Chapter 6 #3
“Yes, I met one of the makers in London many years ago. He was a good salesman.”
It must be worth a bloody fortune. I look at the simple rainbow canvas strap and repress a smile. It’s so very Sigurd. The original strap must have broken, and he replaced it with the first thing he found. I fasten it onto my wrist. “Of course I will.”
I stand back and watch as the heat shimmer flows over him, the tattoos moving. Within seconds, the dragon stands before me. I wait until he inclines his great head, and then I drift closer, fascinated.
“You know, you are extraordinarily beautiful,” I say softly. “In both dragon and human form.”
I can feel his pleasure as if it’s my own. Thank you, his voice says in my head.
His dragon voice is different from his human one—deeper and almost growly, but his warmth comes through loud and clear. He lowers himself to the patio. Climb onto my back, Cary.
I hesitate, and then, putting my hand on him, I put one foot on his leg and then boost myself onto his back. I straddle him cautiously. His back is broad, the scales smooth and warm. “Will I slide off?” I ask, and his head shakes slowly.
No, try and move.
I obey and smile. “I can’t. It’s as if I’m belted in.”
He nods. You shall not fall, so be at ease. Are you ready?
“Yes.” I reach out and daringly stroke his great scaly head. He makes a sound of pleasure, and then his wings rise on either side of me. They’re huge and a mottled pink and gold colour with a shading of midnight blue. “Beautiful,” I say again softly, and a shudder runs through him.
Sparks run over his back suddenly, and I jerk in surprise before I realise it’s his magic. Almost instantly, I feel warmth surround me like a big hug.
It is cold up there amongst the clouds. I wish you to be warm and comfortable, Cary.
I’m already toasty warm. “Thank you. It’s lovely.”
The great wings flap, and the breeze from them is strong enough to blow my hair back.
And then we’re lifting into the air. It isn’t like flying in a plane.
There’s none of the jerkiness or heavy propulsion to get into the air.
Instead, we lift as smoothly as silk. Within seconds, we’re high above Porthcurno Beach. The sand is white in the moonlight.
He hovers for a second, and then he turns and glides forward.
The weather is wild, and the waves are surging towards the beach.
They’re tipped with white froth and I give a loud gasp as I realise that I’m actually seeing white horses.
They ride the waves proudly, their bodies translucent, glowing as if they’re harnessed by starlight.
One of them looks up, and I hear a whinny.
“Is that real?” I ask.
His voice sounds in my head. ’Tis magic.
His powerful body surges forward, his wings propelling us onwards.
Rain sloshes down, but I’m still warm and dry atop him.
I lean over, looking down at the Cornish coast spread below me, the small villages of cottages and little roads.
Sigurd veers left, and I see what looks like a castle on the water.
Realisation dawns as he flies close to the turrets, the lights in the windows golden in the moonlight.
“St Michael’s Mount?” I ask, and his great head dips in agreement.
It was a priory in Norman times. I well remember the old prioress there. They brewed the best beer, and I would stop off and exchange gossip with her.
I blink. “Did you know William the Conqueror?” I say in disbelief.
Aye. A canny man. Not always a good one, but he had brains and a fine line in sarcasm.
I shake my head. I’ve always gone for older men, but someone who knew William the Conqueror is taking that proclivity a bit far.
The rain stops. Sigurd rides the wind, soaring and dipping, and seagulls join us, gliding alongside him, calling out raucously as if mocking us.
Finally, we come to a huge cliff. Below it is a dark opening where the tide smashes into a cave, making a booming sound. Atop the cliff is a castle. “Is that—?”
’Tis Tintagel.
“Oh my god,” I say, enchanted. “I always wanted to visit here. My father told me so many stories.”
Then you shall, he says simply.
His massive wings flap, and he takes us effortlessly over the cliff’s ledge and across land where I can see stone ruins and grass that's grey in the stark light.
He descends in ever-decreasing circles and finally lands on a grassy, open space on the headland.
His wings slow and stop, and I tumble off him, leaning against him for a second as I get my balance.
Then I step back and watch as the heat haze shimmers.
I hear the rocket pop, and there he is. For a few seconds, he stands naked—a glorious sight.
And then he makes a hand gesture, and he’s once more dressed in his old jeans that cling to his long legs and the ancient jumper.
His hair is a tangled mess, and his eyes are full of tiny flames.
He looks jubilant and wild. Sparks fly from him, travelling down his arms until he makes an exasperated sound and clicks his fingers, and they vanish.
He glances at me. Our gazes cling and hold, and then I’m running.
I fling myself into his arms, feeling them band tight around me. Then his lips are on mine, and I lose track of time as we kiss hungrily, our mouths eating at each other, and our hands wandering.
Finally, he pulls back. He lowers his head to rest on mine and sighs. It’s a sound full of happiness and contentment, and it makes my chest hot. “My Cary,” he says. “Did you enjoy that?”
I pull back, staring up at him. “Enjoy? That’s too mild a word. Oh, it was wonderful. Thank you.”
He brushes one of my curls back. “There is no need for thanks.” He looks around. “Let me show you Tintagel.”
I fall into step beside him as he takes a gravelled path, his steps sure and certain.
“Are we allowed here after dark?”
“Certainly not. English Heritage would have a conniption,” he says gravely. He winks at me. “But what they do not know cannot hurt them.”
I laugh. “But aren’t there cameras?”
He waves a lazy, dismissive hand. “No need to worry about that.” I give a sudden shiver, and he exclaims, “You are cold. Wait here, and I will get you a thicker coat.”
“Where from?” I ask, but I’m speaking to thin air, as he’s disappeared.
The wind gusts, and I shiver again, wrapping my arms around myself. It’s very quiet up here with only the forlorn cry of the wind and the rhythmic shush of the sea. The moon is full and clear, and the ruins are bathed in a bright light.
There’s a rustle and the sound of a stone falling. I spin around, “You startled me,” I start to say, but Sigurd isn’t there. Nobody is. Nevertheless, I sense someone listening intently. The back of my neck prickles, and I rub it. Someone is watching me. I know it with a deep certainty.
“Come out. I know you’re there,” I say sternly.
I nearly come out of my skin when there’s a wicked little chuckle. It comes from behind me, and I spin around before taking two hurried steps back.
A creature stands on the path. It’s thin and spindly and seems made of shadows. They conceal its features apart from two bright, cold eyes.
“A human?” it says, its words muffled slightly. “What would a human want with Tintagel after dark? 'Tis nothing but dark stone and even darker memories.”
I clear my throat. “I’m waiting for somebody.”
It gives that wicked little chuckle again. “Who?” It makes a tsking noise. “Little human is a liar. There is no one here. Just you.” The silence stretches. “And me.”
“Well, you’re wrong,” I say firmly. I run my hand through my hair, and the moon gleams on Sigurd’s watch.
The creature’s gaze sharpens, and it gives a little hiss. “Gold.”
I look at the watch and pull down my sleeve. “I suppose so.”
It nods as if to itself. “And gold must be given as a way back.”
“A way back where?”
It smiles and I see with horror why its voice was muffled. It tips its head back and its mouth grows wider and wider, showing three rows of jagged teeth. It’s like looking into a shark’s mouth.
“Go away,” I say, heartbeat racing. While it’s been talking, it’s been drifting closer to me, its shadows concealing the sly movement. I try to step back but come up against the wall of one of the ruins.
“Give me the gold and you shall pass,” the creature says. It reaches out its hand, and the nails are black, the fingers stained unpleasantly in the moonlight. I can smell blood and a sharp metal tang.
“I am never giving you this watch,” I say fiercely. There’s no way it’s getting Sigurd’s beautiful watch.
“What goes on here?” The roar is loud, and the creature hisses and starts to spin.
My mouth drops open as I watch the shadows whirl away down the path until they reform, and the creature appears again. “Dragon?”
I sag with relief. Sigurd reaches me in two loping strides and positions himself in front of me. “Away with you, foul sprite.”
“He is yours?”
Sigurd nods. “Mine and no other’s. And you thought to harm him?”
The creature hesitates. “How was I to know?”
“Maybe don’t accost any old stranger,” I mutter.
Sigurd draws me close to him, staring at the creature. “Back to your lonely stone,” he orders. “Back to your ancient gold and the rites of the dead. Come here no longer.”
“You cannot command that,” the creature snaps.
“I can command whatever I like, because I am a friend of the guardian here, and you know full well his reaction to your presence.”
The creature shudders all over, and then shadowy smoke whirls. When it clears, it's gone.
“What was that?” I ask and gasp as Sigurd pulls me into his arms.
“I am so sorry I was gone,” he mutters into my neck.
I pat his back. “It’s fine. I’ve never been mugged by a foggy thing before. We’re all about the new experiences.”
He chuckles. “’Twas a spriggan.”
I search my memory. “Don’t they guard ancient burial sites?”