Up In Smoke (11 page)

I made a wordless noise of unhappiness, about to launch into a formal objection when he stopped me, leaning close to speak in my ear. “Mayling, the phylactery is beyond price. I could not leave it behind, nor can I wear it at this gathering. It is too dangerous. You must guard it for me until we are finished here.”

“But what if someone knows I have it?”

“No one can take it from you,” he answered with a flicker of emotion deep in his eyes. “I was not idle while you were in Abaddon. I knew this day would come, and that I must entrust the phylactery to you. That is why the casing has been spelled and warded so that if anyone but a silver dragon touches it, it will cause damage. Should someone try to snatch it from you, they will receive an intense charge of electricity, enough to incapacitate them.”

I stared down at my boobs in horror.

“Have no fear, little bird,” he said, tipping my head up to give me a swift, reassuring kiss. “I would not risk your life even for the Lindorm Phylactery. You are my mate, thus you are immune to the spells bound to it.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” I said, shrugging my shoulders a few times to get used to the metal lodged between my breasts. It warmed quickly to skin temperature but left me feeling very aware that a priceless artifact was stuffed down my bra.

Gabriel flashed his dimples at me and escorted me down an aisle that cut through the chairs, Maata and Tipene following silently. He stopped for a moment when a couple of people rose and greeted him, speaking in a lyrical but unfamiliar language.

I am not a nervous person by nature, but I will admit that the situation gave me a nearly overwhelming desire to slip into the shadows. The room was too brightly lit, however, the lights glittering on gold-paneled walls and matching golden furniture, and even off a gold and old rose carpet. I suspected the dragons chose the room as their meeting place more for the ambiance than for functionality, but none of that made me feel any more comfortable.

Covertly, I brushed a bit off lint off the black wool pants Gabriel had bought me that morning, tweaking the tight cuff of the blouse he had presented me with earlier, saying he'd had it specially made for me. It was a very soft, silky black material he called dragonweave, heavily embroidered with real silver thread and precious gems in an intricate design of fanciful dragons that leaped and danced around the shirt. It was very pretty, and although I admired it greatly, not to mention worried about wearing what must surely be such an expensive item, I didn't think much about it until I put it on. Then I noticed that the black material beneath the embroidery had shadows in it—shadows that seemed to move of their own accord. Although the value of the shirt weighed heavily on my mind, prompting me to make a mental promise I wouldn't go near anything that could be spilled on it, wearing the shirt made me feel different somehow, as if I was more than what I was normally.

“This is my mate, May Northcott,” Gabriel said suddenly in English, turning to present me to three dragons. They wore cloth bright with black and silver African designs, the man in a loose-fitting tunic and pants, the women in garments resembling caftans, with head ties made of the same material. All three murmured a greeting, their silver eyes oddly startling against dark mahogany skin.

“It's a pleasure to meet you,” I said politely, knowing better than to offer my hand. Citizens of the Otherworld did not touch one another unless invited to do so, either overtly or indirectly. Too much could be sensed by skin-to-skin contact, and although I wasn't sure the dragons followed such etiquette, I didn't want to start off on the wrong foot with members of Gabriel's sept.

“This is Eniiyi and Nkese,” Gabriel introduced the women. “They are from Nigeria. Eniiyi is a close friend of my mother's.”

The older woman studied me for a moment, a curious look in her eyes; then without warning she enveloped me in a hug that threatened to squeeze the breath right out of me. “Kaawa will be pleased with this one,” she said as she released me.

I assumed Kaawa was Gabriel's mother, wondering about the “this one” comment—had Gabriel brought other women home for parental approval?

Gabriel said nothing, just nodded and introduced me to the male dragon. “Cibo is from Botswana. He had business in England and stopped in Paris for the
sárkány
.”

“I cannot express just how pleased we all are to know that a mate has been found for Gabriel,” Cibo said in a clipped English accent. He didn't hug me, but he did take one of my hands in both of his as he spoke. “Not only is he worthy of such an honor, it brings hope to those of us who have yearned for mates of our own.”

“Thank you. I will do my best to live up to the job.”

He released my hand, bowed to Gabriel, and returned to his seat. We continued down the aisle toward the long conference table, but before we got to it I asked Gabriel in a low whisper, “Is that all the silver dragons who are here?”

“Yes. We did not know until yesterday when you would be released, so there has not been time for other members of the sept to travel to Paris. Most of them live outside of Europe. Eniiyi and Nkese were here awaiting your arrival. My mother wished to be here to greet you, but her work kept her from coming. We will make a trip to Australia to see her soon.”

I glanced around, trying to estimate the number of people present. “There have to be at least two hundred people here. Are you saying all these dragons live in Paris?”

“No. Most are blue dragons, who live all over Europe. That group over there are green dragons, summoned by Drake. The ones at the back of the room are red dragons.”

“But our sept is really underrepresented,” I said, worrying about the imbalance of at least fifty percent more blue dragons to the other three septs. “Is that going to affect anything? And how did they all get here so quickly?”

“The numbers of members mean nothing in this situation; only a wyvern and his or her mate can speak at a
sárkány
. The other members are here just to see history being made. They assembled quickly once word was received about your release.”

“History? What sort of history?”

The doors at the back were flung open with a reverberation that echoed down the long room. We all turned to look. Kostya stood for a moment in a dramatic pose as he eyed everyone; then he strode down the aisle toward us, flanked by five men who I assumed were also black dragons. I touched the chain around my neck to make sure the phylactery was there, hidden away, relieved for a few seconds that Kostya was not accompanied by a blue-eyed brunette who just happened to have created me.

That relief was short-lived, as Cyrene bounded through the door next.

“I have come!” Kostya yelled in a dramatic manner, tossing his head so the sweep of dark auburn hair that had come down over his forehead was flipped back.

“Hello, everyone! Mayling! Isn't this exciting?” Cyrene called, ruining Kostya's big moment.

He glared at her.

“Oh, I'm so sorry. Go right ahead, punkanoodle. I know you want to make a good impression on everyone.”

Even the sigh that Kostya heaved was filled with drama. “I told you not to call me that! It's not fitting.”

“Sorry,” Cyrene said, looking remorseful. “Forgot. Go ahead, Kostie.”

Even at the distance we were from the door, I could see Kostya cast a glance upward as he obviously sought patience. Gabriel made an odd snorting noise, as if he was trying to hold back laughter. Normally I would have had a hard time keeping my own face straight, but I was more concerned about what Cyrene was doing here than the fact that her personality and Kostya's were so obviously unsuited to each other.

“I have come,” the latter repeated in a loud voice. “The black dragons—”

“Greetings, fellow members of the weyr,” another voice bellowed, the doors at the far end once again being slammed open. A blond man who was so handsome it almost hurt to look at him marched in, two incredibly handsome men behind him. “The blue wyvern has arrived. Let the
sárkány
begin!”

Kostya spun around to glare at the man who had interrupted his grand entrance. “Sfiatatoio del Fuoco Blu,” he hissed, lifting his chin and glaring at the slightly shorter man as he approached.

“So
that's
Fiat Blu,” I mused under my breath as I slid a glance toward Gabriel. All amusement had drained out of his eyes, leaving his face impassive as he watched Kostya and Fiat meet, but I knew he was not terribly happy to see Fiat. “Are you sure the phylactery—”

“I am sure. No one will sense it on you.”

“Konstantin Fekete,” Fiat said with a sneer, stopping in front of the man in question. “Come to beg the weyr for a few crumbs?”

“The black dragons do not beg!” Kostya said, and obviously would have gone off on one of the diatribes to which he was prone, dealing with the grand and glorious (if tragic) history of his doomed dragons, but Fiat caught sight of Cyrene at that moment and gave her a dazzling smile.

“And who do we have here? A water sprite?”

“Naiad,” Cyrene said with a startled glance at Kostya as she allowed Fiat to kiss her hand.

“Most charming,” Fiat cooed.

“I'm Cyrene. I'm with him,” she added, taking Kostya's arm.

“Ah, but I can make amends for such a terrible tragedy,” Fiat answered, kissing the knuckles of her free hand again. “I have not had a naiad in my entourage. Why don't you cast off the barbaric Kostya and allow me to show you how a dragon should treat a lady?”

“You dare?” Kostya asked, bristling with indignation.

“He's just trying to rile you up,” Cyrene told him, retrieving her hand in order to pat him on the arm. “Just ignore it. You know full well I'm your mate and I'm not going to let any other dragon woo me away.”

Kostya's frown cleared slightly.

“No matter how good-looking he is,” Cy added with a smile at Fiat.

The look Kostya shot her should have dropped her dead on the spot, but Cy is oblivious to that sort of thing.

“Mate?” Fiat asked, narrowing his gaze at her.

“Oh, no,” I murmured.

Gabriel leaned close to me. “She thinks she is a mate? Did we not disprove that point when we first met?”

“Yes, and yes. She swears she's Kostya's mate, and that the only reason she hasn't exhibited any signs therein is because he's not yet a wyvern.”

Gabriel shook his head. “It doesn't work that way.”

“I assumed not, but you know how she is—once she gets an idea, she runs with it.”

Cyrene had been explaining her theory of mateness to Fiat while I was talking to Gabriel. Fiat shot Kostya a speculative glance, but neither said anything to burst her bubble. I had a horrible feeling that job would fall to me.

“If you should change your mind,
cara,
I will be happy to oblige you,” he murmured. I think he would have gone into full seduction mode, but at that moment he caught sight of us.

“Gabriel, my old
friend,
” Fiat said, the emphasis unmistakable as he approached us. “I have not heard from you these long months.”

Gabriel made a little bow. “I have been busy, as I assume you have.”

Fiat's cold sapphire gaze slid over me, appearing startled for a brief instant. “Either my eyes deceive me, or this lovely lady is identical to the one I just left.”

I didn't flinch at his close examination, although I badly wanted to shadow to escape his penetrating scrutiny. To my surprise, I felt his mind brush against mine. I quickly erected my mental defenses, glancing at Gabriel to see whether he had noticed.

The muscle in his jaw twitched once. He'd noticed.

“Identical and yet not identical,” Fiat continued in a soft voice. “A mate? Can this be?”

“Yes, and she's claimed,” Gabriel said with much less suavity than was the norm for him.

Fiat blinked; then a slow smile crept over his handsome face. He embraced me with great care, pressing a cold kiss to each of my cheeks. I stiffened, bracing myself for the moment when he realized that I wore the phylactery, but Gabriel's assurances were not false. Fiat didn't so much as sniff in the region of my chest.

“A mate at long last! I am so pleased for you, my old friend. And for you too . . . er . . .” He paused.

“May,” I said, scooting over an inch or two until I was pressed against Gabriel. “Cyrene is my twin.”

“Indeed.”

I prided myself on my ability to retain an unbiased mind when it came to people, and despite hearing much from Aisling about Fiat, I was determined to give him the benefit of the doubt. Something about him rankled, however. Oh, he stood chatting politely enough with Gabriel, but there was a tension about him, an awareness of his surroundings and everything in them that made me wary. A sense of expectation emanated from him, leaving me feeling restless and itchy with the need to get away. I glanced around, wondering whether I was influenced enough by Aisling to attribute false motives to Fiat, or whether my senses were accurate, and he really was planning something.

The dragons around us didn't seem to notice anything. Gabriel spoke in a low tone to Fiat, Maata and Tipene hovering with an unworried air behind us. Kostya had moved over to stand with his brother, Cyrene chatting brightly to Drake's men while the two brothers watched us with unreadable expressions. A small group of dragons entered the ballroom, all Asian, one woman and three men. They stood in the back assessing the situation, not approaching anyone.

I watched them, listening with half an ear until Fiat flashed a smile that was nearly identical to the one he'd turned upon Cyrene. “A doppelganger. How unique. I never doubted that you would find a mate, Gabriel, although I always assumed you would simply take Ysolde.”