Falcyn bristled under her probing stare. “We’re dragons, not Daimons.”
Medea went cold at his words. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“We’re cold-blooded. The only warmth we have is our family, so we tend to shelter them more closely than others do. Why? What did you think I meant?”
“She thought you were taking a dig that we feed off each other’s blood.”
Falcyn snorted. “Oh… there is that. Honestly, hadn’t thought about it. Or I might have pointed it out.”
Brogan glanced at them before she leaned in closer to Blaise. “They always carry on like this?”
“Not really. They just met.”
“Yet they argue like a married couple… hmmm.”
Falcyn summoned another fireball for the witch.
Medea caught his arm before he could launch it. “Barbecue her, Simi, and we’re stuck here with no way back.”
“Not stuck. Just detained.”
“Yeah, well, I need to get home. Can’t afford to be detained any longer than necessary. So tuck the fire and temper, princess, and be nice.”
“I’m never nice,” he said sullenly.
He didn’t even like the sound of that four-lettered word. Hmmm, maybe there was some Simi in him, after all.
Suddenly, Brogan stopped.
Falcyn scowled at her as she cocked her head. “There a problem?”
Her eyes turned a peculiar color that defied all description. It was a strange fey hue that said she was tapping arcane powers to read their environment.
With the faintest whisper in her voice, she spoke. “Death is upon us.”
4
Before Falcyn had a chance to ask Brogan what she meant, the ground around them began to boil. Literally. Chunks of soil bubbled and churned as if it were a living, breathing creature about to rise up under their feet.
Medea cursed as she danced around it to avoid being tripped. Likewise, he jumped over a segment of the ground that burst beneath him. It shot chunks of earth, grass, and mud everywhere.
“What the hell is this? I’m too old for hopscotch.”
Brogan gasped as she jumped over another erupted rut. “Svartle Orms. Whenever the smiths break for the day, the orms are let loose from the forges and they stampede to freedom.”
The head of one ugly, foul beast came up from the ground. It opened its mouth, showing off rows of serrated fangs.
“They’re also starving,” Brogan added. “And will eat anything they catch the scent to.”
“Not on your menu, buddy.” Falcyn let loose his fireballs into the beast’s throat.
Howling, it lunged for him.
Medea fell in at his side, adding god-bolts to his fire to help fry the bastard. Urian and Blaise covered Brogan.
“What should we do?” Blaise asked her.
Brogan lifted her arms and began to whistle gently. The crooning went through Falcyn, making his sensitive ears ache. Blaise made a sound of sharp disapproval.
