Snow by Deborah M. Brown Page B

repel a dragon attack, her visions become delicious reality.
    But Queen Eleanor, whose reign is about to end, has no intention of giving up her power. Not to Prince Cahill, and certainly not to some young upstart…
    Warning: This book contains corruption, seduction, conspiracy and magically-induced erotic dreams. And that’s just the first chapter.

    Enjoy the following excerpt for Slayer:
    Cahill hung from the tree, like Brea had taught him, trying to regulate his breathing, but finding it difficult with a glob of dragon shit sliding down his left cheek. This was soon forgotten, however, when the thundering hooves of an approaching horse alerted him to action. It was Brea riding Elrond hard, heading straight for him with a fire-breather right on her tail.
    “Attack from above,” Brea had said. “Dragons never look up.”
    Brea flew by, then Cahill let go of the branch, landing squarely straddling the beast’s neck. With one swift movement, he pulled his sword, lifted it high and drove it to the hilt through the black slit in the dragon’s yellow eye.
    “Think of it as a bulls-eye,” Brea had instructed.
    Sure enough, death came instantly. The dragon’s wings stretched taut in its final convulsion and the stinking body glided gently to the ground where Cahill was able to easily slide off. He jogged to join Brea and Elrond a safe distance away before the body went up in flames. “I can’t believe it!” he crowed. “It’s so easy.”
    Brea narrowed her eyes and scoffed, “Easy?”
    “I mean efficient,” Cahill said and grinned. “There’s no hacking at a writhing neck covered in almost impenetrable scales. No fire, no mess.” He raised his hand to Brea to pull her down from the horse and she accepted the help without hesitation. “We make quite a team.”
    She nodded, but her face was turned to the surrounding countryside where only blackened patches on the ground indicated the number of dragons that died that day. “That’s it,” Brea sighed. “We did it. We killed them all.”
    In a voice filled with wonder and dread, Cahill said, “Maybe not all. What the hell is that?”
    Brea followed his outstretched arm and finger and then muttered, “Fuck a duck.”
    Cahill swung his head to look at her in surprise, then turned his attention back to the monster that glided overhead.
    “That, my prince, is the beast that gave me this.” Cahill glanced back at Brea and to where she was pointing down at her leggings which were stained where her old wound had reopened and oozed blood.
    “You fought that thing?” he said with admiration.
    Brea nodded grimly. “As you can see, it won.”
    Slowly Cahill shook his head back and forth. “You’re still here,” he said. “I call that a draw.”
    The enormous dragon circled high overhead, squawking shrilly so that both Cahill and Brea had to cover their ears. Then it swooped, flying low over the land, its head swaying back and forth as if looking for something, or someone. Finally the dragon rose and flew off, out of sight.
    “We’ll save that one for another day,” Cahill said as he reached for her hand and squeezed it.

    Brea settled back against the copper tub, her knees drawn to her chest, reveling in the soothing warmth of the water. She’d washed first in a nearby stream, but only lye soap would get the dragon smell out of her hair. As for her clothes, the cook had confiscated them in order to boil them in vinegar in hopes of removing the stink. After another dunk of her head beneath the water, Brea rose, dripping, and used a blanket to dry herself. Cahill had given her one of his spare shirts to wear and Brea laughed at herself as she cinched the garment around her waist with a strip of leather. It was long enough to be a dress. Not a proper dress, but a nightdress at least, and that’s all she needed it for. Her clothes would be dry enough by morning when the company rode out.
    Peeking out through the tent flap, Brea called to Cahill’s valet to