Dragon Maid by Ann Gimpel Read Free Book Online Page B

laughter nearly deafened his already-battered hearing. “How?”
    A particularly rocky aerial manoeuver unseated him, and he bounced a half a meter off her back. “ Ooph .” Jonathan landed hard and gripped Tarika tighter, determined not to create more problems for them. His next thought nearly flattened him. It was so obvious, he felt like an idiot for not realizing it sooner. By the goddess! This is just like the games I design.
    But they’re not real.
    So? They depend on strategy. Besides, it’s not as if there are dozens of choices here. He turned his attention to Tarika. “Can the Morrigan hear us if we use telepathic speech?”
    “I doona believe so.”
    Tarika coiled magic more tightly around them and burrowed even deeper into his head. Jonathan’s muscles tensed. He expected the dragon to argue, so he couched his words as a statement, not open for discussion. “I’m going to sever my link with you, draw magic, and transport myself back to Inverness. If this works, the Morrigan will see me as easy pickings and follow me, figuring she can always track you down later.”
    Tarika spewed fire at the Morrigan and banked hard right. “Hmm… Might work if we—”
    “I doona want you to sacrifice yourself.” Britta’s voice rose over Tarika’s.
    “Be reasonable,” Jonathan retorted, touched she cared what happened to him yet knowing now wasn’t the time for that discussion. “So long as we remain together, we’ll just keep taking pot shots at the Morrigan until one of us falls out of the sky, exhausted. Even if that abomination of a Celtic god doesn’t follow me, I can find my way back to Kheladin’s and raise the alarm.”
    Power jolted Tarika; she screamed her outrage—and her pain. Jonathan didn’t wait for further dialogue. He slammed his mind shut, drenched himself in power, and imagined the hawthorn grove in the park. The sensation of falling created vertigo. He’d never engaged traveling magic while airborne.
    Holy shit! What if it doesn’t work?
    It has to.
    As a laggardly second thought, he diverted some of the magic surrounding him into as impenetrable a ward as he could create. The darkness around him grayed at the edges. Soon, he’d either come out where he’d planned or come face-to-face with an ugly surprise he could only guess at.
    “No more desultory playing at witchcraft,” he muttered. “If the goddess gets me out of this one, I swear I’ll read every fucking grimoire I can get my hands on.”
    He felt the ground’s approach as a magnetic pulling sensation before he actually saw it. Jonathan drew up his knees, and tucked his arms around them, just in time to roll into a landing. He connected hard with the earth but nothing broke. The second he could, he sprang to his feet, hands raised to summon power in case the battle crow was hot on his heels.
    “Jonathan!” a man cried.
    “Christ, mate. We heard your alarm. Where the fuck were you?” a woman shouted.
    “Aye, and are ye expecting company?” another woman asked in a strong Scottish brogue.
    Half a dozen witches closed around him. Relief surged. They’d heard his frantic call from wherever he and Tarika had been. “How’d you find me?”
    Caty, a broad-shouldered witch with black hair that came to her knees, stepped forward. Head of another local coven, she wore power like she owned it. Her green eyes snapped. “What danger do you face, witch? To call us out on false pretenses…” Her voice faded, and her gaze rose to a ragged hole forming in the night air.
    “Crap!” the man cursed.
    “Battle lines,” Caty commanded.
    Jonathan watched in amazement as the witches formed a half circle and dragged him into their formation right next to Caty. This coven had apparently practiced. Before tomorrow came, he’d make certain his coven at least had a plan in place—assuming he was still alive.
    “What manner of being is this?” Caty jabbed him with an elbow.
    “The Morrigan.”
    She rolled her eyes. “Oh please.