Chapter 7: New Goal
The heavy throb of rotors faded slowly, swallowed by the vast, ancient silence of the mountains. In the damp, moss-slick cleft where they’d hidden, the air still vibrated with the echo of Seonaid’s warning cry. Fàilmheach. The name hung like cold iron in Maree’s chest, a tangible dread Seonaid refused to explain further, her face pale as old bone, her knuckles white on her shawl. "An old shadow," she’d rasped afterwards, her voice raw. "Worse than hunters." They’d waited, cramped and cold, Todd’s rifle aimed at the sliver of sky, the young dragon trembling, until the only sound was the steady drip of water and the ragged rhythm of their own breathing.
Now, three days later, the urgent need to do something clawed at Maree. The dragon, Seonaid insisted, required deep rest and the constant care only the hidden hot springs and her poultices could provide. It was immobile, vulnerable. Maree paced the confines of the cabin, the smell of woodsmoke and drying herbs thick in the air, her gaze straying constantly to the window and the snow-dusted pines beyond. Todd leaned against the stone hearth, methodically cleaning his rifle parts laid out on a rough cloth. His movements were precise, almost ritualistic, but his eyes held the same restless energy.
"We can’t just hide here," Maree finally burst out, stopping her pacing. "They know we’re in the area. That dragon won’t fly for weeks, maybe months. Next time those choppers come…" She didn’t need to finish. The image of poisoned bolts tearing into vulnerable bronze scales was seared into her mind.
Todd didn’t look up. Slid the bolt home with a decisive click. "Seonaid’s protection only stretches so far. They’ll grid-search every ravine, cave, and croft." He finally met her gaze, his green eyes shadowed. "We need eyes out there. Early warnings. People who see things."
"People?" Maree scoffed, a brittle sound. "Who? The same folks who probably think dragons are monsters hoarding gold? The ones cheering on the Dragon Corps and their fancy poisoned darts?" She thought of the sleek, brutal efficiency of the hunters, the cold professionalism that masked casual cruelty.
Seonaid stirred from her rocking chair by the fire, her knitting needles falling still. "Not all see the same sky, child," she murmured, her voice like dry leaves. "The land has watchers. Those who remember whispers older than the Dragon Corps. Who see the scars on the mountains... and know who truly makes them."
Todd straightened. "Locals? Who distrust the hunters?"
"Aye," Seonaid nodded slowly. "The Corps buys silence, bulldozes fences, scares the deer herds. Pays poorly for land they ‘accidentally’ scorch during their little wars. Folk here have long memories and little love for outsiders with guns who bring only trouble." A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Especially ones who think they own the sky."
Maree’s pilot mind clicked. Leverage local resentment. Find allies. People who could provide intel, shelter, maybe even manpower. "Where?" she asked, leaning forward. "Who do we talk to?"
"The Glencoe Arms," Seonaid said simply. "Hamish MacAllister pours the ale. His pub hears everything the wind carries, and Hamish... he listens. Especially after the Corps shot his best collie last year, mistook her for a ‘dragon-kin’ mutt." Her voice held a quiet fury. "He keeps his thoughts close, but the wound festers."
It was a thread. Thin, dangerous, but the only one they had. "Alright," Maree breathed. "We go. Tonight?"
Todd shook his head. "Too obvious. First light. Less chance of patrols, harder to spot movement." He glanced at Seonaid. "Can you hold things here?"
The old woman’s eyes glinted. "This old stone has seen storms fiercer than dragon-hunters, boy. Go. Find the watchers. Bring back hope, or at least, news."
The pre-dawn air bit like shards of ice. Maree pulled her borrowed wool scarf tighter, the rough fibers scratching her neck. They moved silently through the grey light, leaving the cabin’s protective aura behind, skirting the edge of the treeline towards the distant glen where the pub nestled. Snow crunched softly under their boots, the only sound beyond the mournful cry of a distant bird. Todd led, his hunter’s instincts guiding them over hidden paths, avoiding the open moors. Maree felt horribly exposed, every shadow a potential threat, every distant engine noise sending a jolt through her.
"Feels like walking into a firing range," she muttered, her breath puffing white.
"More like walking into a room full of people who might sell us out for a bottle of whisky," Todd countered grimly. "Trust Seonaid. Hamish is our best shot."
"Worth a shot," Maree corrected, forcing a tight smile. "That’s literally all we’ve got."
It took two hours of careful, frozen travel. The Glencoe Arms materialized out of the mist clinging to the valley floor – a low, stone-built building with thick, smoke-stained walls and small, deep-set windows glowing faintly yellow against the gloom. The smell of peat smoke and stale beer hit them even before they reached the heavy wooden door. Todd paused, hand hovering near the concealed pistol under his parka. He gave Maree a sharp nod, then pushed the door open.
Warmth, thick with the scent of damp wool, frying bacon, and decades of tobacco smoke, enveloped them. The murmur of low conversation died instantly. A dozen pairs of eyes swiveled towards them from the worn wooden tables and the bar. Weather-beaten faces, etched with hard living and suspicion. Fishermen in thick jumpers, shepherds with crooks leaning against the wall, a couple of old men nursing dark pints. The air crackled with unspoken tension.
Todd kept his movements slow, deliberate, making no sudden gestures. Maree scanned the room, her pilot’s eye noting exits, potential weapons (a heavy ashtray, a fire poker near the hearth), the faces. The man behind the bar was broad, built like a wrestler gone slightly to seed, with a thick thatch of grey hair and shrewd, watchful eyes that missed nothing. Hamish MacAllister. His gaze lingered on Todd’s face, then Maree’s, recognition dawning – or perhaps just the recognition of outsiders who didn’t belong.
"Well," Hamish rumbled, his voice surprisingly deep and calm, cutting through the silence. He wiped a glass with a rag that had seen better days. "Lost, are ye? Or just foolhardy, wanderin' out before the mist's lifted?"
Todd stepped forward, towards the bar, leaving Maree slightly behind. He kept his hands visible. "Looking for information, Mr. MacAllister. Name's Todd. This is Maree."
Hamish didn't blink. "Information's expensive. Or dangerous. Usually both."
"We know about the Dragon Corps," Maree said, stepping up beside Todd, her voice clear despite the dryness in her throat. She met Hamish’s gaze directly. "We know they shot your dog. We know they poison the land. We know they're hunting something... something they shouldn't be."
A ripple went through the room. A muttered curse. A chair leg scraped.
Hamish’s eyes narrowed to slits. He set the glass down with deliberate care. "And what business is that of yours, lassie? Or yer quiet friend here?"
"It’s our business because they tried to kill us too," Todd stated flatly. "Because they’re hunting creatures that don’t deserve it. Creatures that were here long before the Corps decided to turn them into trophies."
Silence, thicker than the peat smoke. Then a harsh laugh came from a corner. A wiry man with a face like crumpled leather leaned forward. "Deserve? They're beasts! Fire-breathers! Burned half of Callum’s flock last spring!"
"Did they?" Maree challenged, turning to him. "Or did the Corps start the fire? Did they blame it on the dragon they wanted to kill? We saw it. We saw them use poisoned darts meant to cause suffering, to sicken the land itself. Is that who you want controlling your mountains? Men who shoot collies and poison springs?"
Hamish held up a massive hand, silencing the grumbling. His gaze hadn’t left Todd. "You sound like you know a thing or two about huntin' yerself, son. Got the look about ye."
Todd didn’t flinch. "I did. Once. I believed the lies too. Until I saw what the Corps really does. Until I saw what they're truly hunting, and why." He took a deep breath, the weight of his past visible in the set of his shoulders. "They’re not protecting anyone. They’re eradicating. For profit. For control. And they’ll trample anyone who gets in their way. Like your dog. Like your fences. Like your peace."
A weathered woman near the fire, her grey hair braided tightly, spoke up, her voice surprisingly steady. "Aye. My Jamie saw... things. After they flew over last month. Strange burns on the old stones near the high loch. Not fire. Something... black. Corruptin'." She shivered. "He wouldn't speak of it after. Said they warned him."
Hamish sighed, a heavy sound. He walked slowly to the far end of the bar, reached underneath, and pulled something out. Not a weapon. A framed photograph. He placed it on the bar. A younger Hamish, smiling, arm around a beautiful Border Collie, her intelligent eyes bright. He traced the frame with a thick finger. "Bess," he said softly. Then his voice hardened, his gaze lifting to encompass the room. "They came onto my land. Chased a shadow. Shot her clean through the head when she ran towards them, barkin' a welcome. Said protocol. Said she might be 'contaminated'." Spit hit the worn wood of the bar. "Protocol."
He looked directly at Maree and Todd. "What is it you want?"
"Allies," Maree said quickly. "Eyes and ears. People who can warn us if the Corps moves deeper into the glens. People who see the damage they do and aren't afraid to whisper about it. People who might... believe the dragons aren't the real monsters here."
"Believin' is one thing," a shepherd said cautiously. "Crossin' the Dragon Corps is another. They have helicopters. Guns. Government writ, they say."
"We're not asking for guns," Todd said. "Not yet. Just information. Silence when needed. Maybe a place to hide, sometimes." He gestured towards the door, towards the mountains. "Seonaid sent us."
A collective intake of breath. Seonaid’s name was a talisman here, it seemed. Respect warred with fear on the faces around the room.
Hamish stared at them for a long moment. The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring. Then he gave a slow, decisive nod. He lifted the photograph of Bess, his jaw set. "Alright," he rumbled. "For Bess. For the land. We watch." He looked around at the others. A few hesitant nods met his gaze. The wiry man grunted, but didn't object. The grey-haired woman nodded firmly.
"That's a start," Maree breathed, relief washing over her, warm despite the lingering chill.
Hamish pulled out a map from beneath the bar, thick with pencil marks and coffee stains. He spread it open. "Right then," he said, his finger stabbing a point deep in the high glens. "Let's talk about where those shiny bastards have been sniffin' around lately... and where the old stones still whisper."
As they leaned over the map, the low murmur of conversation started again in the pub, different now. Less wary suspicion, more focused intensity. The clink of glasses held a new solidarity. Maree caught Todd’s eye. He gave her the faintest nod, the ghost of something that might be hope in his green eyes. They had allies. Fragile, untested, but real. The first step away from merely surviving, towards fighting back.
The distant, faint echo of rotor blades drifted on the wind outside. Louder this time. Closer. Hamish’s head snapped up, his gaze sharp.
"Right on schedule," he muttered, folding the map with swift efficiency. "Back door. Now. And dinnae fash, pilots and hunters. We’ll be watchin’." He gestured towards a narrow door behind the bar. "Go. We'll hold the fort."
Maree and Todd didn’t hesitate. As they slipped through the door into the cold storage room beyond, the sound of the pub door opening and the harsh, clipped tones of Dragon Corps officers demanding drinks filled the main room. Maree pressed her back against the cold stone wall, pulse hammering. Outside, the hunt continued. Inside the Glencoe Arms, a different kind of resistance had just sparked to life. It was a fragile flame, easily snuffed. But it was fire. And sometimes, Maree thought, gripping Todd’s arm as they waited in the frigid darkness, that was all you needed to start.
The frigid air in the storage room bit deep, smelling of damp stone, spilled ale, and old potatoes. Maree’s knuckles were white where she gripped Todd’s forearm, pressed flat against the rough wall. They could hear the low murmur of the pub through the thin door, punctuated by the sharp, arrogant voices of the Dragon Corps officers demanding whisky. Hamish’s deeper rumble answered, calm, deliberately slow. Every creak of the floorboards overhead felt like a hammer blow. Todd’s body was a coiled spring beside her, his breathing shallow, eyes fixed on the crack of light under the door. The fragile alliance felt terrifyingly thin, separated from discovery by inches of wood and Hamish’s nerve.
“Think he’s bluffing them?” Maree whispered, her lips almost touching the worn wool of his sleeve. Her own pulse thundered in her ears, a counterpoint to the tense voices outside.
Todd didn’t look away from the door. “He’s buying time. Or distraction.” His free hand rested lightly on the pistol grip beneath his parka, a cold, hard shape between them. The shared danger, the claustrophobic dark, the sudden, precarious connection with the locals – it all vibrated in the tiny space, a high-tension wire strung between fear and fierce, unexpected hope. Maree felt the raw energy radiating off him – not just the hunter’s alertness, but the seething anger at the Corps, the dawning protectiveness for the dragon, the sheer, unspoken weight of his shifted world. It was overwhelming, magnetic. She couldn’t look away from the stark line of his jaw in the gloom.
His gaze finally flickered down to hers. The intensity there wasn't just about the threat outside anymore. It was deeper, hotter, a reflection of the days spent fighting side-by-side, the shared terror in the ravine, the intimate vulnerability soaked in mineral steam, the terrifying plan forged under duress. The air crackled, thick as the peat smoke filtering under the door. The distant voices faded to a meaningless buzz. Maree saw the understanding flicker in his green eyes, the same reckless need she felt igniting in her own chest – a desperate affirmation of life against the shadow hanging over them, a physical echo of the pact they’d made. Her hand slid up his arm, over the cold nylon of the parka, to cup the back of his neck. She pulled his head down.
The kiss wasn't gentle. It was collision. Teeth clacked, a muffled gasp lost between them. Todd’s restraint snapped. His rifle stock scraped harshly against the stone as he dropped it, forgotten. His hands found her waist, hauling her hard against him, the cold metal of the pistol digging into her hip. Need surged, primal and urgent, blotting out the chill, the danger, everything but the heat and pressure of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble, the solid strength of him holding her up. Maree tangled her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, arching into the hard planes of his body. Her jacket rasped against his, a frantic counterpoint to the muffled thud of a dropped glass in the pub beyond.
There was no finesse, only frantic urgency. Zippers snagged. Cold air hit bare skin, raising instant goosebumps. The rough stone wall scraped Maree’s back as Todd pressed her into it, his mouth hot on her throat, his hands rough and desperate under layers of wool and fleece. She gasped, biting back a cry, clawing at the belt buckle of his trousers. The damp, earthy smell of the storeroom mixed with the scent of their sweat, wool, and a deeper, animal musk. Someone’s boot knocked over an empty crate with a clatter. They froze, breathing ragged, ears straining. Only Hamish’s steady voice, louder now, telling some mundane story about the weather. A deliberate cover.
The momentary pause amplified the frantic energy. Todd’s eyes, dark and wild in the gloom, locked onto hers. A silent question, a shared acknowledgment of the madness. Maree answered by yanking his thermal shirt up, her cold fingers splaying across the hot skin of his back, feeling the powerful muscles tense. He groaned, low in his throat, a sound that vibrated through her, and pushed her leggings down over her hips. The cold air hit her thighs. His calloused hand slid between them, rough and shockingly intimate. She cried out, muffling the sound against his shoulder, biting the damp fabric of his parka. It was too much, not enough, a frantic scramble for connection, for proof they were still alive, still capable of this, even as the hunters prowled feet away.
He lifted her, her back scraping against the unforgiving stone. She wrapped her legs around his hips, the cold wall a stark contrast to the heat building where their bodies met. He fumbled, then pushed inside with a single, deep thrust that stole the breath from both of them. Maree arched, a silent scream forming on her lips, her fingers digging into his shoulders. It hurt, the suddenness, the angle, the cold, but the pain was swallowed by a wave of pure, blinding sensation – heat, friction, the desperate pressure of him filling her, anchoring her against the chaos. Todd buried his face in the crook of her neck, his breath hot and ragged, his movements sharp, urgent thrusts driven by adrenaline and a deeper, raw need that went beyond lust. It was defiance. It was claiming. It was the only language left when words were too dangerous.
They moved in a frantic, graceless rhythm, driven by the pounding fear just outside the door and the overwhelming need to feel alive. The crates, the sacks of onions, the dripping pipe in the corner – they were just blurred shapes in the periphery. Everything narrowed to the slap of skin, the gasps choked back against fabric, the overwhelming sensory overload of cold stone, hot skin, the hard planes of his body driving into hers, the dizzying friction building like a storm. Maree’s braid came loose, hair spilling over her face. Todd’s breath hitched, a guttural sound escaping as he drove deeper, harder, pushing her relentlessly against the wall. The coiled tension in her belly snapped. Pleasure, sharp and almost painful, ripped through her, wave after wave, forcing a ragged sob from her throat as her body clenched around him. He followed instantly, a low groan shuddering through his chest, his body locking rigid against hers, warmth flooding deep within her as his forehead pressed hard against the stone above her shoulder.
They slumped together, trembling, breaths sawing in the sudden, ringing silence. Sweat cooled instantly on their skin in the damp chill. Todd’s arms tightened around her, holding her up as her legs threatened to buckle. His face was buried in her hair now, his breath warm on her scalp. The rough texture of his parka scraped her cheek. Outside, the muffled conversation in the pub seemed louder, clearer. A bottle smashed. Someone laughed, harsh and unfamiliar. The Dragon Corps were still there.
Slowly, painfully, Todd eased her down. Her legs felt like water. They leaned against the wall, side by side, fumbling in the dimness to pull clothing back into place. Cold air rushed in where warmth had been. Zippers rasped. Maree smoothed her hair back with shaking hands, her heart still hammering against her ribs. The reality of the storeroom, the danger, the sheer recklessness of what they’d just done crashed over her. She caught Todd’s eye. No words. Just a shared, stunned look in the gloom – exhaustion, lingering heat, and the chilling reminder that their fragile haven was only temporary. He reached out, his fingers brushing hers, cold and rough, a silent anchor.
A sudden, sharp bang on the storage room door made them both flinch violently. “All clear back there, larder rats?” Hamish’s voice, low but carrying. “They’re gone. Had their drink and their questions. Headin’ north, towards the high pass.” Relief warred with renewed tension. North. Towards Seonaid’s valley. Towards the wounded dragon. Todd’s hand closed firmly around hers. The moment of stolen intimacy was over. The fight was back on.