Excerpt

Fire painted the sky and the ground, so much fire I saw red even through my closed lids. Keeping my eyes shut was a very bad idea, though. Dragons surrounded me. Maybe not more than a dozen, but they were so freaking big, it felt like more. They were ostensibly teaching me how to fight, except I already possessed that particular talent. In between salvos, they chittered merrily among themselves like a pack of oversized crows. Occasionally, I picked up bits and pieces of their mind speech.

Coming out victorious in a good scrap has always been high on my list. I haven't had a hell of a lot of choice in the matter. Mostly, it was fight or be vanquished. It's not possible to kill me, but there are many, many punishments that would make me long for my own death.

Anyway, it surprised and annoyed the crap out of me when a red dragon who hadn't introduced himself—herself?—announced that today we'd shore up my battle talents. If he'd asked what I wanted, I'd have replied, "No thank you."

I'm at the bottom of their pecking order, though. Probably less than the bottom. No one ever asks me jack crap.

A cloud of ash and smoke billowed around me, followed by trumpeting. Clearly, one of my tormentors—er, teachers—had discovered my attention was wandering. Wracked by coughing from all the smoke, I resorted to telepathy.

"Stop!"

Ysien, one of the blue dragons, hooted laughter. "Aye. And the enemy will surely cease if ye but tell them ye've had enough."

No one made fun of me. No one.

Trapped between embarrassment and fury, I made a grab for Bjorn's power. He had to be out there somewhere beyond the impenetrable blanket of smoke. We were amazing fighting together, but today for whatever reason, the dragons had apparently told him to sit this one out. He's not the type to take orders, so they must have forced him to remain off the field.

Blech. Dragons.

When Nidhogg, the chief Norse dragon who was also conveniently absent today, told me I had to learn about the dragon half of my blood, I'd reluctantly agreed. I'd had zero idea about the non-Celtic sector of my parentage until a scant handful of days ago. Anyway, at the time Nidhogg floated the idea about tutors for me, he'd intimated a single dragon would show up each day.

I had no fucking idea why I merited the attentions of so many. Were they bored? Had they come to examine the one and only Dragon Heir ever, who was a mix of Celtic and dragon bloodlines?

Was one of them my father?

So far, everyone had been closemouthed about that little tidbit. So secretive, I wasn't expecting a dragon to burst out of the ether and scoop me up in his scaled forelegs, greeting me as fathers did in my imagination. The dragons had known about me since my birth, and no one bothered to show up with flowers and a pile of excuses about why they'd left me in Ceridwen's care. Or non-care, which was closer to the way things played out.

My thoughts may have taken off at Mach 10, but I can think and fight. My current mission was lobbing jolts of defensive magic to clear a circle around me. My bid to locate Bjorn had failed, so the dragons' barrier between us must cut both ways. If he could have reached me, he would have.

Bjorn Nighthorse is another mystery, but I didn't have time to pick it apart right now. With his ice-blond hair and eyes like a storm-tossed ocean, he's so striking it's sometimes tough for me to look at him. Feels like I've fallen off a cliff into a dangerous no-man's land. One where the only way out is to wrap my body around his and never, never let him go.

My defensive perimeter had expanded to a ring a meter wide. Within its boundaries, the smoke had almost cleared. Being able to get a full breath into my lungs helped.

I resorted to the same strategy I've always used. Nothing fancy about it. When I'm surrounded, I pick 'em off one at a time. I live in a body that looks human, but most of the bastards I fight are bigger than me, or they have thick hides or horns or scales or other impediments—like poison—that make it tough to do anything straightforward. Like reaching inside them to stop their hearts. Hell, some of them, like trolls, don't even have hearts. Goddess only knows what keeps them upright.

From somewhere far away, I heard Bjorn shouting. He sounded furious and worried. The tone of his curses suggested he'd been trying to break through to me from his end of things, exactly as I'd suspected.

I focused my attention on a single dragon. And I sort of cheated because I picked the smallest one, small being relative. This one was green and stood a bit over two meters tall. I'd never vanquish it in straight-on combat, so I teleported onto its back where it couldn't reach me with fire. Breathing shallowly, I tried to bring some of my protective bubble along.

Didn't work very well. Teleport spells are picky like that. I didn't want to take the time to resurrect my shielding. Besides, the smoke had only been bad next to me—before I'd gone into full attack mode. The dragon I'd selected was bellowing and wrapping power-imbued strips around itself to either shake me off or press me into its thorny hide so hard its scales would cut into my flesh.

Couldn't let that happen. My blood would give it power over me. Enough to immobilize my efforts. I unleased my instincts, pulled the dirk I always carry from its sheath banded to my thigh, and used scales for purchase to crawl up its neck.

Sticking the point of my dagger in the one place beneath its jaws not coated by horny plates, I shrieked, "Surrender."

Everything around me went quiet. No more bellows, trumpets, or bugles. For the moment, no more fire.

Ysien lumbered close. "Well done, Dragon Heir."

"No lack of guts." The dragon beneath me shook itself again, but I had a good hold on it. Its praise pleased me, but words were cheap.

I wasn't in a hurry to cede my advantage, so I left the knife in place. Dragons are immortal. I couldn't do much damage, but I wanted to hang onto the illusion of having the upper hand.

"Runa!" Ysien's tone had developed an edge. "Stand down."

"Don't call me that." I couldn't risk taking my attention from the hand that held my blade.

"'Tis your name, and high time ye claimed it."