“Are you daydreaming about your girlfriends?” Pip asked as she entered his sanctuary, an underground space built specifically around the needs of a dragon. Pip was his first servant, and his favorite, despite the fact that her training remained incomplete. She still wouldn’t address him as his incredibly handsome highness or with any other impressive title, but at least she’d ditched her embarrassing nickname of Little Fella.

“What would be the point of fantasizing? It’s not as if I can visit them,” Abaddon grumbled. The modern age was proving to be a dangerous place for dragons, especially when it came to flying. The people of this time had things like radar and other detection systems that would spot a majestic creature of his size in the skies. The humans also had jets armed with missiles that could cause grievous injury and even death. This threat limited the exercising of his wings—and the expansion of his territory. His servants—who claimed to have his well-being at heart, as they should—had placed restrictions upon him—Me, their supreme leader! No flying during the day when he might be seen. No exploring too far from the ranch at night, lest he be detected or shot at by some drunken cowboy. He definitely couldn’t wing his way past the Canadian border, south through the United States, over Mexico to South America—Peru to be exact, to visit Pollita. Just like he couldn’t head east across the Canadian provinces to the Atlantic Ocean to flap his way to Italy, where the lovely Persephone resided.

“You know we’re working on a way to fool the radars, but this kind of technology takes time,” Pip reminded, tilting her head with its silvery-hued hair.

“Jamming devices already exist.” Abaddon had been doing his research.

“They do, but given the distance you want to go, a battery pack won’t cut it. Add in the fact it would need to be somehow strapped to you and it adds an extra dimension of difficulty, seeing as how you squawk every time we try to fit you with a harness.”

“I am not an ox to be yoked, and all I hear are excuses,” Abaddon grumbled.

“And you’re lacking patience, considering you’re not even a year old. We’re doing the best we can, your grumpiness.”

“I’m not grumpy,” Abaddon groused.

“You are, and have been since Tigger’s left to go home. You miss him.”

“No, I don’t,” he huffed. Dragons weren’t prone to emotions like humans.

“Liar, liar, tail on fire,” she sang.

Glaring proved useless because she just grinned wider. “Okay, maybe I miss him a little. It was nice to have someone admire me and not constantly talk back.”

She snorted. “Someone’s got to keep your ego in line.”

“How did I end up with such a sassy servant?” Not said with any real rancor because he did value Pip’s frankness. “Have we any word yet on Malone’s whereabouts?” The evil scientist had escaped Abaddon’s clutches and almost captured Tigger. The hatchling managed to save himself by spitting acid at Malone; however, that ended up destroying the tracking device they’d implanted in the bastard’s tooth. Now they had no idea where Malone might have gone, and it troubled Abaddon, for the man knew entirely too much.

I should have killed him when I had him in my clutches.

“Nothing yet. Maddox and Leo have pored over all the passenger manifests available leaving Big Island but, so far, no luck. Not surprising, since the man has been using fake aliases.”

“He’s not going to give up on his mission to capture one of my kind.” Malone was obsessed. Understandable, given dragons were the greatest of all creatures. However, rather than serve Abaddon’s more advanced species, Malone had nefarious intentions.

“He’s definitely going to try to get his hands on a dragon. The question is, will he go after those already hatched, or will he try to force a new one to be born? I’m thinking the latter, since you’re all pretty well protected and on high alert.”

“He no longer has access to his funds or devices,” Abaddon reminded.

“He could have hidden accounts, and Malone still has the schematics for the device that can cause volcanoes to wake.” The scientist had acquired an ancient list that contained the location of some eggs and had been activating the magma in the suspected areas in the hopes of hatching them. It was how Abaddon ended up being partially cooked then spat out to land in Pip’s firepit, where the coals finished the cracking of his shell.

“Do you really think he’ll try to force another dormant cone to erupt? He knows we’re monitoring.”

“It’s his best bet. And while we might be ready to swoop in, he’ll already be in position, ready to snag any dragons that birth.”

Birth? Pip still insisted on using that term, despite the fact dragons emerged from an egg.

“Could be one of the previous eruptions produced a dragon we’re not aware of.” Malone had activated a few he thought might have eggs, only to find nothing.

“It’s possible Malone missed one and the hatchling is keeping well-hidden, unlike you and your ladies being careless and getting caught on video.” A reminder of why Pip had imposed stricter rules on Abaddon’s movement. “Leo has automated bots crawling the internet for anything that might indicate another dragon but has yet to get any pings.”

Leo—the man who’d initially tried to capture Abaddon but had become his most devoted servant once he realized the error of his ways—had created some kind of computer program that did the work of hundreds of people, combing the World Wide Web for claims, videos, and posted text that might indicate the presence of a dragon. Leo had tried explaining it, and Abaddon only half paid attention, something to the effect of using keywords and phrases like “giant lizard flying in the sky,” “loss of herds,” “unexpected volcanic eruptions,” and so forth. As well as seeking out information, Leo had a friend, part of his lame dragon-loving society, who scrubbed anything that pointed at Abaddon’s, Persephone’s, or Pollita’s existence. Tigger had also been added to that list. Given the billions of humans on Earth—and their many weapons—for now, the dragons needed to look out for each other, lest they be exterminated again.

“Do you have anything positive to report?” Abaddon asked on a sigh.

“Yes, actually. The Wagyu herd we ordered was just delivered.”

“Why didn’t you start with that?” Abaddon asked. rising from his throne—aka reinforced couch, custom built to hold his weight.

“Because I figured best give you the bad news first. Now, where do you think you’re going?”

“To eat.”

Pip crossed her arms and shook her head, her silvery locks flying. “It’s midafternoon. You know you can’t go outside.”

Abaddon glared at her. “I’m hungry.”

“I’m aware. Hence why—”

Before she could finish her sentence, his nose twitched. “You brought me one!”

Indeed, she’d had one of the cows delivered to his habitat.

It turned out to be quite delicious, fatty and flavorful, definitely his top favorite of everything he’d tasted thus far, although, according to the memories inherited from his mother progenitor, nothing could beat the taste of human.

Chapter 1

Davina

Finally, I tasted adventure. The last few months had been glorious, if at times frustrating, but no one ever said following your dream would be easy.

My goal? To write a book on the lost treasures of Scotland, with the hope I’d actually find one of them. For years, I’d been gathering clues, researching, and digging out tidbits from hundreds of written texts. Now I would find out if any of my theories were correct. My university had kindly given me a year’s sabbatical and a modest grant to help with my travel expenses, on the condition that they receive some credit once I published.

Gladly. The University of Aberdeen had been my home for the last decade. I started out teaching and ended up running the history department, a true honor given my relatively young age of thirty-nine. I enjoyed the challenge, but at times I missed simply teaching. Hence my excitement at getting away from my dratted desk, with the never-ending memos, emails, and administrative keech. I set off to uncover the secrets of the past, only to have reality smack me in the face.

Turned out all the research I’d done ahead of time couldn’t account for progress. Places I’d meant to search, bulldozed over to make room for housing. Ruins too fragile to explore. Thus far, I’d yet to locate a single treasure or tidbit not already published, but I wouldn’t let that discourage me, even as I realized without a single “win,” my book would likely never materialize. No one wanted to read about failure, even if some of my escapades proved amusing. Like when I entered a cairn and emerged screeching at the dozens of spiders clinging to me. Or when the exploration of a crumbling castle had me falling through the floor that had become a home for rats. My screams as their furry bodies writhed around and over me likely could be heard all across Scotland.

Now I rode a ferry heading to the Isle of Rum, where I hoped to convince the owner of Kinloch Castle—who’d not replied to my emails—to let me inside. I had a hunch he might have a treasure hidden somewhere, either in the building or on the grounds.

The Isle of Rum could have made for an interesting book on its own. It remained mostly untouched, inhabited by a few dozen people who worked merely to serve the tourists. Originally, everything on the isle was owned by NatureScot, AKA the Scottish government, but, given the disrepair and cost of restoring Kinloch Castle, they’d recently sold it off to a billionaire who promised to restore and eventually open it for visits to the public.

The lack of information on Alistair Graham, the man who’d bought it, made my task difficult. He couldn’t be found on social media, didn’t attend charity events like other rich folk, and didn’t seem to own any businesses, either. From what I could gather, his wealth had been inherited from his father, also named Alistair Graham, descended from yet another Alistair. A family lacking originality when it came to names, and who only ever seemed to have one son per generation. As for the wives and mothers of the long chain of Alistair’s? I’d yet to locate a single image or marriage certificate for the women listed on the birth records. It was as if these generational sons simply appeared one day to take over the family name and riches.

But the mystery of the Graham family wasn’t my primary purpose—although it might make for an interesting research paper later. My goal was to convince the current Alistair to aid me in my quest.

The ferry docked, the passage having taken an hour and a half. The return would be around four-thirty, giving me limited time to accomplish my task. Hopefully, I wouldn’t get stuck and have to spend the night, as accommodations were not as comfortable, or private, as the hotel room I’d prepaid for back on the mainland in Mallaig.

The passengers, tourists with backpacks and cameras around their necks, disembarked, shuffling into the small town. I already knew I’d have to walk to the castle, as cars weren’t allowed on the isle, part of preserving its nature.

I spent a few minutes wandering, talking to the locals, finding out more about my destination and its owner. Apparently, Mr. Graham had begun the restoration, but not at a rapid pace, as he’d elected to do most of the work himself. Since he had his supplies delivered and rarely visited the few businesses by the dock, the folks who lived on the isle couldn’t tell me much about the man, other than he was tall and polite. A politeness that didn’t extend to friendliness, yet they didn’t seem to resent or dislike him for it. On the contrary, the term “proper lord” got bandied about, despite his lack of an actual title. The woman who worked the general store claimed that, since his arrival, there’d been fewer incidents with the mischievous sprites that liked to play tricks, and they no longer had to hide after dark from the Red Caps. It appeared ancient superstitions remained alive and well on the Isle of Rum.

The hike from dock to castle would take about twenty or so minutes, but I didn’t mind. The scenery proved breathtaking with swatches of lush greenery backdropped against the blue sea. However, once the looming castle came into view, I couldn’t stop staring at it. Built by the Bullough family as a hunting lodge and retreat in the late eighteen hundreds—1897, to be exact—it took three years to complete. The Tudor style had been created with the use of red sandstone blocks quarried from the Isle of Arran. While not as old as other castles, its remote location and a decline in wealth by the family led to it going derelict quite rapidly. By 1957, it had been acquired by the Scottish government, which opened the castle to the public for a while before its declining state made it too dangerous. Unfortunately, the cost to repair proved greater than they wanted to invest, hence the sale of it to Alistair Graham.

Climbing the steps to reach the main door, I took a deep breath. I’d already mentally prepared my speech. As I raised my hand to knock, to my surprise, I noticed an electronic doorbell with built-in camera had been installed.

I pressed the button and waited.

A male voice replied, “The castle isn’t open to visitors.”

“Oh, I know, but I was hoping you’d make an exception. My name is Davina Campbell, and I’m a professor from Aberdeen University writing a book on—”

“Not interested.”

“But I haven’t—”

“Not. Interested.” Firm and non-compromising.

“But I’ve come such a long way, and I promise I won’t get in your way. I just wanted to look around.”

“Do you think you’re the first to come traipsing demanding entrance?”

I bit my lower lip. “I tried contacting you ahead of time.”

“I know. I read your emails.” And obviously chose to not reply.

“Is there anything I can say that will make you change your mind?” I wasn’t too proud to beg.

“No.”

I sighed, and my shoulders sank. Another dead end. “I’m sorry to have bothered, then. Would it be okay if I visited the Bullough Mausoleum?”

“Suit yourself, but I wouldn’t linger too long, lest you miss the ferry.”

“It’s not supposed to leave for several hours.”

“A storm’s rolling in, meaning it will be leaving earlier.”

A glance at the sky showed a few scattered clouds. “The forecast didn’t mention inclement weather.”

“Since when are they ever right?” he drawled.

Good point.

“Again, sorry to have bothered. Have a good day.” I turned on my heel and began continuing on the path I’d just travelled. The mausoleum built by the family was less than five miles away. At a brisk pace, I could make it in under an hour and a half. The ferry wouldn’t leave for another four, giving me plenty of time, despite what Mr. Graham said. A storm, indeed.

I huffed slightly by the time the mausoleum came into sight. The open temple, with Grecian flair, overlooked the Atlantic Ocean. Rather than gape at the stone structure, I found myself drawn to the cliff’s edge, frowning at the rapid approach of dark clouds. A sharp wind swept off the water, whipping across my face, trying to drag loose strands of hair from my ponytail. The scent of it promised rain and made it unlikely I’d make it back to the dock before it fell. Guess I’d be travelling in wet clothes, as I’d only brought my satchel with my wallet, notebook, and a small recorder for dictating my observations.

As I turned from the cliff, I noticed a lanky figure approaching, their long loping gait somewhat disjointed. Another tourist? An isle worker sent to gather the visitors before the storm struck? Perhaps Mr. Graham, changing his mind and preparing to chase me off his property?

As the person neared, I frowned, for there seemed to be something odd about them. While not one to usually judge outward appearance, I couldn’t help but note their clothing appeared ragged, with holes and stains seen even at several paces. A dark-colored cap pulled low over the brow hid their features. It suddenly occurred to me that perhaps I’d not been too bright coming out here alone.

“Hello, can I help you?” I called out just as a horrid smell wrinkled my nose.

The reply? “Founds you. Mistress will be pleased.”

At the sibilant words, a frisson of fear went through me. Time to get back to the dock. Veering away from the stranger, I adopted a rapid pace, but not quick enough to evade the fingers that grasped my arm and wrenched.

I half whirled and yelled, “Let me go…” Words that faded in strength as I gaped at what accosted me.

A legendary Red Cap.

A creature that wasn’t supposed to exist outside of stories.

Yet here one stood, wearing a stiff hat stained dark red and brown—from blood! Its face wrinkled and gaunt, the creases of it grimed. And when it smiled, I shivered at the jagged black and yellow teeth.

Terror filled me as I pulled, trying to break the monster’s grip. It huffed, as if excited I fought. Its eyes gleamed with malice, the black orbs showing no whites. I kicked out, trying to dislodge its hold on my arm, and to my surprise, not only did I connect with its leg, I managed to buckle its knee. It released me, and I staggered back, arms waving as I sought to catch my balance. I didn’t watch where I stumbled, a bad idea when you stood on the edge of a cliff.

My foot slipped, and I fell.

Most people, when plummeting to their death, saw their life flash before their eyes. Me, I saw my gravestone epitaph.

Should have stayed home and watched Indiana Jones.