by Megan Derr
Barra snorted and did not reply to the question, merely began to tidy up around the room, ringing for servants to come and take the bath away. "What are we about today, Your Grace?"
"I believe we will instruct Father Winsted in why it is unwise to attempt to kill me," Devlin replied. "I may have promised not to kill the bugger, but I never vowed not to slap him around a bit. As my father used to say, a lesson that does not involve some form of pain is a lesson poorly learned."
"Aye," Barra replied. "Your father was a character."
"To say the least," Devlin replied, smiling faintly at the memory of his father. If he were still around, Devlin's siblings would not have fled across the ocean. Devlin wondered what it said about him that he was not strong enough to keep the family together.
Maybe he was simply too selfish. His world had revolved solely around his family until the night a small, dead child had tried to protect him. After that, his world was Midnight.
Sighing, he allowed Barra to help him into his great coat, then tucked his runes into his jacket and picked up his gloves.
"Where do you think—" Barra abruptly stopped and bolted across the room to the door, throwing it open right as someone began to pound upon it.
Troyes stood in the doorway, looking as though he had been dragged through the woods—or on the losing end of a fight. His face was also streaked with tears. "Wolf-elf, help."
"What's wrong?" Barra demanded, immediately moving to grab his coat.
"Hurt," Troyes said. "Would not let me protect. Dying."
Devlin pulled his gloves on even as he strode to the door. "Take us to him, now," he barked.
Troyes did not waste any time, merely turned and all but ran back the way he must have come, through the halls, down the stairs, and out into the busy streets.
Ignoring the people around them, not particularly caring what manner of spectacle they were likely making—hoping they would simply chalk it up to yet more strange behavior from the Mad Duke—Devlin ran after Troyes, with Barra close on his heels.
He should have called for his horse, but it would have been precious time wasted if Neirin was indeed dying.
Once well away from the village and any chance of strays wandering about the fields, Troyes and Barra shifted. Devin stood no chance of keeping up, then, and so did not try, merely went as quickly as his own legs could carry him.
It seemed to take forever, but at last he reached them. He swore loudly at the sight that greeted his eyes.
It was a bloody miracle Neirin lived at all. Devlin did not waste time on a detailed analysis, merely drew his runes and cast them, mind filled only with thoughts of healing and saving.
The wounds were too severe for one simple casting to heal; only time would repair him wholly, but Devlin poured his energy into the casting. It proved enough to at least keep him from dying.
Only then did he drop to kneel with Barra and Troyes alongside Neirin's body.
His back was a horrifying mess of deep lash marks. Devlin did not doubt that metal must have been at the tip of the lashes, and he wondered if it had been a single lash or the far more brutal nine-tails. When the wounds finally healed, Neirin's back would be a canvas of hideous scars.
Troyes whimpered, cradling Neirin's head in his lap.
Barra looked no better.
"What happened?" Devlin demanded, wondering how they would get Neirin back to his lodgings. They would need his horse, at the very least.
"Told secrets. Too many broken rules. One—one hundred lashes," Troyes said, crying again. "Locked me up, would not permit me to protect. Blood and screams. Could not protect." He dropped his head to bury it in Neirin's hair. "B-banished," he said. "Live or die, they do not care. Not knight. Bad dragon."
"No," Barra snarled. "Good dragon. Of course you're good, Troyes. Neirin is good, too." He reached out to hesitantly touch Troyes, who promptly turned and nuzzled into his hand, eyes closed.
"Wolf-elf good," Troyes said quietly. "Master like." He opened his eyes, the rich amber color dark with pain but better than they had been only a few moments ago. "Think wolf-elf pretty. Liked kiss."
Barra's cheeks turned red.
Devlin coughed to cover a laugh. "Liked kiss, is it? Well, well, Barra."
"We need to get him back to our rooms," Barra said pointedly.
"Yes," Devlin said, sobering. "I have prevented further blood loss, and hopefully eased some of his pain, but he needs better attention than we can give here. Barra, go and fetch my horse. We can carry him that way, then tend to his wounds once he's abed."
"Yes, Your Grace," Barra replied. He touched Troyes one last time and spared a lingering look for Neirin, then turned and shifted, racing toward the village.
Devlin sat in silence, moving only to restore his runes.
What manner of conversation did one hold with a dragon when attempting to break an awkward silence? He was spared the decision when Troyes suddenly gave a deep, low, angry—and even fearful—growl.
Not bothering to ask for details, Devlin stood and closed his eyes. Protection, he thought. Protection strong enough to hold up even against dragons.
Reaching into his bag, he drew five runes and cast them blindly in four directions—north, south, east, and west. The last he held, dropping to one knee and thrusting the rune into the ground. He opened his eyes, watching as the ground and air alike seemed to blur and shimmer, then returned to normal.
Not a moment too soon, as two figures slunk from the trees to stand at the edge of their tiny clearing.
Devlin had seldom felt intimidated in his life. He had no cause to feel such a thing—he was powerful in the normal world and even more so in the nightwalker world. He had wealth and power and skill.
The day his parents died, leaving everything well and truly for him to manage, had intimidated him.
Meeting the demon lord of London and realizing they could be friends had intimidated him.
The man before him now intimidated him.
It annoyed him that one figure could make him feel thus when he was obviously nothing more than another knight. Except Troyes was still growling, angry and afraid, but with his head bowed, as though he dared not look up.
The figures remained in shadow, but their eyes were like flames in the dark. The dragon rumbled softly. The man beside him rested a hand on the dragon's head.
Meeting the man's amber eyes—exactly the color of a dragon's eyes—Devlin felt a sudden and overwhelming urge to remain kneeling.
Scowling, he forced himself to his feet. "If you have come to lay further harm upon my friends," he said coolly, "that shiny bit of metal with you will not be enough to keep you from meeting a brutal end tonight."
The man's brows went up, mouth quirking in amusement. "Indeed. You could only be the rune master about whom I have heard so much lately." His eyes flicked down to Neirin and Troyes, and for a moment, Devlin thought he saw a hint of pain.
A soft growling sound drew his attention, and for the first time, he really took in the man's dragon. It was gold rather silver. It was also larger, longer, curling protectively around the man, reaching as high as his hip.
"He is alive," the man said, more statement than question.
"No thanks to you," Devlin snapped. "Is this how the clans treat all those who dare to break a few rules? You are no better than the normals, taking issue with anything that does not meet your expectations."
Shadows flickered in the man's eyes. "The world does not understand us. Once, it did. Perhaps someday it will again. Until then, I must keep my people and my dragons safe. I did not approve of what was done to Neirin. I protested it. He is my friend."
"I would never allow this to be done to a friend," Devlin said coldly.
The man met his eyes, and it took everything Devlin had not to back down from that gaze, not to lower his head and submit to whatever the bloody hell that gaze was ordering. Who the hell was this man, to have such an effect?
"He knew the laws," the man said quie
tly. "He has broken them time and again. This time, he went too far. I could no longer protect him. Take care of them, Winterbourne." Then the man simply turned and walked away, his golden dragon shimmering in a patch of sunlight before they were gone as suddenly as they had come.
Devlin sank to the ground, suddenly exhausted. "Who in the bloody hell was that?" he demanded.
Troyes made a whining, growling sound. "Prince Avalon and Caliburn. Holy Pendragon."
"I see," Devlin said. May he be spared from ever having to contend with dragons after this. Bloody annoying lot.
A soft groan drew their attention, and Devlin looked down, catching Neirin's pain-glazed eyes. "You are nothing but trouble and aggravation," he said imperiously. "I thought knights were supposed to do the rescuing."
"Bugger off," Neirin whispered before slipping back into unconsciousness.
Kiss
They got Neirin back to the lodging house with less trouble than Devlin had anticipated. The frowning disapproval of the landlady vanished with the appearance of large sums of money and the promise more would be forthcoming if she kept her mouth shut and provided him with a second set of rooms.
She gave them the suite opposite Devlin's, likely to keep all her problems in one place, but Devlin did not complain as it worked out all the better for them.
Depositing Neirin in the bed, Devlin went to fetch his chalk. Returning, he first drew a circle that would do a more careful and thorough job of healing Neirin, and once that was set he drew wards to protect the whole suite.
When he had finished the wards, he went to check on Neirin's progress. Troyes was sitting on the bed next to him, legs folded up, hands clasped loosely in his lap. His eye were locked on Barra, who was tenderly going about cleaning Neirin and tending those wounds Devlin's spells had not completely closed.
What in the world was he going to do with a banished knight and dragon? Were there any others who did not live within the confines of the clans?
Well, whether or not there were, it was a problem for another day. He had more than enough problems to hand at present.
"Barra, take a bit of coin and locate some good food. Our fallen knight there will probably be starving when he wakes, and I bet the dragon could do with a bit of good meat, eh? I could use a cup of tea, myself." He could do with a bit of brandy, but best not to be going on with that at the moment.
"Yes, Your Grace," Barra said, reluctantly pulling away from tending Neirin.
Biting back a teasing remark about making a lovely wife because he knew Midnight would only trod upon his toes for it were he here, Devlin turned away.
Going back to his own rooms, he cast his runes before the fire, seeking only one thing: where to find Winsted.
The runes told him, a simple casting of three.
He started to leave, then hesitated. His feet were moving before he had given them permission, following the path to weakness into the bedroom. Midnight still lay unmoving, but rest had healed what runes had not, and he now looked as good as new. His chest rose and fell slightly, and Devlin reached out to push the blankets back, resting his hand on the space over Midnight's heart, his other hand on his own.
One heartbeat, two bodies.
Some bastard might have Midnight's kisses, even his affection, though the thought still made Devlin physically ill and inclined toward violence. But whatever else Midnight's lovers claimed, they would never share a heartbeat, never share a breath. Or a soul.
He had that, even if someday he had nothing else.
Bending, he placed a brief, soft kiss at the corner of Midnight's mouth, stroking his cheek as he rose, lingering for one last moment before finally turning away.
Closing the door behind him, he strode from his rooms back to Neirin's suite.
In the hallway, he nearly collided with the landlady and another woman. Definitely a noblewoman of some sort, but one traveling alone?
He frowned.
She was a beauty, light brown hair pulled back in an ornate chignon, fair skin unmarred. Likely she had removed her cloak upon arrival, for now she wore only a high-waist gown of deep crimson embroidered with dark gold flowers at the hem and waist. A matching necklace of delicate flowers made from gold and rubies was around her throat. Her eyes were a clear blue, like the lake at his family home.
They were also cool, as his mother's had often looked when she was about some manner of unpleasant business.
Something was clutched in her right hand, the way she held it fisted closed, but he could not see what.
"Oh, Your Grace," the landlady said, lips pursed in annoyance. "A young lady to see you and your new guest. I expect—"
"Thank you," he said, cutting off the coming lecture of who might visit him here. He held his arm out to the woman, and she took it with a polite smile and a murmur of greeting.
Inside, he closed the door and, safely away from the landlady, withdrew his arm. "Who are you?" he demanded.
"Who I am matters not," the woman said coolly. "I was away visiting my family home this morning, and so only just recently learned of what has become of Lord Neirin. I have come to say my goodbyes and close matters between us."
Matters between them?
Devlin had a suspicion he knew the nature of the matter but did not voice his opinion. "If you are of that ilk, why do you not have a dragon with you? Do women not have them?"
"Of course I have a dragon," the woman said. "How dare you suggest I am unworthy. We never take our dragons out amongst people. The risk is far too great. It is one of our most important rules, and if you did not know that, it only goes to prove he—" She broke off, pursing her lips and looking much like the landlady had only a few minutes before.
"I wish to see him," she said at last. "I came here because I wanted to be civil about it, not because I wanted to stir up more trouble. He has certainly caused enough of that."
"Madame," Devlin said coldly, giving her a mocking bow. "He is through there. By all means go and speak of matters."
She gave him a sharp look, obviously realizing he knew what she was about. Devlin let her go and wondered what the devil else was going to transpire that day.
If dragons were always this damnably difficult, may he be spared ever having to encounter another.
He looked up at the sound of the door opening to see Barra with his perpetually overburdened tray.
Barra froze as he stepped into the room. "Perfume," he said, nose wrinkling. "Traces of a strange dragon, and definitely a woman. Who is here?"
"As you say," Devlin said. "A woman who has a dragon, though apparently it is not the done thing to bring one's dragon when one ventures beyond clan territory. She has come to part ways with Neirin in civil fashion."
"Family?" Barra asked, worry putting lines on his brow.
"Perhaps," Devlin replied.
A low growl brought both their heads around to face the closed bedroom door, but even as Devlin moved, the door opened again and the woman stepped calmly out.
She nodded to Devlin as she reached him, completely ignoring Barra. "Good day to you, Your Grace."
With that, she swept out, the door closing quietly behind her.
"Starchy lot, dragon folk," Barra said idly. "She was no relation—didn't smell right."
Before he could say more, the bedroom door opened again and Troyes came slowly out.
Barra moved immediately toward him, tray forgotten. "Troyes. Who was that?"
Troyes blinked at him, then shrugged in disinterest. "Lady Christina. Going to be mate. Not now. Gave back ring." He smiled briefly. "Neirin woke. Wake again soon?" His eyes moved to the forgotten tray. "Food?"
Barra, however, had latched on only to his first statement. "Mate?" he asked, voice unsteady. "What do you mean, going to be mate?"
"Mate," Troyes repeated, shrugging again. "Not now. Good. Food?"
Looking miserable, Barra moved to the table and picked up the tray of raw meat sitting there, thrusting it toward Troyes, not looking at him.
&nb
sp; "Thank you, wolf-elf," Troyes said and reached out to ruffle Barra's hair.
Barra smiled, but it was a weak effort.
Troyes frowned. "Why sad, wolf-elf?"
"I did not know Neirin had a mate," he said, sadness mingled with bitterness now.
"Not mate anymore," Troyes said, frowning now. "Not matter. Neirin has Troyes. And wolf-elf?"
Barra said nothing.
Devlin felt the stirrings of anger. "Has your damned knight been toying with Barra all along?" he demanded.
Troyes growled, but it was a sound more of confusion and hurt than anger. "No toy," he said, meat forgotten. "What wrong? Just mate. No matter. Troyes mated too." He stepped toward Barra, reaching out to touch him again.
Barra jerked away, moving to sit in a chair alongside the table. Whining, Troyes shifted and curled up on the floor, twining around himself beneath the table, still continuing to whine and growl.
Devlin was torn between forcing the dragon to explain what in the hell was going on or going to wake up Neirin and demanding the answers from him. What sort of bastard took a mate, then seemed unaffected by the fact that she had left him? Why was Troyes so uninterested in the matter?
Before he could decide upon a course, they were interrupted yet again by the opening of a door—but this time it was the hallway door, and he knew who it was before it finished opening.
Midnight poked his head inside, then smiled in relief and stepped fully inside. He was only partially dressed in black breeches, white stockings and a white shirt. His hair fell loose, and without his gloves, his dark blue nails shone in the light.
Devlin looked out the window, realizing only then that it was just dark enough for Midnight to rise.
He started to speak, but his breath caught in his throat.
Midnight looked at him briefly, almost shyly, but said nothing. "Whatever is going on here?" he asked. "If Troyes is about, then Neirin must be, yet Barra looks utterly depressed."
Tersely, Devlin explained all that had transpired, ending with the latest revelation that Neirin apparently had had a mate until only a few minutes ago.
