1
THE OUTSKIRTS, ABERDEEN — SCOTLAND
He should’ve torched the place months ago. Struck a match and watched the fucker burn the second he finished reconning the area. The second he realized The White Hare wasn’t an ordinary human waystation. The second the Parkland spoke to him and innkeeper derailed his plans.
Laying waste to the historic hotel, scaring the hell out of Mavis O’Donnell and the menagerie of strays she rolled out the red carpet for on a regular basis, would’ve served him better than what he’d done. Or rather…
What he’d hadn’t done, then allowed to happen.
Contrails streaming off the tips of his horns, Kruger angled his wings into the wind. The dark webbing rippled as crisp air bit. His emerald-green, red-tipped scales shuddered in the blowback. Moonlight winked off his spiked spine. He tightened the cloaking spell, disappearing deeper into the web of invisibility, then blasted out of a tight turn.
Damp air slashed over interlocking dragon skin.
A slight adjustment, and his velocity downgraded from scale-splitting to smooth glide. The scent and sound of a clear spring night caught up with him. A hint of heather in the air. The call of one wolf to another. An exhilarating sense of something sharp rising on the west wind. Could be hope. Might be renewal. But more likely? The taste of victory as of yet unearned, but—
He growled in anticipation.
It wouldn’t be long now. Tonight, in fact, if the next hour went his way. And honestly? After weeks of frustration, he needed it to go his way.
Gaze on the ground, he rocketed over thick forest and sliced over the ruins hidden in the underbrush. Treetops trembled. An unkindness of ravens cawed, nattering at him for disturbing the peace as he surveyed the Parkland. One hundred and seventy-three hectares of beauty comprising old-growth trees, winding streams, and rumbling waterfalls. None of it his, though that would change soon.
The innkeeper had no choice but to agree to his terms now. She was done. Finished. Cornered, with no friends left to call on. He’d changed tactics again, sealing her fate, ensuring his victory even if Mavis didn’t know it yet.
Turning north, he flew over a winding river. Water rushed over rock, playing in the hallows, rumbling three hundred feet below him. Mist wicking from his scales, he followed the twists and turns, then made for the main road. Single lane. Unpaved. Squat stone walls galloping along each side. The only way in or out of the Parkland, at least by car.
Thick woodland smoothed into rolling fields, then opened onto manicured lawns and gardens beyond the front gate. Hundred-year-old oaks lined the main drive, canopies curving inward, leafy heads bowed in welcome. At the top of the rise stood The White Hare, a pale stone beacon shining in the darkness.
His lip curled, exposing the tips of his triple-bladed fangs. Fucking gorgeous, a tremendous piece of property located on the outskirts of Aberdeen, acreage he’d been trying to buy through legal channels for nearly two months. The Victorian mansion, with its wide windows, granite façade, and wildly pitched roofline, suited his tumultuous nature. So many angles. Too many chimneys. A cornucopia of extensions added over the centuries.
The mishmash of architectural styles never should’ve worked. Somehow though, it did—to stunning effect.
Once a popular playground for human elite (now the preferred one of Magickind visiting the area), the inn stood for everything he hated about humans. It was stalwart. It was welcoming and built to last. But it didn’t know its place, refusing to crumble into dust, leaving history to languish alongside the location.
His temper sparked, making his black eyes glow in the gloom. Ruby shimmer rolled across the slate rooftop. Wood smoke from multiple chimneys swirled in his wake as he swung into a holding pattern, searching for the ideal place to land.
He eyed a narrow balcony, then shifted focus to the trees, shrubs, and vines in the back gardens. Probably best to set down in the tangled wood, away from the stone patio, and approach on foot instead of dragon paw.
Last time he visited, he’d played nice, given the innkeeper too much time, and ended up looking down the barrel of a shotgun. The ancient one Mavis brought with her from America.
He snorted. Toxic mist puffed from his nostrils then caught magical fire as he revolved into another turn. No matter how pretty the property, he should’ve shut Mavis down long before now. Why he continued negotiating with her, Kruger didn’t know. The inherent challenge of besting her, maybe. The thrill of an honest win, perhaps. He couldn’t say. Not really. No matter how much he turned the puzzle pieces over inside his mind, the reasons he continued to be gentle with her escaped him.
All he knew for certain was the stalemate had gone on too long.
So…
Time to do one of two things—speed up the process by scaring the shite out of her, or go with his gut, stick The White Hare on a spit, and roast the place.
Wouldn’t take much: little more than a hiccup on his magical scale, and the fire-venom he commanded would devastate everything in its path.
His vicious side longed to do it, wanted to unleashed hell and watch the world burn.
Kruger tightened the hold on his beast’s reins. Losing control wasn’t a good idea.
As a hybrid, his magic crossed lines, allowing him to tap into multiple disciplines—earth, venomous, metallic, and fire dragon. He fit neatly into all four categories, wielding the skills of each Dragonkind subset without difficulty.
Rannock, his packmate and best friend, called his abilities majestic. If only his buddy knew the truth—the why behind all the power and how very different he was from others of their kind.
Not that he would ever tell his friend. Or anyone else, for that matter.
The mystery of who and what he was would go with him to the grave. Some secrets were meant to stay buried. The truth of his origins fit into that category, which sucked in ways he didn’t enjoy thinking about. He hid a lot from his brothers-in-arms—lies by omission, a necessary deception with his life on the line.
With a sigh, Kruger picked his spot and folded his wings. Gravity yanked him out of the sky. Wind whistled over his scales. His paws slammed into disjointed flagstones. Fissures formed, cracking heavy rocks in half as a mini-earthquake shook the garden. Thick branches stretched wide, ancient trees swayed. The faded awning hanging from a neglected greenhouse rattled. With a murmur, he shut down the clamor, preferring stealth to full-frontal assault, and turned his attention to the mansion visible through the thicket.
Crouched low, he crept around the end of a hedgerow. The pads of his paws left flagstone underfoot. His claws scraped over compact dirt. The smell of old leaves and rich loam rose. Powerful magic followed, curling up from the earth, making his muscles twitch and his senses sing.
And he had his answer—the reason he hesitated to raze the place. The spirit of old earth lived here—the power of the ancient ones. Tales of centuries gone by were embedded deep, enriching the soil, feeding the land, making the earth dragon in him want to bed down and stay awhile.
Taking a deep breath, Kruger closed his eyes. By the goddess, he loved it here, in the gardens, beneath the trees, in a place so rich with magic he struggled to know where he stopped and the property began. The beauty of the Parkland’s acceptance rattled around inside him, soothing the tattered edges of his soul.
A huge problem given what he planned.