Chapter Three
Dearg
It was a lovely spring day, and I was with a gorgeous demigoddess. Too bad I had to scan the forest and sky for murderous griffins, trolls, Sidhe, and Cachamwri knew what else.
Unfortunately, Iona didn’t make it easy, and not because she deliberately set out to be distracting. She just kept drawing my eyes. It was her scent, mostly -- she smelled like roses one moment, then crisp green apples, then on to honeysuckle. The smell of her magic.
She was trying just as hard as I was to keep an eye out for threats, but she didn’t seem to be having much success either. Half the time my rebellious eyes slid to her, I found her watching me, the scent of desire like a fine, sweet perfume.
If it hadn’t been for the situation, I’d have flirted with her. Especially with the vision memory of that long, lovely body naked and writhing under my hands. Fortunately, Dragon’s Breath kept sending me nasty little flashbacks of her many, many deaths, which kept me on task.
A couple of miles from town, Iona led me up a winding footpath through a copse of pines, sweetgums, maples, and dogwoods. The familiar sound of combat grew louder -- howls and shouts in a dozen languages and the jet-engine thunder of dragon’s breath.
We stepped through the curtain of trees into a vast meadow where a small army of Sidhe, trolls, and werewolves battled centaurs, all of them shouting, cursing, and screaming in rage, fear, or pain.
In the center of it all, an enormous white dragon crouched, tail lashing, faced off with an armored centaur.
The ‘taur was warrior class, since his horse half was the size of a Clydesdale with a proportional human half, black coat blending smoothly with his dark skin. His lower legs and massive hooves wore a curtain of long, silky black hair -- and his hair, beard, and tail were intricately braided. White magical sigils painted his face and bare, powerful arms. He needed the protection because his armor was ridiculously impractical, leaving far too much skin bare. Given the glowing hemispherical shield spell that protected him and his rider, he probably didn’t need much more.
He also carried a twenty-foot dragon-killer spear no mortal human could have managed, its length blazing with Centauri sigils.
A woman in flowing red and gold robes rode him bareback, clinging with her knees as she hurled spells with a magic wand.
Somebody else must be casting the magic, since she was a mortal human under a glamour that made her appear Sidhe.
Besides, no immortal would deign to use a wand.
The dragon spat another rolling burst of fire which streamed harmlessly off the centaur’s shields.
The ‘taur counterattacked with a salvo of spell blasts, then leaped into a thundering charge straight at all forty-five feet of enraged white dragon. The human clung to his back with her legs, doing a fine impression of fury and desperation. She looked oddly familiar, though I couldn’t place her.
I leaned down to Iona and murmured, “Where in the name of Cachamwri’s Egg is the film crew?
” All this looked like real combat, though a centaur would have to be mad as a pixie to challenge a matriarch dragon.
Judging from the way the hair rose on the back of my neck as the ‘taur gathered power for another attack, he meant to hit her at full power.
“Cut!” an amplified male voice roared.
The centaur slid to a stop as the dragon straightened out of her crouch, her tail whipping over the heads of the immortal extras, who all ducked.
In the bright afternoon sun, iridescence slid over her white scales like a sheen of oil and her huge eyes blazed orange and gold.
“What the fuck was that, Baareo?” she demanded, speaking English to the ‘taur, her voice loud enough to make me wince.
“That last blast was full power! And what happened to the choreography we spent the past week practicing? Hell, even the human was following the routine, and mortals have the memory of senile mayflies!”
I followed her pointing claw to the woman on the ‘taur’s back. I finally recognized her. It was Isabella Barnes, one of the greatest actors of her generation.
My jaw dropped as I stared, starstruck. I’d grown up watching the woman’s movies.
Adding to the sheer weirdness of the whole thing, she looked exactly as she had when I was a kid, instead of the fifty-something actor who’d played a U.S.
president in a more recent thriller. Her youth had to be the product of the same glamour that had created her Sidhe ears.
Mortals could achieve similar effects with CGI, but there was no uncanny valley about magical glamour as there was with computer-generated effects.
It could have been the twenty-five-year-old Isabella riding the centaur. I’d had such a crush on her…
The film crew materialized around us as the spell hiding them dropped.
A paunchy, disheveled man with a gray beard emerged from behind a cluster of video screens, probably showing views from several cameras.
He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt that read Fleethoof, presumably the title of the movie they were shooting.
“What the fuck, Sidney?” the dragon snapped. “I kept waiting for you to call ‘cut!’ He wasn’t even remotely following the choreography. If I weren’t a fucking matriarch, he’d have burned me!”
The penny dropped. The human was Sidney Hurst, director of at least a dozen hits, Oscar-winning and otherwise, including two that had won for Best Picture. He was also well-known for his diva streak and ruthless, dictatorial tendencies.
None of which was evident now as Hurst lifted both hands as if to fend off the dragon’s fury. He looked justifiably unnerved. “I’m sorry, Vildra, didn’t realize there was a problem. We got some great stuff -- looked even better than the choreography.”
“Easy for you to say,” the dragon snapped. “You weren’t getting flambéed.”
“I had no idea he was hitting you that hard.” He glared at the centaur. “I told you to be careful. People can get killed fucking around in a fight scene.”
The ‘taur gave him a sneer. “I didn’t realize dragons are so delicate. I suppose I don’t know my own strength.”
“Oh, you dumbass,” Iona muttered.
The matriarch’s eyes narrowed, edging toward red. “Would you like to discover just how ‘delicate’ I am?” A tongue of fire licked around her jaws as she spoke.
The centaur took a step back, displaying more sense than I’d given him credit for. “I was making a joke.”
“Vildra, please don’t barbecue my star, no matter how much he deserves it.
” Hurst’s voice dropped to a mutter. “Fucking actors. No matter how many legs they have, they’re all assholes and idiots, each and every one.
” Hurst turned back toward the fascinated cast and crew.
“All right, we’re breaking for lunch. Be back in an hour. We’ve got dialogue to shoot.”
The matriarch lowered her great head until she was eye to eye with the centaur.
Big as he was, her head dwarfed him. “Go back over the damn choreography, Baareo,” she snarled, breathing a plume of smoke in his face.
“And the next time we shoot this fucking thing, every single blast had better be lighter than force when you aim at me -- or anybody else.” She curled a contemptuous lip, revealing eight-inch-long teeth. “You’re lucky I don’t eat horse meat.”
I winced and braced myself. Every centaur, troll, and Sidhe in the cast did the same.
Ordinarily, being called a horse would drive a ‘taur into a killing rage, but this one just shrugged. He started to turn and walk off, but Isabella, still on his back, caught him by one meaty shoulder. “Hey, give me a hand down, would you?”
He turned his head to give her a flat look. “Jump, mortal.”
She glowered. “Like hell! If I sprain an ankle, it’ll throw this shoot weeks behind.”
He just stared at her.
“Allow me.” I walked over and reached up for her. Glimpsing my own furry hands, I remembered I was in Dire Wolf form and paused, hoping I hadn’t just scared the hell out of her.
“Thank you,” Isabella said, reaching down to brace her hands on my shoulders. I caught her waist and lowered her to the ground.
The mortal sighed. “I truly appreciate it. I wasn’t going to be able to get off that bastard by myself.
” Grimacing, she started to limp away. “My thiiighs! I’m not as young as I once was, glamour or no glamour.
Should have had better sense than to take the damn role, but noooo, I couldn’t resist looking twenty-five again… ”
I turned to find Iona watching me wearing an amused smile. “Just can’t help yourself, can you? Chivalrous to the bone.”
“Uh…” Thank God for my fur, or I’d be tomato red, judging by the blush I felt burning my face. “She’s my mother’s favorite actor.”
“Yeah, I loved Sanctuary Moon too. Come on, I need a word with Vildra.”
As I turned to follow her, I noticed Baareo staring at me, his gaze hard.
The sword hissed, Cut him. Bleeeeed him.
I paused, studying the ‘taur. Going by the proportions of the hooves, he was the size of Iona’s vision attacker, who had also had black-feathered legs.
Maybe Dragon’s Breath had a point. This was a prime opportunity to knock this idiot around and see what he could do.
Was he one of the assassins or just the graceless pig he appeared to be?
“Why, hello there, cud-chewer,” I said in ‘taur, starting toward him. Cattle insults were even deadlier than the horse variety.
To my acute disappointment, he pivoted and stomped off.
Huh. I’d never seen a centaur back down from an insult that deadly.
Iona caught my arm. “Quit trying to start a fight, Dearg. Come on.” I let her tow me toward the dragon.
The matriarch’s tail was whipping like an angry cat’s -- if cats were longer than a city bus. “We might want to give her time to calm down,” I murmured, but Iona made a dismissive gesture and kept right on going.