Donna Grant - Fire Rising

Rhys and Laith moved to either side of Con. Anger simmered and seethed. How dare Ulrik attack one of the Kings? It was him that Ulrik was after. His old friend was about to get his wish too.

As soon as this latest issue with the Dark was resolved and Sammi recovered, Con would do what he should have done all those millennia ago.

He was going to kill Ulrik.

Con made sure to hide his rage as they reached the shores of Ireland. He set Tristan down upon the sand and landed beside him. Rhys and Laith were quick to do the same.

Ian had jumped off Laith and was running to Tristan before Con could shift into human form. The only King who remained a dragon was Tristan, and the fact he hadn’t stirred caused worry to swirl in Con’s gut.

“What happened?” Rhys demanded.

Con looked over Tristan. “It’s no coincidence that magic was used just as we were reaching Ireland.”

“Had Tristan been alone…” Ian couldn’t finish, and he didn’t need to. Everyone knew exactly what he left unspoken.

Phelan growled low in his throat. “This is shite.”

“At least we know who to blame. Ulrik,” Rhys stated.

Con rubbed his jaw as he considered their options. “The longer Tristan remains unconscious, the longer the Dark have Sammi.”

“He’ll never forgive himself,” Charon said.

That’s exactly what Ulrik wanted. Con didn’t bother to tell the others that. Ulrik was his problem to correct. It had been their friendship that stayed his hand the last time.

For so many centuries he’d lived with the regret that Ulrik was not a Dragon King in the truest sense of the word.

Now Con lived with the regret that he hadn’t killed him and saved everyone this trouble.

Con moved to stand at Tristan’s head and put his hands atop the huge dragon head. His magic had always been strong, and it had only gotten stronger when he became King of Kings.

It was going to take that magic to wake Tristan.

Cork, Ireland

Kiril was on his second glass of passable Irish whisky. But he longed for a bottle of Dreagan.

Just as he longed to return to the land.

He had no idea how long he would be in Ireland spying on the Dark Ones. He was in the an Doras pub. It would make things easier if he came every night, but it would also make them suspicious.

So Kiril made sure to visit two other pubs as well. Just to keep the arses on their toes.

He swirled the liquid in his glass as he reclined in the booth. The pub was busy, busier than usual actually. There was an undercurrent of excitement through the building. What it was he hadn’t discovered yet.

Kiril picked up a conversation behind him. He kept his gaze on his glass, but all his attention was on the two Dark males talking.

“Did you hear?”

There was a grunt and then the thud as a glass was set down heavily on the table. “They had a Dragon King once before.”

The first laughed, the sound grating on Kiril’s nerves. His voice was higher pitched and annoying. “Taraeth is stronger than you think.”

“He had his arm cut off by a human,” the second man said gruffly.

“Ah, but this time he’ll keep the King.”

Gruff grunted again. “I’ll believe it when he has him.”

“Taraeth has set a trap for him.” The laughter became higher pitched. “The war has begun. We’ll have this realm to ourselves in no time.”

“You look like you could use a refill,” came a voice next to Kiril.

He jerked his gaze up and into the red eyes of a Dark Fae. Some tried to conceal their eyes while others didn’t bother. He gave a nod to the Dark who set down the glass of whisky and slid into the bench opposite him. “Appreciate it.”

The Dark smiled. “I’ve seen you in here a few times. The name is Farrell.”

“Kiril,” he answered. So they had noticed him. Would they know he was a Dragon King, however?

“What do you think of our pub?” Farrell asked.

Kiril brought his drink to his lips and drank. He returned the glass to the table before he said, “I find it interesting.”

“That’s not an Irish accent I hear. Tell me you aren’t a Scot.”

He smiled though it was tight. “Hate to disappoint.”

Farrell laughed and leaned back as he got comfortable. “We have a few Scots come in now and again. You, we can handle. It’s the damn Brits that get under our Irish skin.”

Kiril joined in the laughter, but he was on full alert. If they expected to nab a King, could they be referring to him? He was going to have to be extra vigilant if he expected to leave the pub that night.

Farrell continued to talk, taking control of the conversation as he spoke of Ireland, Cork, and the benefits of being Irish.

Kiril was nodding at something Farrell said when he felt Con push against his mind. He opened the link between them while keeping eye contact with Farrell as he spoke of their famous crystal.

“The Dark have taken Sammi. We were on our way to Cork when magic was used to bring Tristan down.”

“I’ve bought several pieces of Waterford crystal,” Kiril said to Farrell. “Where are you now?”

“In Ireland. Rhys and Laith are with us. Phelan, Charon, and Ian also tagged along.”

Warriors and Kings. There really was a shit storm coming. “Is it true? Has the war begun?”

“Aye. Watch yourself, Kiril. They’ll target anyone they think is a King.”

The link severed, Kiril drained the rest of his whisky and reached for the glass Farrell had brought. “Tell me, Farrell, what’s with the red eyes?”

“They’re special contacts. The women go crazy for them,” the Dark answered as he leaned on the table.

Kiril might look like he was listening raptly, but in fact he was surveying the pub looking for any threats coming his way. The Kings might need him, so he wanted to get back to his house soon.

But not yet.

“I’ll be in Cork for a while on an extended holiday,” Kiril said.

Farrell smiled widely. “We’ll have to be sure to meet up again.”

Just what Kiril wanted. He might finally have an in with the Dark.

Tristan came awake as if he’d been slapped. When he opened his eyes and found Con standing over him, he knew that’s exactly what had happened.

“About damn time,” Rhys said brusquely.

Tristan sat up and found himself nude on a beach. He looked up and met Ian’s worried gaze. “What happened?”

“You doona remember?” Phelan asked.

He shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck, which was sore. “I remember a strange sound in my head that was excruciating.”

“You fell,” Laith said. “Into the water. Con had to pull you out.”

Tristan didn’t know why everyone was upset. So he had fallen. It wasn’t the best thing that could happen, but it wasn’t as if he could’ve died.

“Something had you,” Con said.

That was enough to cause him to frown. “Had me?”

Con nodded solemnly. “It was magic.”

“How long have I been out?” Tristan asked as he gained his feet.

Charon kicked at the sand. “A few minutes.”

Everyone attempted to act normal, but Tristan got the distinct impression that there had been something major going on with him. He turned to Ian, who he knew would tell him the truth. “What really happened?”

“You fell,” Ian said and glanced at the water. “Con had to go in and get you, and just like he said, there was magic used. It was anchoring you to the bottom of the sea. Con got you out and on the beach, but you wouldna wake.”

Tristan rubbed his neck again. It was a dull ache, one that made him feel as if he’d been clubbed in the back of the head. “And?” he urged.