Staying in the open was safe. Walking in the dark under a mile of heavy stone made her heart pound like a sledgehammer on ice.
She had no idea how long she walked, but just as she was beginning to despair she came to an area where it widened out and she could stand upright. A trail of water leaked down the wall, running from a tiny crack in the ceiling to form a small puddle before leaching away into the ground. This was as good a place as any to see if her magic worked beneath the weight of all the other magics Doyle said lurked under Cairngloss.
She gathered her Gift and pulled dampness from the air. She blew, combining her breath and her magic with the moisture, forming large fluffy snowflakes that danced in the air before gliding gently to the ground and melting away. A bit of her tension eased. Okay. She could at least make some snow. What about ice?
Kneeling by the small puddle on the tunnel floor she willed the surface to harden and freeze. A sort of slush formed, hardening into a thin sheet of ice. She pointed at it and drew the tip of her finger to across the muddy looking surface. Lovely white flowers burst into being, skating across the puddle, as if the feet of the tiny fae themselves had left the patterns.
She smiled, even as tears filled her eyes. Freelana had been gone for a hundred years, but to her it had happened yesterday. Even as she mourned her friends, the water warmed and the pictures she’d drawn melted away, leaving nothing but a puddle.
Her Gift wasn’t strong enough to produce ice on command. She needed water to perform her magic. Not that she could use it to do anything other than decorate the walls. The tears she’d shoved back earlier rose up and she slumped against the wall.
What use was she?
She’d barely saved Bosco. She hadn’t been able to do anything when Freelana and her sisters had died, and there had been cold and snow aplenty in the Winter Palace. She squeezed her eyes shut to push away the tears. Something brushed her feet. She jumped, opening her eyes and reaching for her sword. A flash of white appeared at her feet, and then was gone. Startled, she pulled her sword from its sheath, ready to defend herself. But in the flickering of her candle, nothing moved, except a sigh of air through the empty tunnel.
Panting heavily, she picked up the candelabra and held it high, shining it up and down the tunnel. She was alone. She swallowed down her nerves and continued moving down the tunnel. Doyle had said the mountain was haunted. She hadn’t really believed him, but now? She could turn back, but she’d come so far now. She looked at the candle. Halfway gone. She still had time to move forward.
A few feet on, the hallway narrowed again, pressing in on her. There was another flash of white at her feet, flitting down the tunnel into the darkness. Something pressed on her ankle. She stabbed with her sword, her blade hitting the floor, skittering across the stone.
Once again her small circle of light showed her she was alone. But something had touched her. Something was out there, in the dark. Out where her candle couldn’t shine its light.
Slower now, checking every step she made and blade at the ready, she continued on. She reached another tunnel branching off down into the dark. Left or right? She lifted her candle up and looked down the left-hand path. It seemed to get even narrower. She started down the right. A ghastly face leapt in front of her, huge and white with black holes for eyes. It leered at her, its rubbery white lips pulling down into a grin. She struck, but before her sword could reach it, it was gone, her blade slicing down into the empty air.
“Left it is.” She backed up and went the other way.
Sword bobbling in the thin flickering light, Siobhan tried to still her shaking, repeating out loud as she walked down the narrowing passage, “That was not a ghost. That was not a ghost.”
Visions of will-o-the-wisps and bansidhe raced through her head. Underhill was a world of magic, where any horror you could conceive could grow in the mists, and with enough belief, it could become real. Down here in these twisted corridors, how many men’s imaginations had gone wild, creating their own doom?
DOYLE WOKE FROM THE dream state of astral travel, the cold fire of his anger burning deep inside his belly. How dare they? Had they all forgotten their vow to save the queens?
He rose and paced back and forth across the wide cavern, his tail lashing from side to side, coins sliding and slipping with each step.
Seven queens, one each for the seven types of dragons. Fire, ice, earth, air, crystalline, freshwater and sea water. Seven males to guard them for the thousand years until they hatched, and then the short launch into adulthood.
Dragons were not team players. And now, instead of banding together as they had when their world had been falling into war and ruin, now they were split. Maybe it had been folly to expect their liaison to last.
But he’d counted on them. What was he to do now?
His head and tail drooped. It had been the last chance. They’d brought their eggs here and gone back to save their world. And failed.
When he’d first come to this world it had a small population of elvatians, the Fir Bolg, who were at war with another group, called the Tuathan De Dannan. They’d been so concerned with their fighting, neither he nor his brethren had worried about them. He’d left his egg buried in a remote frozen location—no one but a few villagers struggling to survive, reindeer, and frost fae and mist for miles. He’d made it safe, anchored the treacherous mists with a series of standing stones.
He’d thought to fly in at the last minute and have his brethren distract Maeve while he used his magic to help the little dragon queen get out of what had now become her prison. But he and his charge had been abandoned.
He snorted. His pacing was getting nothing done. He had to get out of here. Maybe fly somewhere and hunt. Maybe fly over the palace and see if he could come up with a better plan. But before he left he’d better check on his new charge.
The scent of his guest drifted down the corridor and his dragon sensitive nose picked it up. She smelled deliciously female. A wondrous bouquet that caught him in this form and promised him pleasure once he’d shifted.
He shifted to humanoid, got dressed in the jeans and t-shirts he’d discovered he loved, and headed for what had been his room, but was now Siobhan’s.
The Tuathan maid fascinated him. This female was one of the weaker elvatians he’d come across, and yet she’d dared to defy Maeve, a queen who held the right to rule by her own power. He’d sat and watched the girl sleep for hours, wishing he had the Gift to speed her healing. She was lovely, despite the sharp bones of near starvation. Her long white blond hair spread out across the pillows. And when she’d opened her eyes they’d been the color of sharply faceted black diamonds—rare and exquisite.
What balls she had. She’d had the audacity to try to manipulate him into creating a bond of fealty. He smiled to himself as he stared at the door. Imagine what kind of power she’d have if she’d been Gifted with more magic. She would have been able to take on Maeve herself.
She was smart, gutsy, and, not only that—this form thought her body was immensely desirable. As a dragon he hadn’t given much thought to the scrawny woman he’d carried here, but as a man? Soon her bones would be softened by curves. His smile widened to a grin. Yes, this form found her immensely desirable.
His knock on the door was met with only silence. “Siobhan?”
He frowned and knocked again. She should have slept enough. He’d left her for hours. He lifted the latch and opened the door. The room was empty.