How to Drive a Dragon Crazy Read online

  “She went to . . .” Annwyl snorted a little, looked off.

  “What?”

  The queen rubbed her nose, shook her head. “Nothing.”

  “What?” Talaith pushed, her butt wiggling in her chair. “Tell me!”

  “I, uh, asked that boy, Dagmar’s nephew, if Éibhear was coming to evening meal tonight and he said he was going to Bram’s castle for some reason. He didn’t know why. I just assumed Bram forgot something again.”

  “Does . . . Izzy know that?”

  “Doubt it.”

  Talaith stared at her friend until they both began laughing, so hard and loud that Talaith began to cough and Annwyl cry. It was so bad, Briec walked in, watched them for a few moments, then walked out again, slamming the door behind him.

  Chapter 16

  Izzy pushed her empty plate away and, realizing she couldn’t avoid it anymore, lifted her gaze to the dragon sitting quietly to her left.

  “All right, fine,” she finally admitted. “It was amazing.”

  Éibhear patted her hand. “I know that hurt to admit.”

  Swatting at him, Izzy pushed her chair back, stood, and turned so that she could sit on the table, her legs hanging over.

  “Do you have something against chairs?”

  “They’re confining.”

  “So’s the army.”

  “That’s a confinement I’ve never minded.” She pulled one leg up, tucking the heel against her inside thigh, her body turned enough to look at Éibhear. “Truly, though, that was delicious.”

  His smile full of pride, Éibhear nodded. “Thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed it. Now, maybe you can tell me what the battle-fuck is going on.”

  Éibhear watched Izzy’s defenses immediately come up. Like giant brick walls. “Going on about what?”

  “I’ll admit, I’ve not been part of the day-to-day of my kin in quite some time. But I know when something is going on, Izzy. That, I’m afraid, has not changed. And something is going on. And I think you know it.”

  “Is that why you followed me here? Because you think you can bully me into telling you that which my father and uncles will not?”

  “I would never try to bully you to do anything. I would, however, try to cajole and lure. Perhaps lull . . .” He thought a moment. “Is that wrong?”

  She stared at him, but did not answer.

  “I promise,” he went on, feeling a sense of hope from the small smile he saw, “the last thing I’m trying to do is bully you or anyone else. But I want to know what’s going on. It’s clearly upsetting you and worrying my brothers. My brothers don’t worry about anything. They’re soulless bastards. I love them,” he added, “but they’re soulless bastards.”

  “They are not soulless bastards and you know it.”

  “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Why?”

  “Because this is my kin and no matter what my brothers think, I do care about what happens to them.”

  Izzy’s anger eased away, but her defenses were still up. Still ready. “Why would they think you don’t care?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, shrugging. “It just seems the decision to make me part of the Mì-runach has disappointed them.”

  “Who told you that lie?” When he frowned, she added, “Anytime they talk about you and your barbarian friends—”

  “They’re not barbarians.”

  “—all I hear is awe mixed with a bit of fear and a good dose of concern.”

  “Concern?”

  “For your safety. For your life.” She leaned in a bit, hands clasped in front of her. “Is it true you go into battle without armor . . . without weapons?”

  Éibhear leaned back. “What?”

  “Naked? Just your claws?”

  “Wait, wait, wait.” Éibhear rubbed his face. “We’re warriors, Izzy. Not insane.” Gods, what had his brothers been telling her? “We wear light armor and, depending on what our assignment is, sometimes no armor. But we’re always armed. More armed than anyone else I know.”

  “And do you drink the blood of your enemies? And wear their heads as totems?”

  “No! What did my brothers tell you?”

  “Actually, that last bit was Celyn.”

  Éibhear rolled his eyes. “Figures.”

  “It’s not true?”

  “The Mì-runach have come a long way over the centuries.”

  “Which means . . . what?”

  “We don’t drink the blood of our enemies or wear their heads as totems . . . anymore. And I’ve never done any of that.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. “Do you smear the blood of your enemies on you?”

  “Sometimes,” he snapped, frustrated, “but I don’t want to get into it. I can’t get into it. There are some sacred rites we still perform that are none of your business. Or the business of my brothers.”

  “Hhhm.” She thought a moment. “Fair enough.”

  “Look, Izzy, we’re what you would call a . . . strike unit. We come in, usually under the cover of darkness, and kill either someone specific or as many enemy soldiers as we can. As you can imagine, full dragon armor or human armor for that fact, would not be in our best interest. So we protect our most important bits, arm ourselves to the fangs, and do what we do best.”

  “That’s a good job for you then,” she said after a moment of quiet.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you’re a chameleon. You can move around without being detected in the dark or during the day, yeah? But all that armor makes quite a bit of noise, which would defeat the purpose of being able to blend into your surroundings.”

  Shocked, Éibhear stuttered, “Wait . . . what are you . . . I don’t know what you . . .”

  She waved his attempted lie away. “I know, Éibhear. I’ve always known.”

  “How could you know? Who told you?”

  “No one told me. I can see you.”

  “Wait.” Éibhear took a breath, confused. “What do you mean, you can see me?”

  “I can see you. I’ve always been able to see you.” She chuckled. “The first time, I thought you were mad. You were creeping around, stepping around everyone. You looked absolutely insane. But then I realized it wasn’t that the others were ignoring you. . . . They couldn’t see you. But I could. Don’t worry, though,” she added. “I’ve never told anyone. About you or Gwenvael.”

  “Gwen—Gwenvael’s a . . .”

  “Oh, shit. You didn’t know?”

  “Does he know you know?”

  “No. And please don’t tell him I know.”

  “Why?”

  “It’ll just embarrass Dagmar.”

  “Why would it embarrass . . . ohhh.” He didn’t bother to hide his disgust. “He does things to her when no one can see him, doesn’t he?”

  “They’ve got a whole thing going. You don’t want to know.”

  “I really don’t.”

  “But,” she said, suddenly smiling, “he does love her. It’s so sweet!”

  “Ech.”

  “Ech? Is that even a word?”

  “It’s not. But I think it encapsulates my disgust quite nicely.” He pointed at the still unopened bottles of ale. “Dessert?”

  “Is this the next step in your grand plan to get me to talk? Getting me drunk?”

  “It’s worked before with other humans.”

  “Éibhear,” she said, taking the mug from him. “I drank Aunt Ghleanna under the table.” She held up two fingers. “Twice.”

  “Oh.” Éibhear put the bottle down, sighed. “Uncle Addolgar?”

  She shook her head. “Can’t keep up with me. Still hasn’t forgiven me since I wrote ‘I love humans’ on his forehead after he passed out once.”

  Éibhear laughed, a sound Izzy hadn’t heard in ages. “I don’t blame him!”

  She laughed with him. “It was Ghleanna’s fault. She told me to! Gods, I was functional, but I don’t know how many bottles of your father’s ale we went through tha
t night.”

  “My father’s ale? You can drink my father’s ale?”

  “I love your father’s ale. Clears me lungs of smoke after we’ve burned an army fort down.”

  “You’ve become quite a woman.”

  “Are you being sarcastic?”

  “Not at all. Even I can’t drink my father’s ale. While it clears your lungs out, it just burns mine.” He shook his head, stared at her a moment. “You really can see me? And Gwenvael?”

  “Aye.” She gestured to her shoulder and the brand burned into her arm from a bastard god so many years ago. “I just assumed it was something from Rhydderch Hael.”

  Éibhear poured himself a mug of ale. “What else do you think you got from him?”

  “Don’t know. I used to think my strength, but Mum figures that was from the Magicks not used when I was born.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “When a Nolwenn is about to have a girl, she performs spells and sacrifices to direct the Magicks she’ll be born with.”

  “Direct them where?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe to her soul or whatever. Anyway, my mother was unable to do this with me at the time and it seems any Magicks I might have had dissipated and instead became bound up in my muscles, my strength. I guess it makes sense . . . but it doesn’t explain Annwyl, and she’s as strong as me.”

  “Nothing explains Annwyl.” He placed the bottle on the table. “But I’m sure her strength comes from her anger. There’s no god or Magicks that can fight that.”

  “Very true.” She held up her mug. “To kin.”

  Éibhear nodded, touched his mug to hers. “To kin.”

  They each drank deep. When Izzy lowered her mug, she wiped the back of her mouth with her hand. “Not bad. Very smooth.” She glanced at Éibhear. “What do you think?”

  He didn’t speak, just shook his head.

  “You all right?”

  Another head shake.

  Izzy reached across the table and touched his hand. “What is it?”

  “I think I’ve gone blind,” he finally gasped and coughed.

  Laughing now, Izzy took the mug from Éibhear and poured the rest of the ale into her own. “Yeah. Right. You were going to get me drunk enough to tell you anything.”

  Chapter 17

  They sat on his Uncle Bram’s table, one of the bottles of ale polished off. But Éibhear was unwilling to open the second. He liked his lungs to be functional . . . to breathe. He was sure if he drank another drop of that ale, breathing would be the last thing they’d ever do.

  Yet he was willing to drink as much as he had because, at the very least, it relaxed things a bit between him and Izzy. She wasn’t drunk. Not even close. But she was like the Izzy he remembered. The Izzy he hadn’t embarrassed in front of their family. The Izzy he hadn’t walked away from that last night on the hill outside Garbhán Isle. Instead, she was the Izzy who liked to steal his weapons—weapons very few humans could lift much less abscond with and then “train” with—and argue with him over ridiculous things and play with his hair.

  It gave him hope that, even now, when she thought he wasn’t looking, she’d stare at his hair. He liked to imagine her fingers itching to run through it.

  Laughing, she held up a dagger he’d taken off a Spike a couple of years back. How she’d got it from his leg holster, he had no idea. He’d never seen her move.

  “It’s gold.”

  “Mostly. Steel makes up the blade.”

  “But they use so much.”

  “They have tons of it. Under all that ice and snow is tons of gold.”

  She handed the weapon back to him. “Did you find a lot?”

  “Of gold? Aye. We all did. Anytime we had a break, we’d start digging around a cave or breaking the ice on a river. I was able to afford my own castle not far from my grandfather’s territory. I always liked it there.”

  “You own a castle?”

  “I own a town. It’s nice. People are friendly. Has an amazing library.”

  She snorted. “You and your precious books.” She glanced around. “Uncle Bram’s place must be heaven to you.”

  “Too messy. I don’t know how he finds anything.” He looked at the disorganized stacks of books piled on the floors, studying the titles. “Besides . . . read most of these.”

  “Why?”

  Exasperated, Éibhear demanded, “Who questions reading?”

  “I guess I do. Just don’t know why you bother.”

  “Because I like it. Did no one teach you to read?”

  “I know how to read, you big bastard. I just read important things.”

  “Battle histories?”

  “Those are quite helpful.” Izzy inched closer. “Did you miss being here? In the Southlands? Among your kin?”

  “I guess.” Then Éibhear admitted, “Well, not at first. At first I was too angry to miss anything or anyone.”

  “Because of what happened to Austell?”

  “That was part of it.”

  “It’s hard losing comrades, Éibhear. Of course,” she added, leaning in a bit closer, “everyone tells you that, but it means nothing until you’ve actually been through it.”

  “I’m guessing you have.”

  “More than I care to think about. It never gets any easier, does it?”

  Éibhear shook his head. “No. It doesn’t. I did try not to get close to anyone ever again. Made the whole dramatic commitment to myself and everything.”

  Izzy laughed and Éibhear joined her.

  “Doesn’t seem to have worked, though, if your three friends are any indication.”

  “There’s truth to that. Aidan and I traveled to the Ice Lands together. We met Cas and Uther during a pit fight.”

  “Pit fight? Is that popular in the Ice Lands?”

  “Don’t know. It was a Mì-runach pit fight.”

  “You lot have pit fights? Between you? Whatever for?”

  “Sort out issues.”

  “Issues?”

  “Gambling debts, arguments—”

  “Women?”

  Éibhear lifted his gaze to Izzy’s. “Occasionally,” he replied slowly. “But mostly gambling debts.”

  “Do you have any regrets?” she asked.

  Frowning, he asked, “About pit fights?”

  “No.” She took the mug he held in his hand. “No more ale for you.”

  “I’d already decided on that.”

  “I mean do you have any regrets in general?”

  “I’m a little young for regrets, don’t you think? I’m not even a hundred and fifty yet.”

  “All right.”

  “Why? Do you?”

  “Just one.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “That I never got a chance to kiss you.”

  Éibhear studied her for a moment and took the cup out of her hand. “And no more ale for you, I’m afraid.”

  Izzy laughed. “I’m not drunk, Éibhear.”

  “I didn’t say you were. Just don’t want this to get . . . uncomfortable. And, by the gods of death and pain, what is that smell?”

  Sighing, Izzy leaned over a bit and snapped her fingers. “Oy. You. Out.”

  Macsen whined, but Izzy didn’t want to hear it. “Out,” she pushed. “Now. Go for a walk or go kill something.”

  Her dog dragged his long body out from under the table and headed out. But he stopped long enough to snap at Éibhear, his fangs near the dragon’s face.

  “I hate that dog,” he muttered once Macsen was out the door. “I really hate that dog.”

  “He’s loyal and I love him. There’ll always be room in my bunk for him.”

  Éibhear shuddered. “I had no idea you wanted to live your life alone.”

  Izzy chuckled, propped her elbow on her knee and her chin on her raised fist. “So did I make you feel uncomfortable with my answer to your question?”

  “No. Should I feel uncomfortable?”

  “I don’t think so. But haven�
�t I always made you feel uncomfortable?”

  “No, you haven’t.”

  “You are such a liar. And a bad one.”

  “Over the years I’ve become a very good liar.”

  “As good as Gwenvael?”

  “No one’s as good as Gwenvael. Except maybe Dagmar.”

  Izzy sat up straight and lowered her arm. “Well, I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For making you feel uncomfortable . . . again. It’s just something I do, it seems. Although it only seems to come out with you.”

  “You didn’t and have never made me feel uncomfortable.”

  “Good.” She turned and uncrossed her legs, hanging them over the table’s edge. “I’m off to bed. We’ll need to get an early start.” She slid off the table. “If we don’t get there before midday, Bram will start pacing. Ghleanna hates when he paces.”

  She glanced back at him, smiled. “Night.”

  When he didn’t say anything, Izzy walked toward the stairs that would take her to the second floor and the room she used whenever she came to visit with Brannie. She didn’t worry about Macsen. He’d find something to kill, eat, and cover himself with blood; run through a nearby stream to get some of the blood off; and finally return to her a few hours before dawn so that he could snuggle up to the back of her knees and snore until it was time to head out again.

  Honestly, that dog was the most reliable thing in her life besides Brannie, her squire, and her horse.

  Izzy reached the stairs, but before she had her foot on the first step, Éibhear said from behind her, “I lied.”

  “About what?” she asked around a yawn.

  “You did make me uncomfortable.”

  She snorted a little. “I know.”

  “Because I’ve always wanted to kiss you.”

  Izzy’s hand landed on the banister, her fingers gripping the worn wood. “Oh?”

  “The problem is, I grew tired of feeling uncomfortable a long time ago.”

  Slowly, Izzy faced the dragon. He was standing now, watching her from under all that damn blue hair. Gods! That hair! It would be the death of her. And unlike some humans, the dragons never seemed to lose their hair. It might grey, like her grandfather Bercelak’s, but his was still long and thick and shiny and mostly black.