CHAPTER 1 – HOME
Rage burns the dragon blood inside my veins and always has. Few things soothe it; the ocean is one of those things, as I stare out over the shining water below. I remove my motorcycle helmet and gloves as I stand on the Swedish headland; the crash of the ocean eases my inner fury. Gulls whirl and call on the rocky bluff, and a cold spring wind whips my long blonde hair in its braid.
My sleek black Ducati stands beside me on the bluff; as I wait in my motorcycle leathers, I hear two more bikes roar up the winding coast road. Their engines cut and I feel more than hear two drakes dismount in the gusting wind, coming to me.
One my bound Bloodmate.
The other mine, but not Bloodmated to me yet.
Bjorn Magnussen’s energy roars like a forge fire as he comes to stand beside me on the promontory. My First Drake smells like good cigars and peat whiskey with honey in it, plus a scorched flavor like battlefield char as the wind blows his scent to me.
His six-four, massively fit body vibrates with anger in his black bombardier jacket with its lambswool collar, dark jeans, and boots. His palpable anger fixes upon the fishing village of Jurggadden, nestled in the inlet’s jagged cliffs, as he stares out over the cove.
As he echoes my fury, both of us raging at what we’ll face there soon.
Ström Eriksson feels like the ocean wind, however, as he comes to stand at my other side. Perfectly built in his tawny bike leathers, Ström’s energy is like the brisk north wind as those gusts tease my hair. No less intense than Bjorn, Ström’s dragon-power feels like the vibrancy of a rushing river. His scent is like glacial river water with elderflower in it as it hits my tongue, brisk and fresh.
A drake of bright humor but deep thoughts, Ström is unusually quiet today. I feel his tension, even though I can only sense a whisper of his thoughts, since we’re not Bloodbound yet. Like Bjorn and me, Ström’s considering the fact that a lot of potential enemies could be in the village below us right now.
Everyone who’s anyone, gathering for my mentor Maryse Allbright’s wakes this week.
At my signal to get going, we break from our trio, donning helmets and gloves and returning to our bikes. I fire up my Ducati, turning it hard and peeling out, back to the winding coast road.
Bjorn and Ström roar out fast behind me, to head down into the village of Jurggadden. I resist seething up into my rageful dragon now as we head down into the town. Usually a sleepy fishing inlet, this town is nevertheless the hub for the surrounding countryside with its festivals.
Done up to the nines for Beltane, the village is a riot of flowers, colorful ribbons, and party lights strung from every thatched roof and white silberskrae timber. All the rustic Viking lodge-houses have flowers and streamers overwhelming their ingresses, lights cascading between the houses into the city-center and down the steep, winding causeway to the wharf.
Beltane is a gay time, the best festival of the year here. The beauty and light of this week’s festivities are only marred by portraits of Maryse around town, draped in colorful streamers and flowers for her passing.
Black crow feathers and white ones from gulls are woven into those streamers, to speed Maryse’s flight to the Void of Ancestors. She was a pillar of the community, and a member of the Black Dragon Knights, the covert ruling body that commands every aspect of Blood Dragon life, even more so than our King.
That my drakes and I are part of also—subject to their orders, though we may hate it.
I feel not just my loss but everyone’s now, as Bjorn, Ström, and I park our bikes and cut their engines before Maryse’s traditional lodge-house near the highest edge of town, backed by the cliffs. Flowers engulf the porch, streamers and feathers everywhere; we have to palm them aside to get to the open front door, servants coming and going as they prepare for a family wake tonight. It’s darker inside the lofty hall than out in the bright, spring day. As I enter, I blink to adjust my vision.
And am accosted into a massive bear hug.
Trublut Lakkvie growls with delight, heaving me up and spinning me around before setting me back down. He’s dressed in black tactical gear, combat boots, and a white wolf pelt like always; his kind lavender eyes beam in his grizzled, battle-scarred face. Basically my father since my teens, he’s not even that much bigger than me. The strength in the wiry Trublut is massive, though, as he roars with joy, clapping my shoulders and kissing cheeks.
He crams me into another of his big hugs then, as if we haven’t seen each other in ages. He knew I was coming; I called yesterday telling him we’d be here for Maryse’s send-off, and also to talk with him about a Bloodbonding ceremony she mentioned in her last words to me, to help bond my drakes better and gain more control over my Bloodwalker power. Everything with Trublut is like this, though, as he roars with laughter to see me, despite his beloved lifemate’s passing.
A heart as wide as the sky—and arms that hold the world.
“Rikyava! Darling girl. You made it. Good, good,” Trublut says in his thick Swedish accent as he grins at me, then winks at my two mates. “And you brought your drakes. Good. A Blood Dragon drakaina should have a few drakes with her for Beltane. Should she not?”
I blush instantly. Trublut has always been very frank about sex, and though I am a grown-ass woman now, it still embarrasses me. I brush my innate squeamishness aside, however. I fuck; I like it.
And I want to do it with both drakes now lingering beside me.
As Ström laughs in surprised delight and Bjorn gets uncomfortable, sticking a hand out to Trublut like he’s taking me to the prom, Trublut laughs and slaps them both on the shoulders.
“Younglings! Come inside. You’ve arrived just in time for tonight’s family party. Khosh has the feast cooked already and Vjen and I were just working on Maryse’s send-off net. There is much to do before her send-off to the Ancestors in three days. But first, you must go get changed! Our party starts in half an hour and you do not want to be late to the drinking. Yes?”
As Trublut grips my men’s shoulders, then mine, giving me a kind smile, I finally see the sadness in him. It grips my heart as my own ache returns it; he sees my agony and pulls me into a gentler hug now. He holds me as we breathe together for a moment.
Then pushes back, cupping my cheeks with his rough hands.
“Yes. Yes.” He smiles. “Let the sadness flow, Rikyava. For if we do not, it lingers in the heart, devouring us. And we need our hearts to be alive, to celebrate with those who are still with us. Let your sorrow move you like a great tide and set you free. Yes?”
“Yes,” I say, even as I smile back tears. I don’t want to lose it right now, but I want to cry for my mentor’s passing. Though I loved her, Maryse and I had been on the rocks these past twenty years, because of how I thought she pushed me away after my sister’s coup against our King. Little did I know Maryse was protecting me from danger; perhaps even from inside the Black Dragon Knight’s High Council, to whom I used to report.
Danger we’re all in now—though we have no clue where it’s coming from.
As we follow Trublut into the house, I put danger and intrigue aside, for now. We’re here to help Maryse’s soul go to the Void of Ancestors with her wakes and final send-off this week; as we enter the house, I see the long, Viking-style lodge hall is much the same as when I was last here a week ago.
Rustic and comfortable yet elegant, built in a traditional style with a ginormous fire pit in the center and a venting hole far above, Maryse’s abode with her mates is made of soaring silberskrae timbers that create vaults like a ship far above. Suites of rooms sprout off the sprawling main area, with heavily carved white wooden doors; every timber and beam are lovingly decorated with Blood Dragons in battle and celebration.
Our classic rune-language tells ancient stories of valor as it winds around every pillar, even on to the elegant yet rustic wooden furniture. The hay and cedar scent of the longhouse contrasts with a sharp, musky incense that wafts through the gables from beautiful silver censers that smoke blue-white as they hang from the eaves.
Bearskin rugs and wool blankets are everywhere on the driftwood-carved couches and chairs; the polished timber floors are covered with massive, woven rugs. Charms of feathers, driftwood, nautical rope, and dragon scale dangle from every vaulted window and door.
To push back darkness and keep evil away.
A dozen massive trestle-tables are laden with food and drink around the perimeter of the hall now, however, in preparation for tonight’s wake. This evening’s party is only a family affair, but more food is still coming from the kitchens—a veritable feast being prepared for tonight.
When Blood Dragons party, they party hard; since so many of us die in epic battles thanks to our Berserker nature, we celebrate life rather than mourn death. Only after we have thoroughly celebrated our dead do we send them off to the Ancestors.
As lively music starts outside in the town, I know tonight is about to get crazy. Because we’re celebrating not only Maryse’s life this night, but also the start of Beltane. The entire village is going to get roaring drunk in an hour or less, as the sun sets.
And I plan on being one of them…
