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of the massive wings beating behind him pressed at his back. Lugh dropped to one knee and ducked as the dragon fire roared in a stream just above his head. It flowed over the mass of goblins in a molten current, charring living flesh and bone. The dragon cloaked the path in a blanket of flames, destroying every exposed goblin. His scarlet scales gleamed in the sunlight like blood-smeared snakeskin.
    As the dragon chased the fleeing survivors back into the nest Lugh recovered his footing. He pursued, skirting dead bodies swiftly disintegrating into ash.
    At the end of the path, the dragon stuck his snout into the cavern entrance and blew fire until it backwashed into licking tongues of flame that fanned over Jonathan harmlessly. The tangled paths within would prevent the flames from scorching too deeply into the belly of the nest. Though likely not destroying every last goblin, they’d certainly devastated the nest for at least one generation.
    Jonathan withdrew his head from the cavern. His enormous dragon eyes swept over Lugh. “You’re unharmed?”
    “Unharmed,” Lugh concurred.
    “Good. In another decade you can help me cull the vermin again.”
    Lugh snorted at the very notion just before Jonathan scooped him up in his talons and transported him back to the outpost.

Chapter Nine

    The dragon’s outpost possessed a comprehensive stash of supplies, including clothing in most conceivable sizes. Though Lugh didn’t indulge in his curiosity as to the purpose of such a trove, he was truly grateful for the clothing allotted to himself and the Scribe. The denim of the jeans was a durable fabric for the hiking he anticipated. The jacket was denim, too, warm and thick, good for the chill of the night. The sleeveless shirt he wore underneath didn’t constrict his shoulders when he wanted freedom of movement. His pack, with its few essentials, was already propped by the door. “I’m heading east, following the Dublin lead.”
    Willem huddled in a chair at the head of the long dining room table in one of the guest suites in Jonathan’s mansion. He sifted through the parchments, reorganizing them for the millionth time, as if the answers merely lay in the sorting of the pieces. Beside him was one of the combs they’d retrieved from Rhiannon’s temple. Of all the artifacts, those combs occupied some special interest for the Scribe.
    All the while, Jonathan leaned over the documents, hands planted on the tabletop to give himself an overview. “You know the magicraft is incomplete.” He waved a hand over the mess. “This can’t be all you’re going on.”
    “Danu didn’t leave comprehensive notes. Once we collect more artifacts, I trust that things shall fall into place.” Lugh resettled the shoulder straps for the scabbard beneath his jacket that kept the short sword sheathed against his spine.
    “You’re counting on that? On things just falling into place?” Jonathan shook his head incredulously.
    “What else have we, but hope and faith?”
    Jonathan smirked. “You have a dragon with an extensive library and a talent in magicraft.” He gave Lugh’s back a slap of camaraderie, nearly toppling him with the gregariousness of the gesture.
    After the dragon’s footsteps faded down the hallway, the Scribe cleared his throat, the sound more of a stall than an attempt to gain notice. He squirmed as Lugh’s attention focused upon him. Willem’s fingers worried over the comb. “May I inquire as to a matter that is clearly none of my business and yet has weighted heavily upon my conscious?”
    Lugh raised an eyebrow. The phrasing of the request was rather formal, not the more casual tone to which they’d become accustomed. It only accentuated just how unsettled Willem felt in introducing the topic. Lugh encouraged him. “Please, speak freely.”
    “Perhaps, it is time.” He lifted the comb, as though admiring its craftsmanship. “Since we are so few.”
    “Time for what?”
    Willem tucked the comb away. “I