Chapter 21
Chapter
Twenty-One
Ash blinked hard as the portal snapped shut behind them once more.
One moment, Lemuria’s dark, molten air choked her, then the next, Romania’s sharp midmorning glare. Now, waning sunlight glided over snowy grounds, throwing yet another shift at her, and her vision scrambled to keep up.
“Oh, boy.” She rubbed her eyes.
As she lowered her hands, her gaze caught on the enormous lake spreading before her, with a white gazebo on its central island, connected by a narrow bridge.
Despite the freezing temperature, the water remained a liquid glass, a stream of silver fish darting beneath the surface. She huffed. Of course—bloody warded. Why should anything in the new world she was coming to know obey actual physics?
“Come.” Race grasped her hand and tugged her along.
Ash’s jaw nearly hit her chest. In the distance, a mammoth, sprawling four-story castle rose out of the whiteness, its towers and battlements reaching toward the cloud-dense sky.
“Whoa. Balmoral Castle.”
“What?” Race frowned.
“Nothing.” A wry smile tipped her mouth, and she shook her head at her silliness, taking in the granite stone walls covered with snow-dusted creeping ivy. Pale sunlight reflected off windows, making her feel as if she’d stepped into a bygone era. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
Race frowned, glancing up at the castle. “I suppose.”
She rolled her eyes. “Men.”
“Again, I’m no man, heart-fire. C’mon.” His grip firmed, pulling her along, cutting short her gawking. “Later, I’ll show you around. I think it’s best we go straight to Michael’s study. If the others get wind I’m here with you, there’ll be no peace.”
“Why?” She took in his set features. “Dagan and Shae seemed nice.”
“Her, yeah. Him, no. And the rest of them here, all together? Absolutely not.”
Ah, okay. She bit her lip at his surliness, recalling Dagan’s teasing provocation. So, the others might be like him, then?
She really hoped so.
Ash rubbed her free hand against her trousers leg, remembering what else Race had said to Dagan, and it stung. She might have been on her mobile with her parents, but she’d heard snatches of their conversation.
And something in her demanded to know, “So, you don’t want a mate, huh?”
Those dark claret eyes snapped to hers. “You offering?”
Her heart skipped a beat. Ugh. He was just being his usual provocative self. She laughed. “No.”
God knew she was already hooked on this dragon, and she had to remind herself he was immortal. In the interim, she’d just enjoy this time with him, deal with whatever being psionic meant to this group whose leader was a divine being, and then go home.
“So, I’m to meet this archangel?” she asked, changing the subject.
He nodded, removing the sliding elastic band from his ponytail. “Michael can be a scary bastard, but just to us Guardians. To the females here? He’s a pussycat.”
Ash laughed, then it hit. She was actually going to meet an honest-to-goodness archangel, a being likely far older than even Race.
Who knew when she left England to search for her birth mother and the origins of her power, she’d discover far more than she expected?
“Race, you’re back!” a woman’s voice rang out.
Ash pivoted as a curvy woman in navy joggers and a gray hoodie hurried toward them. Even with strands of riotous auburn hair escaping a messy braid and sticking to her damp, latte-hued skin, she was stunning.
A man as huge as Race sauntered along behind her, spinning a basketball on one finger. He looked like a fallen deity with his chiseled features and overgrown wheat-blond hair.
His smirking, toffee-brown eyes shifted from her to Race. “Nice haircut. Is lopsided the new norm?”
Race’s mouth curved, all sharp amusement. “Style, Norse. You’d recognize it if you hadn’t let a weed slasher roam through yours.”
The man barked a laugh, revealing slashing masculine dimples.
At their snark with no heat, Ash exhaled in relief. She could only handle so much post-portal stress before her nerves staged a revolt. Then there was her upcoming meeting with Michael.
Christ. Everything seemed to just pour down in torrents.
“What on earth happened to you both?” the woman gasped, coming to a halt, her hazel eyes sweeping over their soot-smudged faces, and grimy, blood-spattered clothes.
“Ash, this is Kira,” Race said, ignoring the woman’s question. “And the wiseass is Tyr, her mate. This is Ashaya James.”
“Hullo.” Ash offered a hand and froze, spotting the black grime ground into her fingers. “Oh, wonderful.” She gave a sheepish laugh, pulling back her hand. “I have a bit of soot. Comes from sprinting through blackened slopes, I’m afraid. Quite hard to keep up appearances.”
Oh, crap, I’m babbling.
“She’s English.” Kira grinned, dimples flashing.
“Guilty.” Ash grimaced, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Mum says after studying in California for years, I’ve gone quite feral, learned too many Americanisms…” She caught Race’s amused stare and scrunched her face. “Speaking of which…”
She turned to Kira. “How does one actually manage dragons? Because I’ve loads of questions.”
Kira burst out laughing. “Then you and I will have to figure that out together.”
“Oh, I can help,” Tyr cast Race a savage smirk. “Step one, drag the dragon’s scaly ass out of his cave.”
“Shut up, Norse,” Race muttered, refastening his hair.
Tyr chuckled. “I’m assuming you’re here for Michael? He’s on a—”
“Warpath? Yeah, got the memo from Dag,” Race grunted.
Tyr’s grin faded into a look of curiosity, one eyebrow lifting. “What happened?”
Race thumbed the strap of her backpack over his shoulder. “Let’s wait for Michael so I don’t have to repeat all this. And Ash is tired.”
“You’re actually talking. In full sentences.” Tyr’s eyes gleamed. “Careful, you’ll ruin that brooding dragon image. Damn, this must be something huge.”
“Honey, stop provoking.” Kira grabbed her mate’s arm, tugging him with her. “Come on, you guys, let’s go inside. It’s freezing out here.”
Ash expelled a deep breath as they followed the couple along the snow-covered flagstone toward the castle. Race was right. Her adrenaline was fading, and exhaustion was beginning to take hold.
“Just a little while longer,” he murmured, rubbing slow circles along her back as they climbed the three steps to a terrace decked with a wrought iron table and chairs.
Tyr opened the French doors, and Kira led the way inside.
A fire crackled in the little fireplace, its warmth wrapping around Ash.
The room was much smaller than she had expected.
Dark wood seemed to soak up the last of the daylight, while a thick Persian rug muffled every footfall.
Behind a broad L-shaped desk, neat stacks of parchment and books piled the shelves.
It looked less like an office and more like a cocoon, a place built for secrets and strategy.
Oh boy. Ash pressed a hand to her heaving stomach.
A faint surge of power rippled through the air, brushing over her skin like static, and her own ability stirred in response. Ash’s breath hitched.
The study door swung open, and a tall figure—taller than Race—strode inside.
Even the air bent to make space for him.
He carelessly pushed back strands of ebony hair escaping his half ponytail, revealing sharp cheekbones and a hard mouth on a forbiddingly handsome face.
Mirrored sunglasses reflected the fading daylight like two shards of molten glass.
“Where the hell have you been?” His voice cracked through the room like a whip.
Ash shuddered and hurriedly stepped back, so sure her heart would crash through her sternum. Race put his hand on her hip, steadying her. He snorted, didn’t seem in the least bit bothered.
“Michael’s in the house.” Tyr’s grin flashed, clearly enjoying the drama.
This was the archangel?
Ash had no idea what she expected. Someone in flowing robes, glowing wings, perhaps?
Instead, he looked like he’d stepped off a Harley ad, wearing faded black jeans, scuffed leather boots, and a thin gray t-shirt—worn through from one too many washes—that stretched across his broad shoulders. An aura of barely leashed peril clung to him like a second skin.
He stopped near his desk and pushed his shades up. Ash’s breath caught.
His eyes resembled broken sapphires, veins of molten silver flickering between the fractures—alive with a light that didn’t belong to this world.
“Yeah, I’ve been detained. Couldn’t get free,” Race murmured.
Michael’s eyes narrowed.
The door opened again, and Race’s deep sigh warmed her nape. Two enormous males entered the study.
The Guardians?
They could be nothing else, with their towering height and predatory grace, dressed in black leather like Race had worn when she first crashed into him in the Himalayas. Living weapons, every one of them.
“So, you’re back?” The blue-haired one smirked, his gaze shifting from her to Race.
“Did you send out a roll call?” Race growled at someone.
“Didn’t need to.” Tyr grinned, his eyes dancing as he spun the basketball on a fingertip.
Kira, who stood beside him, shook her head and flashed Ash a reassuring smile, as if to say all was fine.
It wasn’t. If Race hadn’t been holding her, she would have collapsed onto the carpet in a trembling heap as anxiety dug its claws deeper into her.
“We all felt the wards trigger when the portal opened,” blue-hair added, voice teasing. “Can’t have any ol’ riffraff waltzing in here, now, can we?”
“Race.” The other male, broad-shouldered with sun-streaked brown hair and ice green eyes, strode over and bumped fists with him. “Glad you’re back and in one piece, man. What the fuck happened?” he demanded. “It’s been weeks without a word?”
“I’m still breathing, Nik,” Race drawled. “Just call Blaéz and Lore, so I can say all this once.”
“We’re here.” A man with short dark hair and cobalt-blue eyes sauntered inside. “Lore,” he drawled to the redheaded male with him. “Seems the dragon missed you.”