, he probably would not have fallen. Probably. Ah…I’m fine. Thank you, my lady. Perhaps we should rest here a moment. The warlock touched his hand to one taloned finger, as long as his forearm, curled around his waist to steady him. Her scales were smooth and supple like the dragonshide she’d showed him in her attic, but finer, delicate. Funny to think these sorts of scales were never what I needed at all.

Miss Gardsmark released him, though her hand hovered nearby in concern. Kildare turned to offer her a reassuring smile before dusting off an outcropping of rock and taking a seat. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply in the thin air. Bits and pieces of the last twenty-four hours drifted through his mind as he realized how long it had been since he’d last slept. Although I suppose you could call it sleeping, when I was unconscious while everyone else came to my rescue. It did not strike me as restful at the time, though I certainly woke refreshed. Another smile lighted his dark grey lips.

He opened his eyes at a weight on his knee, and met Madden’s appraising gaze. He stroked the hare’s ears. Truly, I’m quite well. Only a bit winded.

You ought to be exhausted, Madden said.

I’m a lot of trouble to fold, aren’t I? Both of them looked up to see Miss Gardmark lying on her stomach a few yards away, wings carefully held at her sides and head dipped to their level.

No, not at all, Kildare protested, waving his hands in negation. She tilted her head, unconvinced. He tried again. "I mean, yes, it takes more effort to fold you as a dragon than it did to fold you as a human. But it’s no trouble, miss."

She turned her head away, lifting her neck to gaze into the distance. They were at the top of Mt. Carrandual, the highest peak in Dumagh; it towered over its nearest neighbors in the range by over a thousand feet. The view of the surrounding country was breathtaking. To the south stretched the hills and mountains of the rest of the range. To the north and east the slopes fell away to reveal flatlands in shades of brown and green: forests and orchards budding with new leaves, fresh-planted farmlands, and fallow fields. Beyond those lay the sea, with sunlight glittering off the waves as it refracted through scattered white clouds on the horizon. Are we still in Dumagh? she asked.

Yes. Kildare shifted Madden to his shoulder and stood. After verifying that he was steady on his feet, he walked to her side. Over that way— he gestured southwest —oh, perhaps a hundred and fifty miles, well past the mountains, is Managh. That’s where I grew up. That way— he turned west and indicated the coast —is where I want to go next. My friend Sean Roche lives there. He’s an enchanter; I’m hoping he can help with the privacy charm matter. He turned to smile at her again. Welcome to my country, Miss Gardsmark.

Her large eyes met his, gold flecks swirling across their dark irises. Am I, Sir Kildare?

His heart twisted. You would be if they knew you as I do. There is no 1921 Declaration in Dumagh, Miss Gardsmark. We did not wage war against all dragons.

But Dumagh did help the Mark Isles in overthrowing the Reign. Even though the dragons were the ones who gave Dumagh its independence. The dragon turned to gaze at the distant sea again. A cold breeze blew over the peak, stirring her red-gold mane.

Kildare shivered in the wind. "And your father was instrumental in overthrowing the Reign. You needn’t necessarily take opposition to the Reign as a sign for how people will treat you, miss."

She exhaled slowly. I don’t wish to cause you trouble with your country, sir.

The grey man laughed. At Miss Gardsmark’s startled look, he struggled to smother it. "I am sorry, my lady. I do not wish to make light of your predicament, truly. But I have been in trouble for my entire life. For twenty-three years I’ve had the shadow of the devil hanging over me. Trouble for me is passing out while dozens of hellspawn arise from the abyss to rip my soul from my body and drag me to Gehenna. You saved me from the worst possible fate a man can face, Miss Gardsmark. You are most certainly not causing me trouble. On the contrary, it is an honor and a pleasure to be here with you, now. Please believe me: there is nothing in this world I would rather do."

She ducked her head, nose almost touching the ground, and did not answer. Kildare searched his mind for some way to put her at ease, afraid of discomforting her further by being too effusive with his praise and gratitude.

The silence stretched. Madden cleared his throat. Maybe we’d better get going.

Disguised

*** Kildare sent Madden and Miss Gardsmark through the portal first. He was still exhausted from the night’s ordeals: Madden had to manage thaumatic points for him twice to keep them in the pattern and ensure the portal didn’t close prematurely. But at last Kildare too stumbled through, grateful to let the fold collapse behind him. One foot caught between two rocks as he took his third step on the stony beach. His arms flailed, one outstretched hand seizing on Miss Gardsmark’s tail. She held it steady, half-curled around him to check his fall.

I’m terribly sorry, Miss Gardsmark. I’m not usually this clumsy. He removed his hand quickly and straightened too fast, nearly toppling himself the other way. Her tail flicked around to catch his side and steady him. …hard as that may be to believe.

She smiled at him. Funny how naturally she smiled as a dragon, the corners of her mouth lifting and the tiny scales around her eyes crinkling in amusement. Quite unlike Madden’s open-mouthed smile. I daresay this isn’t quite a normal day for any of us, Sir Kildare.

He shifted his stance to get his feet beneath him, and his hand brushed along her tail. Her mane ran the full length of her spine, from the crown of her head to tail tip. The hair grew proportionately shorter and narrower down her tail, until the very tip where it formed a long leonine tuft. He flexed his fingers against silky strands, then folded his arms safely over his chest. Yes, definitely not normal. He’d folded the group to Roche’s property. A short cliff carved by the ocean rose on one side, marked by a wooden staircase leading from the beach to a house perched above. On the other, waves rolled in from the blue sea, touched by white foam as they crested and broke upon grey rocks. Kildare took a deep breath of the sea air, tinged by salt and decaying seaweed. Miss, if you do not mind waiting here, I’ll find Roche? He’s a friend of mine, an enchanter.

She nodded acquiescence, her forelock drooping into her eyes.

Kildare delivered one of his less graceful bows to the lady dragon before heading for the stairs. At the base of the steps he paused. This…er, explaining things may take a bit. I’ll be back as soon as possible.

I’ll keep Bia company, Madden said, and then grimaced and hopped after Kildare. Wait, I have to come with you to stay within the privacy charm. Sorry, Bia.

Miss Gardsmark had picked her way across the beach to the water’s edge. Waves washed over her forefeet and the morning sun made her look like molten gold as she turned to smile her acknowledgment at both of them. Kildare offered another awkward bow, then dashed up the steps with a sudden irrational surge of energy.

At the top of the steps was a deck. The curtains were drawn on the inside of the sliding glass door that led to Roche’s kitchen. Kildare rapped smartly on the glass, then leaned against the rail to wait. A moment later, he knocked again. Roche! He walked to the kitchen window and shaded the glass to peer inside. The kitchen had an unkempt, deserted look that might have worried him if he hadn’t known Roche’s kitchen always looked that way. He tried pounding on the doorframe. C’mon, Roche. Don’t make me break in, I’m fresh out of toadsbreath. Kildare slumped against the rail, eyes half-closing. He yawned, then shook himself awake and knocked again.

Relax, Kil. Give him a minute. He never was a morning person, and it’s only an hour or two after dawn, Madden told him.

After what seemed like an eternity, Roche’s voice came muffled through the glass. Enough already! I’m comin’. Who the devil is it? Don’tcha have any idea what time it is? The curtains pulled back, and Kildare saw a disheveled and grumpy Roche squinting at him. Kil? Whatever happened to tap— Then the enchanter’s eyes went wide. Mouth still open but now silent, Roche snapped the latch down on the door, slid it open, and yanked Kildare inside before the warlock had time to begin an apology.

Sorry about not tapping, bit of an emergency. Puzzled, Kildare half-stumbled at the pull. Roche barely gave Madden time to hop through before he slammed the door shut, then locked it and closed the curtains. As Roche grabbed his wrist again and started to flee the kitchen, realization sank in. It’s all right, Kildare said, as Roche at last found his voice again and vented a string of expletives that ended with "dragon!" Kildare set his heels to brace himself against being pulled along.

Roche pivoted to face him again, his expression altered from half-asleep to very, very awake. "Whaddaya mean ‘bit of an emergency’? ‘All right’? There’s a dragon in my backyard! Why is there a dragon in my backyard and how can this possibly be all right?"

Calm down, Roche, it’s fine. The dragon is a friend, Kildare explained, as Madden snickered on the floor beside them. I mean, I do have a problem and need your help, but the dragon isn’t the trouble. Kildare felt a twinge of guilt as he spoke, recalling the Mark Isles army opening fire on Sir Gardsmark’s wards. Er…though ‘bit of an emergency’ is rather an understatement anyway.

Roche gaped at him, finally releasing Kildare’s arm to step cautiously back to the door. "I don’t believe it. You not only found a dragon but you made friends with one? He pulled the edge of the curtain back to peer through. I thought you were going to steal the scales or barter or something…hey, isn’t he the wrong color?"

She. And it wasn’t dragon scales I needed after all. She had a silver balance. Kildare pulled the curtain shut before Roche’s face. And don’t gawk, it’s rude.

Hey! Roche batted at his friend’s hand. I only wanted a look, it’s not every day I see extinct creatures. In response, Kildare planted his hand against the doorjamb with the curtain beneath it to keep it closed, and Roche made a face at him. Then the enchanter’s brow furrowed speculatively as he looked at his friend’s face. "Waitaminute. Did you just say ‘wasn’t needed’? Past tense?"

Despite the seriousness of the situation, a grin spread across Kildare’s face, only widening at his efforts to keep it down. He gestured to Madden to let him do the honors, and Madden grinned too. Yup. We beat it.

Roche held his breath. Beat it? The whole challenge? You won? Kildare nodded, and the blue man whooped with joy. "All right! He shifted to embrace the other man, clapping him on the back, and in a moment they were both laughing aloud in delight and relief . Man, I can’t believe you actually did it. Damn. Not that I ever doubted but…I just can’t believe it’s finally over. You’re sure? Really sure? No tricks?"

Kildare laughed again. "Absolutely. Roche, you would not believe the day – er, night…morning? we’ve had. But, listen, I truly do need your help, and as quickly as possible."

Sure, of course. Roche pulled back, resting his outstretched hands on Kildare’s shoulders as he looked up at the taller man. He beamed. "Hey, your soul’s saved and you’ve got a dragon for a friend. Whatever problem you’ve got left, it can’t be that bad."

***

So, let me see if I’ve got this straight. Roche, Kildare and Madden were in Roche’s disused kitchen. The two men sat on sturdy antique chairs, while Madden sat on a corner of the matched table. The furniture, like the rest of the house, had belonged to Roche’s great-aunt. Not much had changed since her passing, apart from the layer of dust over most surfaces and the accumulation of grime in the corners of the room. Kildare nibbled at a stale muffin while Roche poured tea. Roche had insisted there was no problem that could not be more easily solved after tea, which was a hard point to dispute. The living dragon you were looking for turned out to be Sir Gardsmark’s daughter. Wait, wasn’t Miss Gardsmark that gorgeous woman in the sparkly green dress whom you were squiring about at the Mardi Gras party?

Kildare squirmed in his seat. Well. Talking to, yes.

"Damn. And she’s a dragon? Roche shook his head in disbelief. Which Sir Gardsmark didn’t tell you, because she’s a gold dragon, not a silver one. Except that it turned out it wasn’t dragon scales you needed for the challenge. It was Miss Gardsmark’s silver balance. So the challenge came right down to the wire—"

—or past the wire, depending how you look at it. I’m hazy on that bit myself.

The demon cheated and tried to collect too soon, Madden said, flatly. "Even Lilith thought it was cheating, and she’s a demon too."

Right. So Kildare was unconscious while Miss Gardsmark, the dragon, flew all over Gladeton gathering bits for you and fending off demons and hellspawn and devil knows what else. Between her, her father, Madden, and a collection of friends and acquaintances that somehow included a demoness with her own agenda, they managed to finish the challenge for you. But the dragon – er, Miss Gardsmark – got torn up by your mother’s pet kitten—

Precious was a good deal more frightful in demon form.

—and she nearly died of her wounds, until a healer showed up out of nowhere and saved her. You really didn’t tap for a healer or anything, one just appeared and said hey, ‘I specialize in dragons’?

Kildare gave a helpless shrug. I’d only just regained consciousness.

It was a miracle, Madden added. "Maybe