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Gwydion, master enchanter and warrior magician, strode to where the women stood. He’d obviously been listening in on her private conversation with Ceridwen—or trying his damnedest to—which annoyed the hell out of Arianrhod. His long blond hair was done up in the Celtic warrior pattern of multiple small braids layered over each other, and his blue gaze augured into Arianrhod, no doubt seeking why she’d volunteered so readily. Gwydion favored robes. Today he wore black silk, sashed in red. The staff that never left his hand shone with a pale, white light. Its inner glow illuminated eldritch carvings running along its length in bas-relief.
Arianrhod wrenched her gaze away from the staff. It was as hypnotic as a cobra; she’d been trapped more than once trying to make out the runes streaked up and down its polished sides. She turned to face her brother squarely. “I can be far more unobtrusive if ’tis just me.”
He drew his brows together into a thick, disapproving line. “Aye, but two can accomplish twice what one can.” He waved his staff at Ceridwen. “Tell her she must allow me to accompany her.”
“I’ll do no such thing,” the goddess of the world replied. “If she wishes your company, ’tis for her to request it.”
“I’ll call for you if I have need of reinforcements.” Arianrhod forced a much cheerier smile than she felt and made her eyes guileless. Gwydion only offered to come along because he was bored. He didn’t care a twit about helping her. Never had. They’d been at each other’s throats since they were children.
Gwydion took a step back and mock bowed. “See ye do that…sister.” With a sweep of his robe, he vanished.
“Good call.” Ceridwen spoke into her ear. “The less anyone knows about why ye’ve decided to pay a visit to Fire Mountain, the better. Had two of us shown up, we’d need a stated reason. One the dragons would believe.”
“That’s the kicker, eh?” Arianrhod whispered back. “Not the most trusting race, dragons.”
“Understatement, my dear. Now get moving and take care that brother of yours doesna follow your tracks.”
“What about Angus? Ye sent him to Fire Mountain. Won’t the dragons become suspicious?”
Ceridwen shot a wry smile skittering her way. “Och, the dragons adore seers, plus he isna one of the gods.”
Arianrhod frowned. “Aye, I’ve never met him afore. What exactly is he?”
“Does it matter?” Ceridwen countered her question with another, which meant she didn’t plan to answer it. “He’s helpful, which is all ye need to know.”
Arianrhod cloaked herself in magic and summoned a traveling spell, aiming for her castle in the Scottish Highlands. She’d swathed the medieval structure in so many layers of invisibility, no one would ever be able to catch her by surprise. She was fairly certain Gwydion had no idea where she lived, and she aimed to keep it that way. Whitewashed stone walls formed around her, and she blew out a tightly held breath. Before she relaxed entirely, she sent power spinning in a wide arc to make certain she was alone.
Good.
No one had breached her home’s defenses since she left. She stared around the great room, appreciating its simplicity. She’d never gone for the opulent wall hangings or rich carpets the other Celts preferred. Her home boasted broad, gray flagstone floors with the occasional throw rug to give chilled toes a break. Fireplaces graced every room, and she used them for heat, rather than installing more modern central heating. In truth, she preferred the crackle of wood to thewhooshof a forced air fan. Her manor house could’ve housed a hundred. There were rooms she hadn’t laid eyes on in centuries. Mostly, she shuttled between the great room, the kitchens, her bedroom, and the room where she kept her bows and knifes. Guns had come into fashion, but she didn’t care for them. Too noisy and bulky for her taste.
One concession to modern life was a green-veined marble bathroom off her bedroom with a hot-water-on-demand system. Nothing quite like drawing a bath without having to heat the water with magic. Another place she’d caved was installing a large, clunky computer, complete with access to a fledgling Internet. She didn’t totally understand the Advanced Research Projects Agency NETwork, but it was useful for research—far easier than digging through tomes and scrolls in her enormous library.
Despite nagging from her Celtic kin, she’d drawn the line at a mobile phone—or any phone, for that fact. She could tap anyone she wanted telepathically, so she didn’t need an electronic sidekick.
Whistling a wordless Gaelic folk song, she trotted into the armaments room and slid golden arrows into a quiver that she tossed over her shoulder. Next came a knife she tucked inside a thigh sheath. She picked a powerful crossbow, decided she didn’t need anything further, and chanted to open a time-traveling portal. For years she’d transported herself to one of the entry points that would move her where she instructed. During a trip back from a depressing future where mankind had mostly annihilated Earth’s resources, she’d accidentally ended up in the sub-basement of her castle.
That was how she knew her dwelling housed an entrance, and she’d used it shamelessly ever since. Why squander power if she didn’t have to? A pearlescent, tubular structure formed before her. She walked through a portal and settled herself inside. Its walls were grayish and warm as if the conduit were alive. She chanted a different incantation to seal herself into the time shaft. Her magic held a pungent scent for this particular casting, like motor oil mixed with salt water.
Fire Mountain existed beyond time on a borderworld that shared a frequency with Earth. If it didn’t, she suspected no one but dragons would be able to access it. The shaft vibrated as Arianrhod moved backward in time to the ancient dragon stronghold. She hunkered into a squat for the long journey, taking care not to touch the pulsing walls. No point in being jettisoned because she pissed off whatever—or whomever—infused life into the channel. That had happened more than once, and it took variable amounts of time before the guardian allowed her access again. Being stuck with dinosaurs—which had happened before—wasn’t high on her list.
Excitement thrummed through her, and she considered how to proceed once she arrived at Fire Mountain. Mayhap she could pretend she was interested in pairing with a dragon. She narrowed her eyes and chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip. Should she join with Angus and the dragon, Eletea? Or pretend she knew nothing about them? If she chose to masquerade as a wannabe dragon shifter, would the Ancient Ones believe her?
“Why would they?” she muttered. “I haven’t shown the slightest interest in anything dragon-related since the dawn of time.” Perhaps she could tell them she was bored, that her life lacked meaning, purpose. All true. Immortality held a big downside, particularly since somewhere along the line, she’d fashioned herself as the virgin huntress.
Arianrhod rolled her mental eyes. Why the hell had she thought that was a good idea when Danu suggested it? At the time, she’d hoped to escape Bran’s attentions, but she hadn’t planned on millennia tossing and turning in an empty bed. The god of prophecy—Bran—was as big a pain in the ass as he’d always been, but at least he had a cock…
She winced. It had taken stealth and cunning to maintain her artfully crafted persona and still have a sex life. Nothing frequent enough to draw attention, but she’d lain with the occasional man—and an amazing coal black dragon. He’d worried his kin would shun him if their affair were discovered, but it hadn’t made a dent in his hunger for her.
Nothing quite like the forbidden to fan those flames…
Truth smacked her between the eyes. Loneliness and lust were why she’d volunteered so readily to make the trek to Fire Mountain. And why she’d sidestepped Gwydion. The last thing she needed was a witness if she stumbled onto Keene—or another likely candidate. Dragons lived practically forever. Perhaps Keene might be interested in another fling—for old time’s sake if nothing else.
Usually she stopped herself from thinking about her past and what she wished she’d done differently, but she couldn’t shut off her thoughts. If she’d had children, real children, it would’ve made such a difference.
The two sons she’d conceived magically were odd. But how could they have been aught else? She’d been forced to jump over a magical rod to prove she was a virgin, and twin sons were the result. Dylan sank into obscurity, retreating to the seas when the strain of day-to-day life without enough power to light a candle became too much to bear. Lleu would’ve left as well, but Gwydion subverted every single one of Lleu’s escape plans as he grew to manhood. Lleu blamed her for Gwydion’s meddling, and she hadn’t laid eyes on him for a very long time. She suspected Gwydion hadn’t, either.
Her empty life mocked her, but she was damned if she could figure out what to do to change it. It wasn’t as if she could march up to Ceridwen and the others, clear her throat, and say, “Sorry, but I’m sick of being a Celtic god. Think I’ll be a mortal for a while. And hey, if that doesn’t please you, I’ll take to my owl form and be done with the lot of you.
“Oberon’s balls!” She crashed one fist into an open hand, taking care not to jostle the traveling portal. “I have to pull my head out of my ass. Ceridwen handed me a fascinating problem. I need to focus on it. No dragon fucking. No diversions. Go in. Put my head down. Get the job done.”
Nice lecture, but can I do it?
Arianrhod stroked the shiny bow draped over her shoulder. It was a work of art. She’d made it herself from yew wood, not cutting any corners, so it took months for the wood to shape and cure. She twisted her mouth into a wry smile. The huntress part of her title was fine. It fit, and she enjoyed the cunning, planning, and forethought it took to outsmart prey. If she was sick of the pretend-to-be-a-virgin part, who could blame her?
The rhythm of her traveling tube shifted. Arianrhod glanced at a node to check her location and understood her journey would be over soon. She rotated her shoulders to relax and ready herself, thought about her virgin huntress title once more, and laughed.
“The virgin part may grate, but I adore being a huntress. Fifty percent isn’t bad,” she told the gray-pink walls as they shuddered to a stop. “Most people don’t even get that.”
