Children of the Draig: Diaries of the Cwn Annwn

By Katie Vincent

TWO STORIES FROM THE WORLD OF THE CWN ANNWN

 

Tân a Dŵr

A Welsh dragon and a Kraken. A secret Nazi base. No problem?

I thought I was an orphan with a mystery guardian, stuck in an Irish convent school. Trust me, convent schools in the 1930s are not fun places.

But it seems I am a dragon, and not just any dragon, but related to THE Welsh Dragon, the emblem on all those Welsh flags. And that opened a whole new world of other creatures, a world where expectations … are … different?

Unfortunately, the halcyon days were ending. War was coming and with it, an enemy who would try anything to gain an advantage. That is where it became personal.

Dare you walk in my world?

 

Cân Y Môr

 

Lachlan MacAmbrais and Morwen MacCulloch

Two orca-shifters.
Fated Mates.
Life-changing injuries from war.
Will they rediscover their connection in time?

 

An IED was all it took. Lieutenant Lachlan MacAmbrais' perfect plan of a life with his recently discovered Fated Mate was gone, along with his legs. How could an orca-shifter take to the oceans with half his body lost in the sands of Afghanistan?

 

Dr Morwen MacCulloch hadn't survived deployment on the MERTs by giving up in the face of adversity. And she wasn't going to start with Lachlan, now that she knew he was her Fated Mate. Returning to the sea would help, but her stubborn Mate-to-be refused to listen.

Present and past clash, intruding on Lachlan's life outside of 40 Commando, putting Morwen's life in danger. Will he remember the hopes born in the theatres of war? Or will it be too late for him to hear the Song of the Sea?

 

Dare you walk in their world?

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jo Pilsworth
• Release date: Apr 17, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224098736

Katie Vincent

Katie Vincent is the name for a group of friends who met in online roleplay. Together, they have created stories inspired by Welsh, Sumerian and Egyptian legend.  Jo Pilsworth is the lead author of the name 'Katie Vincent', a group of friends from around the world who met through a mutual love of Sherrilyn McQueen's Dark Hunter series. The concept of the "Diaries of the Cwn Annwn" was born from the Welsh legend of the Cwn Annwn, spectral hounds in service to the Welsh Goddess of the Underworld, who are tasked with bringing her the souls of those who do evil. After two decades in the medical sales industry, Jo switched careers to retail management. Home continues to be a small village north of Cambridge, U.K

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE: 1935

A islinn Alana McCurley ! Are you paying attention? You may have finished your exams, but that does not mean you have finished with learning.

I am listening, Sister Marguerite but I was just ... er ... checking my wrist strength, after I strained it during gym class last week. Ashy sat upright with a start, raising her head from where it had been resting. She grinned at the irate nun teaching the class, flexing her wrist in a show to reinforce her words.

Yer as bold as brass, missy. Mark my words, you will come to a bad end. Sister Marguerite looked unimpressed at the comment, aware that others in the class were sniggering, and trying to hide it. Now, if I might ask you to re-join the class, perhaps you will provide us with the answer to my question?

The one about how to choose the correct wine to serve to a dinner party of your husband’s colleagues and how that choice will differ with upper management? Ashy smiled politely. Of course, I would trust my husband’s judgement, although I would also have discussed the matter with the sommelier at our favourite restaurant. If our guests were upper management on whom we must make a good impression, I would make enquiries with their offices to determine if they had any preferences. Her smile grew a touch wider. What I would not do is leave the burden of choice on my husband, given that it is my responsibility to be a supportive wife to his ambitions.

You will come to a sticky end, my girl. Sister Marguerite waggled a finger, peeved that her student had given the correct answer. Hell has a special place reserved for such cheek as yours, The nun stood. Very well, ladies. Since I am not going to get a whit of sense from any of you brazen husseys with the sun shining, class is dismissed. I am sure most of you have fittings for your graduation dresses. Excellent. She nodded firmly. It will keep you out of mischief.

As the class stood, Sister Marguerite waited for Aislinn to approach the front of the room on her way out. Not so fast, Missy. A bony hand flashed up, far to close to Ashy for her own comfort. You would do well to remember that no gentlemen worth marrying wants a wife with your lamentable attitude. You ... A bony finger quivered at Ashy’s face, ... you will spend the afternoon in the chapel, considering how you should be modifying your attitude if you are to make the sort of match which we expect of our girls.

You can’t be serious, Sister Marguerite. I answered your question. Ashy tried to keep her dislike of the elderly nun from her face. She had been at odds with the woman from the time Ashy learnt to speak.

I told the Reverend Mother that it would be a mistake to take in a foundling like you. I wasn’t wrong. The smirk of self-satisfaction on the older woman’s face was not helping Ashy’s temper. For all that you have the name McCurley, you are from bad stock. Why else would a newborn babe be left on the convent’s steps? Why? Bad stock, most likely born as a result of your mam’s loose ways.

The rant was one that Ashy had heard time and time again, and as usual, she let the nun continue. There was no point in interrupting or trying to argue her case. Was it her fault that the nuns had found her in the ‘foundling box’, wrapped in clearly expensive infant clothing, along with a hand-made shawl? The nights she had lain on her bed, under the window of the dormitory, listening to night, feeling the breeze on her face, and remembering that sensation of wind, not a breeze, but stiff wind, buffeting her and yet she had not felt in danger. The wind was part of her soul, it was part of where she was meant to be. Not this strictly run convent school, with its preoccupation on turning out debutantes and good wife material. Flying? A dream and certainly not the aim of a respectable young woman.

Were you even listening to me, you young hussy? Ashy winced as the old battle-axe pinched her ear. Hmph! All the prayer in the world will not save you! The Reverend Mother should turn you out, that she should. Out on the streets where you belong, like your doubtless shameful mam.

Sometimes ... who was she kidding? Whenever the nun started on a rant including her mother, it seemed like a red haze obscured Ashy’s vision. Yes, I am sure you would like that, wouldn’t you? So much for love thy neighbour, you two-faced harridan. The only problem with doing that is that the Convent will lose the money my guardian sends each month if I leave before my 18th birthday. Fortunately, for me, he gave me a copy of the letter he wrote to the Reverend Mother. Knocking the nun’s hand away, Ashy smiled. It is such a shame that my birthday is next month, because believe me, I will be out of this place as soon as is humanely possible. Her smile widened. My guardian has already arranged a flat in London for me, along with a job in the Linguistics Department of the War Office.

An office girl! Sister Marguerite loaded her voice with derision. And London. Her tone made it sound like the sixth ring of Hell. You will come to a bitter end, missy. Mark my words.

You made that clear, Sister. Ashy tone was equally scornful. Well, that will just be for me to find out.

CHAPTER TWO: 1940

The heels of Ashy’s laced brogues tapped an impatient staccato as she walked along the dimly lit corridors of the War Office. Who would have though five years would make such a difference?

1935 and she had celebrated her graduation. As per the instructions from her guardian, Ashy had caught the train to Dublin and then? The memory made her smile.  She had caught a flight from the newly built Collinstown Airport to the equally glamourous Croydon Airport. A car had awaited her, no less, and it had taken her to her new flat in Putney Hill, in Somerville House on the exclusive Manor Fields estate. Her job at the War Office was in the General Imperial Staff, Military Operations and Intelligence. Now the insistence that she focused so heavily on languages made sense. Welsh, Norwegian, French, German. Now, in 1940, it all made sense. It seemed she had skills, beyond the languages, which in turn had been why she had learnt Welsh, despite the nuns’ dismay that she had had a specialist teacher for those lessons. As she settled in her new home, a gentleman had come calling. Tall, dark hair, well-cut suit, clearly quite prosperous. He had introduced himself as Taliesin ap Ddraig, and carried papers confirming that he was her mysterious guardian. Inviting her to walk with him to nearby Putney Heath, he had demonstrated what made her different.

A smile crossed Ashy’s lips. So much had become clear that night. McCurley may have been the Irish surname of her adoptive family, but like her guardian, she had another name: Aislinn ferch Draig, daughter of the dragon. All those dreams about being one with the wind. Not surprising at all, considering she was a Welsh dragon shifter.

And now? They had been at war with Germany for two years. She knew from ‘Uncle’ Taliesin that other shifters had been helping in the war effort, but until now, all she had done was use her knowledge of languages. No active missions which took her away from London. That said, Norway had much to offer to the Nazi regime, not least of which was the potential from ice-free harbours of attacking the North Atlantic shipping, so vital for Britain’s survival. Although not an official member of the Armed Forces, hence her civilian wear of a neat dark blue jacket over a capped sleeve dress and highly-polished, heeled brogues, ‘requests’ were passed through her Uncle to the shifters most suited for the ‘job’ in question.

Now, it seemed it was Ashy’s turn. But even in her dreams, she had not considered this.

Norway! You want me to go to Norway?

CHAPTER THREE

Folding her wings, Ashy let the winds carry her. Bassenthwaite Lake, one of the shallowest of the Lake District bodies of water, lay before her, a dark shadow in the night. Even so, Ashy took the precaution of concealing herself, one of the more advantageous skills of a dragon.

Could it really have been only 24 hours since she had been told that she must meet up with a commando unit in Norway. Only 24 hours since her formerly tame involvement in the war had quite literally gone up in smoke. Only the fact that she was a dragon, with the ability to withstand injuries from any flame except dragonfire from another of her kind, had saved her. That, and the ability of her dragon-self to shift in the blink of an eye.

The enemy had no intention of surviving. Ashy did not know the man’s name, but he had been a shifter. She had no idea of what kind of shifter other than a creature of the seas. The human liaison to the shifter group, who had dealt with her Uncle Taliesin had given her the bare bones of her mission: Norway, a hitherto unknown heavy water plant and the fact that it was accessible only by submarine. Or by air, was the unspoken instruction. She was to meet her contact on the northern Scottish coast, and he would have further instructions, since he had been involved in uncovering the location of the plant.

The infiltrator had stood up from his seat next to Ashy. His arm had been raised in a Third Reich salute, as simultaneously, he had pressed a red button on the small box in his other hand. Her memory seemed to run in slow motion. She had shifted to her dragon form, tucking her wings close to her sides and all but sitting on the infiltrator as screams had erupted from the humans in the room. Rooms used by the War Office had not been designed with dragon shifters in mind. Whilst she might have spared her colleagues some injuries, the explosion sent shockwaves through the building, bricks and lumps of ceiling falling around them. Ashy’s instincts sent her skyward, protecting her relatively fragile wing membrane from injury. She heard the sirens behind her as fire crews responded to the explosion and had to tell herself that they were more skilled that she at rescuing survivors from collapsed buildings. If it had been important enough for the enemy to prevent her mission, then it was imperative that she try to complete it.

But Scotland? Her uncle had only introduced her to her shifter form two years ago at the start of the war. In draconic terms, she was an incredibly young dragon, and her wings were relatively untried. She had flown the 200 or so miles to the Welsh mountains where her uncle lived, but Scotland was over three times the distance from London. If