Page 42 of Dragons' Future

Cyril

Judging by the awestruck way Kit was watching Agatha, the old woman had entirely too much power over Cyril's mate. This whole situation had too much power over all of them. What manner of magic could call a dragon? They weren’t homing pigeons.

Cyril shoved down pain and fatigue, the way he’d done on battle fields that were so much larger and louder—yet no more important—than the one unfurling around him now. All his senses were on alert now, and he could tell Darren’s pack was feeling the same.

Agatha shifted the swaddled hatchling in her arms as she led them toward the solitary cottage. Cyril tracked each flick of her aged fingers. He disliked the thought of a stranger holding the pup—even if the old woman seemed infinitely more qualified for the task than any of the rest of them. Qualified or not, one wrong move and she was dead.

"You were a tiny little thing when I saw you last,” Agatha told Kit, opening the door to the modest dwelling. The scents of baking bread and rising yeast wafted outside, mixing with the rich aroma of rosemary and thyme. The latter came from a pot that simmered atop the cast-iron stove. Normal, ordinary smells inside a normal, ordinary house. In the middle of nowhere. With a homing magic of some sort. “Only a wee bit bigger than this. And Lilith, she was just as bewildered as you lot are now.”

“You knew my mother,” Kit whispered.

Lilith. Kit had never mentioned her mother’s name. Why not? A happenstance or was there more magic at play? Cyril looked back long enough to see Broker and Rand start to circle the cabin in a security sweep, then started after Kit, who was already inside.

Before he could cross the threshold, Agatha pivoted to block his way.

Cyril nearly tripped to avoid ramming into the woman, who looked like she might break something if she hit the ground too hard. He stared down at her weathered face, his own set into an expression that usually sent people scurrying to find elsewhere to be.

Agatha lifted her chin, for all the world uncaring that she was glaring up at a dragon who could snap her in two.

“Care to introduce yourself?” Agatha demanded. She looked Cyril up and down, plainly finding him wanting. “And everyone else you seem to think should be coming into my home?”

Cyril lifted a brow.

Agatha, the top of whose head barely came up to his chest, lifted hers in response.

It was difficult to not like the hag, actually. Which didn’t mean that Cyril trusted her.

Giving up the stalemate, Cyril bowed. “I’m Kitterny’s mate.” And the new king of Massa’eve, but that is irrelevant just now. “One of her mates.”

Agatha made a pensive sound with the back of her throat. “And behind you, that’s the rest of her pack?”

“No.” Cyril let the word hang then sighed. He wanted to get into the house where Kit was, but short of barreling over the old woman he was stuck answering her questions. “Those males are from another pack altogether. The rest of our pack is… missing. If you would permit us to come in, I’m happy to tell you more.” Cyril let an edge of steel enter his voice as he added, “And perhaps you might share exactly why you seem so unsurprised to find my mate and her sister drop from the sky onto your homestead.”

“Well, that seems fair enough of an ask.” Agatha started to step aside then stopped. “Take off your dirty boots. Good gods boy, who raised you?”

Cyril glanced at Kit, who had taken her shoes off without being asked. Fine.

Once everyone obeyed—Rand and Broker having returned from their security sweep with curt nods of approval—they were allowed into the small common area. With seven adults, four dragon eggs and a hatchling, the cottage felt immediately crowded. Leesandra’s stomach growled. They were all hungry, but the scent of vegetable stew was more enticing to the human than the rest of them.

“I better go slaughter a sheep then,” Jonas said, heading back to the door. “Or several. You lot look hungry and I don’t think Agatha’s turnips will do the trick.”

“No need,” Cyril said quickly. Whatever else, he was not going to take food from the couple’s mouths. He looked over at Rand, who was already nodding. “Let your flock graze. Rand can bring down a deer with enough meat to satisfy us all and the hatchling.”

Jonas made a feeble protest, but was clearly relieved and Cyril made a mental note to ensure the couple was well stocked with meat and firewood before they left them.

Agatha on the other hand thrust the hatchling into Leesandra’s arms—the only one she seemed to believe competent to handle the pup—and wheeled on Cyril, hands on hips.

“What did I do now?” he asked, double checking that his boots hadn’t somehow walked themselves back onto his feet.

“You’ve been feeding the hatchling raw meat? Good stars. Have you not a mind between the five of you?”

Six actually. But this didn’t seem like the time to tell them that Darren was currently minding an armless priest in the backwood. As for the hatchling’s feeding, hell, what else was he supposed to give the pup? Cyril cleared his throat. “We are at your command, my lady Agatha. Why don’t you correct whatever deficiencies you see and we shall go from there.”

“Well then.” Agatha's face remained stern, but there was no denying the hint of relief in her voice. For all her posturing, she had been nervous. Worried for herself? Or for Kit and the pup? It was hard to tell. Now, she clapped her hands and surveyed the group again, this time with maternal determination. “Let's get some blankets for a nest, and then get you lot cleaned up. Can one of you stay on your feet long enough to fetch a few buckets of well water? I’ll gather some soap… and medicinals too. Seems to me you are in as poor a state as your clothes.”

Cyril opened his mouth to protest the delays, but Agatha reached up and patted his shoulder with a kind of kindness that made his scales flush. “Do as you are told, and I’ll tell you the story you all want to hear. I promise.”

“I believe it will do no good to argue,” Broker muttered. “I had a grandmother like this. Clean hands first, end of the world second.”

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