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brEAK

C onflict roars through me as Bjorn and I fly fast over the open ocean towards Iceland. Near midsummer, the light stays longer in these high latitudes; the beauty of the extended evening does nothing to soothe my churning, however, as Bjorn and I fly as quickly as we dare over the endless water.

Out here, there’s nowhere to land if we wear out; dragons can land in the water and tread for a while, but at some point, it becomes too difficult to lift water-laden wings to take off again.

Many a Blood Dragon has died in the ocean; it does nothing for my mood now as I concentrate on the blue scale in my taloned fist. I feel Hekla’s energy in it now, where none was before; as if she pulls us towards her homeland and her brother, the bright blue scale leads us in a straight line towards the island.

Wrath continues to roar inside me from Mikkel. L?rke and Strom have found him now, thank all the gods. They caught up to him and fought him, which sapped both Bjorn and I to the max as we fought to stay airborne, our energy dragged on by Strom, as he tried to stop that battle .

Fortunately, though she also had to paralyze Strom to do it, L?rke got her brother out of the air. She was able to free Strom from her power while keeping her energy focused on her brother.

Who roared and snarled at her all the way, through jaws locked shut.

I feel how L?rke and Strom have somehow compelled Mikkel to shift now, back to human. Humanity just isn’t in him yet, though, as I feel that long line of connection to my Third Drake seethe, utterly black.

Poisonous, it keeps trying to snake in and bite my heart; but Insinio’s Archangelic blessing, combined with Aesa’s power shimmering through me now, filling all the dark holes riddled inside me, is keeping Mikkel’s wrath at bay.

It’s still far from a good thing, however, as Bjorn and I fly as fast as we dare now. At last, I see the gleaming line of the Icelandic shores on the horizon, our destination.

The lights of Reykjavik beckon over the water, as glaciers shine further north with ice-capped mountains, beneath the white nimbus of evening here in the Twilight Realm. Black volcanic beaches give the far south an otherworldly look in the oncoming night, though Hekla’s scale is taking us straight towards the main city on the southwest shore.

We land on a flying plaza near the piers, a homely thing of white rocks polished smooth by wear and time, and the crashing of the ocean over millennia. Blood Dragons have been in Iceland a long time; though Reykjavik has modernized quite a lot in the human world, it’s nothing like that here in the Twilight Realm, and much smaller.

Rough timber houses and barns cut from forests still exist on the island in our Realm, never touched by the Vikings, plus taller buildings of stone and thatch. The city has a distinctly Blood Dragon feel as Bjorn and I take it in now from the water, whorls and sigils from our people painted over every timber and arch.

Seabird-feather fetishes full of dragon scales and shells clatter from every curved timber and vault. Most Blood Dragon enclaves prefer to color their buildings in red and black; Icelandic Blood Dragon sigils are painted here entirely in blue and white, however, a reflection of their people’s distinct coloring.

It’s evening now, and many Icelandic Blood Dragons dive off the rocks into the water for fish. Fishing is a skill and an art here, where winters get colder than cold, and the aurora comes out.

It’s out now, whispering through the sky in deep purple hues tonight, plus brighter greens and golds. It’s mesmerizing, as a few Icelandic Blood Dragons swaddled in furs in their human forms pass by, giving us a curious but casual eye. True to the uniqueness of their people, Icelandic Blood Dragons are calm through and through, until you finally convince them to go to war.

But once they do, nothing is left standing—at all.

I think about the Icelandic Blood Dragons’ fierceness, as I hold Hekla’s blue scale in my hand now and let it guide us towards Baldur. I know next to nothing about either of them, only that Hekla was a champion on the battlefield before she died.

True to her people, the blue drakaina was ferocious, but also fiercely calm and focused in her power in a way I wonder if I’ll ever be able to match. It makes me wonder what the Icelandic secret is, as Bjorn and I proceed up the white-cobbled streets away from the quay.

We find ourselves in a maze of tight alleys and even tighter holes in the wall that serve as eateries, bars, and shops. All of them are decorated with scale and feather fetishes, the most expensive ones even sporting large white pearls, from an oyster that lives in these waters.

Beautiful and strange, they clatter and chime with music in the night wind that sweeps down from the glaciers. Near midnight, true night is falling now, as Bjorn and I are led through the tight shops, gleaming with fat lamps and candles in every window.

Although electric lighting did make it here in the Twilight Realm, it’s seldom used by the Icelandic dragons, who prefer more natural firelight. It gives the city an ancient character, as we feel Hekla’s scale tug us towards the heavy wooden door of a pub, a plaque creaking above naming it The Squeaky Mouse in Icelandic, Tístandi Mús .

I blink to realize it’s the same pub L?rke mentioned, where she and Mikkel had searched for Baldur before.

Then frown, as the blue scale clearly points us inside.

“Apparently, Baldur’s in there.” I lift my eyebrows at Bjorn, as he frowns at me. We both took a moment to dress on the landing-platform, all the rest of our gear and fly-bags now shrunken back down with a Storm Dragon charm to the size of a keychain and clipped to my attire.

Bjorn’s wearing his classic style tonight: dark blue jeans, a bombardier jacket with a white lambswool collar, and black motorcycle boots. I’ve got on black thermal leggings, a warm lambswool sweater with a fitted puffy coat over top in my signature color, plum.

But the wind here is icy; while I rarely wear more in Sweden, I’ve got a fuzzy white hat on over my hastily braided hair, with gloves to match. Even the robust Bjorn has cinched his collar up high against the wind, wrapping a grey wool scarf around that, though his massive mane keeps him warm, even pulled up into a quick man-bun as it is right now.

He’s got his big hands thrust into his pockets to stay warm, however, because despite our dragon-heat, the cold here can kill. Even in the summer, the wind here blows, frigid.

And even us Swedish Blood Dragons are no match for it.

Icelandic Blood Dragons are another thing entirely, as they trot around in the falling evening, red-cheeked and smiling. Like an Ice Dragon, they’re perfectly comfortable in their chilly native home; though they wear stylish furs and wool sweaters with leggings and boots, they move briskly through the night in twos or threes, laughing and chatting like they haven’t a care in the world.

And they don’t, mostly; on their isolated island, everyone leaves them alone, except for the odd pard of Sirens or Selkies that come visiting. But the Icelanders are on good terms with everyone; I’ve never even heard of them having a conflict with another clan or Lineage here on their native island, at least in modern times.

Only fighting furiously for their King, whenever they’re summoned to war.

As we push inside the heavy wooden door of the pub now, covered in blue and white sigils gleaming in the oncoming night, I realize I have no clue what Baldur Siguresson’s temperament might be. In fact, I know nothing about him, as I find myself fretting if I look alright, and that my hair’s not in complete disarray from the wind.

As we move past the rough-hewn bar, carved in intricate whorls and knot-work despite looking like it was hacked out of an entire tree by dragon-talons, I feel my heartbeat rise and tension flush through me. Bjorn glances over and takes note; he takes my hand now, as we both search the dim candle- and lamp-lit bar for the man I saw before at The Vault.

In a moment, I can see he’s not here inside this tiny, rough, yet somehow cozy little space. A bar mistress with ruddy cheeks and stunning silver-white hair trips up to us, handing us handwritten menus. Bjorn tries to reject it before I take them and nod our thanks, heading us over to a cozy booth padded with reed-woven seats.

“Bjorn—we need food,” I say before he can open his mouth to argue. “That was a long flight, and if we’re going to be searching for Baldur, we need sustenance.”

“You’re right.” I would have thought he’d argue, but Bjorn’s strangely practical tonight as he sort of slide-thumps into the bench opposite me. With a deep sigh and a growl, he peruses the menu. “I feel like I could eat a whole cow right now with all that flying. Plus Mikkel. He’s drained the shit out of me, even though we’re not even close to the same magical energy, with all his antics today.” Bjorn’s gold eyes flash with the power of his drake in the gloom, and not in a nice way.

“I feel it, too,” I say as I swipe off my hat and gloves and check out my menu. “Our power is shared multi-ways now through our bond, and Mikkel’s been draining me as much as you and Strom in his wrath right now. I’m trying to not freak out about what L?rke and Strom are up against with him, and whether they can get his shit calm, so we have some time to find Baldur. Much less give me time to life-mate with someone I’ve really not even met yet. If he wants to life-mate with me at all.”

“He’ll want to. I’m certain of it.” Reaching across the table, Bjorn takes my hand. His sudden gesture of love and support is so kind, as is the look in his deep gold eyes, that it constricts my chest.

“How do you know?” I hate to ask it, but I need to. I need the unwavering support of my First Drake right now to get me through this, and all the shit that’s happened recently.

As he stares into my eyes, not verbally answering my question, but flooding into me all his knowledge of my goodness, fierceness, and total babelicious hotness, I feel Bjorn bolster my resolve to do this. Because I don’t take total strangers into this bond lightly, and I know Bjorn understands that.

Though he’d rather I take no one into this bond except him, we’re far past that point now, and Bjorn understands the necessity. We need a Fourth Drake to balance my magic, snarling with Mikkel’s at all hours.

We also need that person to be a Blood Sage and resonate with Bjorn’s magic, to amplify what he’s got so he can balance the true terror of Mikkel in our group.

Bonding Bjorn was a no-brainer, despite his temper; bonding Strom was the same, thanks to our long association and hidden love.

Bonding Mikkel was more of an accident, though. One I don’t care to repeat—and Bjorn knows that, as we watch each other, silent at the table. Still, it’s my Bloodwalker magic that chooses my mates for me, as I feel it whirl now, deep inside my chest.

I smell a strange scent, like sunlight and paint, on a brisk wind that steals over our table then. That scent makes me look around, but no one is there. As the bar mistress whisks over, we give her our order of Icelandic lamb, plokkfiskur, skyr, and flatbread. We add a pitcher of beer. As the bar mistress scuttles away, I know both Bjorn and I need it to calm our shit and get us centered for our task.

It’s hard to ignore Mikkel’s signature inside us snarling and roaring, however, flooding us with waves of dark energy one moment, then pulling on our own power like a riptide as he fights what Strom and L?rke are doing to get him back. It’s exhausting. Beer, plus the food, will help us numb out from all these magical shenanigans for a bit as we recuperate and focus on what we have to do next.

“So is that scale giving you anything?” Bjorn asks now as the bar mistress returns with our food and beer, thumping everything down on the table. The heavy ceramic plates are handmade; so are the slightly jilted beer glasses, as Bjorn pours for us both.

As I sip down the hoppy ale with its thick foam and dive into our food, starting with the lamb, I feel grateful to be doing this trip with just Bjorn. I touch the blue scale now where it rests upon the table; nothing comes from it, so I scootch it aside.

Then I reach out and grip Bjorn’s hand while we eat.

Bjorn grunts, but I see the tiniest smile curl his full lips as he takes up his beer and sips. A hot twinkle is in his eyes now, despite everything; as he lifts one golden eyebrow, true heat floods me, loving that look.

Bjorn isn’t just my biggest, buffest badass drake, he’s also my hottest. Strom has a roguish handsomeness, Mikkel is darkly alluring, but Bjorn is just a god among lesser men, hands-down.

He knows it as he sits there, smirking at me. He launches up then, leaning far over the table to claim me with a scorching kiss, his free hand possessively behind my neck.

Before settling back down to his seat—smiling subtly.

“You just love that, don’t you?” I sass him now as we resume eating, though I’m smiling, too.

“Love that I can still twist your panties up into a hard, wet bunch despite all your other drakes in the mix? Yes.” Bjorn hot-growls at me as he continues to smirk, but then he sobers as he grips my hand harder. “What are you going to do if you don’t like him, Rikyava?” Bjorn asks, and I know he’s got my number. We share a lot in our bond now, and he can basically read my mind if he concentrates on it, and certainly my energy, as I stew about meeting Baldur.

“I don’t know.” I’m honest as I think about it. I chew my lip, then dive into the plokkfiskur to give my mouth something to do. “I want Baldur to be somebody who I can just dive right into his arms, making all this right between our group—magically speaking. But what if he isn’t? What if there’s some massive dealbreaker he’s hiding? And my magic compels me to bond with him anyway?”

“I think it may be a risk we have to take.” Bjorn glowers, though his dark, scalding look isn’t for me. I feel his drake gnash its teeth as he takes up some flatbread and rips into it. “If Baldur isn’t suitable to be your Fourth Bloodmate, then we’ll have to find someone else, fast. We both know Aesa’s soul-gift to you will not last long with Mikkel hauling at it in his utter wrath day and night. Not to mention if he hauls ass and escapes Strom and L?rke… heading off to fight the Jarl of Copenhagen all by his little lonesome.”

I know Bjorn’s right, as I sit across the table from him and give a hard sigh. Because already I can feel it; Aesa’s help inside me seems to siphon away with every surge and wrathful snarl we get from Mikkel.

He’s not just draining our bond, he’s draining the protection she placed inside me when we met in the Void. If this keeps up, I won’t have any of Aesa’s protection left, as I’m thrust right back where we started, with me losing my memories at all hours and Bjorn unable to sustain them.

Except worse now, with Mikkel unhinged and Wraithing all the way.

Glancing down, I see Bjorn and I have cleaned our plates. Our ale is likewise dry, though I don’t remember finishing it. We ate ravenously just now to replace the energy Mikkel is draining from us. Soon, food won’t be able to sustain it, as we both shove up from the table, knowing we need to be on our way .

Bjorn throws down some gold that works as currency in all Blood Dragondom, and we head out. Cinching our hats, gloves, and scarves close against the bitter wind, we see fewer people in the avenues as the hour grows late.

And the blue scale tugs us towards an unknown drake.