by Starla Night
Alex leaned forward again. “Sard Carnelian offered you a job?”
“Yes, drawing Zentangles.”
“What are those?”
She encircled her wrist; the bracelet had been confiscated. Well, she had given it to Sard. Anything to get herself out of his office. “Do you have a napkin and a pen?”
They found the objects. She took a deep breath, starting her meditation, then drew the four corner dots, the border, and her sections. She filled each section with repeating palm leaves, pineapple scales, and bubbles. It was relaxing; even in the middle of this interrogation, she finished her square feeling more in control.
“Zentangles are a form of structured doodle using repeating motifs. The borders and whatnot are for guidance. Go with whatever looks good in the moment. Through deliberate practice, Zentangles are a method for uncreative people to discover their inner creativity.”
The dragons studied her napkin.
Jasper covered his mouth. Amber leaned back in her chair and looked thoughtful. Alex continued staring.
Somehow, she felt like she’d exposed a secret. “What is it?”
Alex tapped the square. “This bears some resemblance to dragon family crests. Heraldry identifying aristocrats. However, the designs are unusual.”
“Sard said the same thing. He wanted to commission ten million.”
“Ten million?”
“Unique designs. I offered to teach a class instead.” The important thing was the method. Anyone could draw Zentangles. Even dragons. “He declined.”
Jasper appeared to do a quick calculation. “Ten million unique designs would be enough to adorn the non-aristocrat families on Draconis and the Outer Rim.”
Alex looked up. “Would Sard dare sell heralds to non-aristocrats?”
“It would be lucrative.”
“But risky. Copying the aristocracy too closely risks the notice of the Gentleman’s Society. No one survives one of their inquests.”
They mused over her design.
Amy understood the gist of their discussion even if she didn’t get caste societies. India and Britain had long histories, and she’d taught them, but like Jim Crow laws of the last century, the pointless cruelties seemed unconscionable.
In America today, all that mattered was cold, hard cash. Few things were denied the truly rich.
Amy’s goal as a teacher was to help her students whether they were rich or poor, sick or healthy, of one ethnicity or another, receive an equitable, high-quality education.
“Draconis Palace hasn’t enforced sumptuary laws in a generation,” Amber finally said. “The Gentleman’s Society has not investigated human-form clothing. They will not investigate a human ‘doodle’ craft.”
Amy cleared her throat. “Should I have told Pyro?”
“Yes.” Alex leaned back. “This knowledge could have changed our fates.”
Chapter Seventeen
Jewelry?” Pyro repeated, wondering if the heavyweight CEO of Carnelian Clothiers was making fun of him. “You’re moving from clothes to jewelry?”
Sard Carnelian’s teeth gleamed silver. They met at a neutral location, a private bistro room in downtown Portland. “We sell accessories and shoes. The next logical evolution is jewelry.”
“Why tell me?”
“You wished to know our next launch. I thought you would be interested in our plans.”
Pyro breathed through his teeth.
Amy’s advice to remain calm was as hard to follow as he had anticipated. But he’d taken her advice and he’d successfully drawn out Sard’s plans, even if he’d had to sit on his dominant hand to keep from smashing it into the aristocrat’s smug face.
This was for Amy. For his siblings. For Mal.
“So?” he growled.
“This is our intended debut.”
Sard spread out a series of punctured tiles. Each one was decorated with lines, swirls, and repeating shapes.
Seeing it set Pyro’s teeth on edge. He didn’t recognize any, but he made a point not to memorize aristocratic crests, not even the levels closest to the Empress.
Still, remembering his mission, he asked. “What is this?”
“Zentangles. A human design of jewelry for necklaces, bracelets, and the like.” Sard paused a beat, and then added, “Of course, we will also take custom orders.”
Sure, like official aristocratic crests.
Pyro picked up one of the plastic squares. Although primitive, the markings were close enough that anyone could read between the lines.
And it would never fly. He wasn’t the only dragon who hadn’t memorized the thick ledgers of official crests. Selling these as jewelry was like selling ballistic-launching weapons disguised as play toys.
A low caste dragon might accidentally get privileges. Like fairness. Respect.
And nobody could have that.
He dropped the tile with a clink. “What do you want with my company?”
“In exchange for our port privileges, you’re going to distribute our new jewelry.”
Of course. Dump the risk onto the low caste bastard.
He gritted his teeth on his growl. “We’re getting dismantled.”
“Not if you marry humans.”
“It is always at risk from my mother. She sees no need for two clothiers.”
“When we merge, there will be only one.”
The smarmy aristocrat had an answer for everything.
“Projected profits will be in the billions.” Sard’s red-brown eyes glowed. “We will surpass companies in the heart of the Empire.”
And that alone would probably cost their lives.
Pyro pinched one of the tiles. “If this is such a profitable object, why don’t you distribute it?”
“Because I’m being recalled to Draconis.”
Pyro didn’t know how to respond. None of his intelligence had stated that. “When?”
“Days.” Sard rested both palms on the table between them. “My fiancée has no interest in colonial art. Not even the clothing. My family is retaining the company.”
“Then, the problem?”
“My brother will replace me. He is an aristocrat in good standing. He will expect to be surrounded by the same.”
“You’re aristocrats.”
“My employees are fallen.”
Meaning they had failed important duties and gotten kicked out of the family manor. Forced to make their own way in the world. No promises, no riches, no cushy comforts.
Just like every low caste dragon.
Pyro growled. “They’re still aristocrats.”
“Perhaps a non-aristocrat doesn’t appreciate that there are levels within levels—”
“Spare me.”
Sard’s jaw clicked shut. His eyes flared red, and it looked like he was having trouble controlling his reaction.
Why, because a low caste bastard dared to speak roughly to him? This was why they couldn’t work together. Ever.
Pyro was done with being insulted. “Get to the point.”
“The point,” Sard enunciated, with the hint of a rasping growl, “is my brother will replace my current employees with other males unless you and I enter a contract forbidding changes.”
“You trust him to honor a contract with low caste bastards?”
“Any sane business dragon would hesitate to disband the number one ranked company outside Draconis.” Sard’s teeth gleamed. “He is young but ambitious. And if we freeze our employee rosters with one contract, he will hesitate to break it simply to dismiss my males.”
Sard wanted Pyro to distribute his treasonous crests in exchange for allowing them to use his ports to export their clothing. The Onyx Corporation would live on. And all Sard wanted for the privilege was a contract that froze the current employee structure of his company?
No.
“What are you really asking?” Pyro narrowed on his arch rival. “You have don’t have a sister. And Amber’s not marrying one of you. Exactly how do we tie our compani
es?”
Sard hesitated so briefly it almost seemed purposeful. “Become our subsidiary.”
Pyro’s blood pressure shot through the ceiling. His breath tightened like a fist in his chest. Red scored his vision.
You control the conversation.
Amy’s face flashed in front of his eyes. She was the reason he was sitting here, on his hand, instead of back in bed. Being responsible. Upholding his duties.
Extending his claws, he scored deep gouge marks in the bistro table.
The aristocrat’s expression remained frozen on his face.
Pyro finally spit his answer. “We will never bow our heads to aristocrats.”
Sard’s gaze narrowed. Scales shimmered across his hands as he fought his own transformation. “Do you think you are the only ones at risk? Do you think bowing your head stops with an aristocratic crest? No. That is where sickening, pointless humbling begins.”
“Excuse me while I cry for your hardships.”
Sard poised as if to attack him. Because he knew the truth.
Pyro could torch both companies. He could say the word and destroy both of them. Him and Sard together. No to the merger. Sard lost his employees. The Onyx Corporation burned.
And knowing that calmed his instant rage. It made him reckless. But in control. And that made him honest.
“Don’t hire us to do your dirty work,” he growled, watching the chain reactions of fury move along the arteries beneath Sard’s shimmering skin. “You’re putting our name on your little charms, aren’t you?”
“The profits—”
“Oh, sure, I’ll care about money while my skin is hung in the Hall of Betrayals.”
“My skin would be hanging beside yours,” Sard snapped.
“Maybe an aristocrat doesn’t know this, but most bastards would rather be poor than dead.”
Sard regrouped, sucking in a deep breath and controlling his scales back to skin. “I thought you would understand.”
“Oh, I understand.”
Recklessness jumped under his skin.
Mal would never run his mouth off. He’d have a plan. But Mal had made the mistake of leaving Pyro in charge. And Pyro wasn’t going to play at pleasantness. He didn’t stab people in the back. He stabbed them in the face where they could see him coming.
“You get back your number one status. A billion sales as fast as we can distribute them. Because what dragon doesn’t want a crest? Even an unofficial, pretend one? And smudging the classes like this ends in a witch-hunt and charges of treason.”
“Class differences are already smudged by our clothing.”
“Human-form clothes are allowed because they’re ‘merely decorative’. Crests are specific to dragons. This little tile is not going to get past the censors.”
Before Earth, there had been no market for human clothes. Pre-Earth outfits had been boring, utilitarian, and designed for neutral diplomatic or military use.
That’s why the stunning colors, patterns, and sheer variety had taken off like homing rockets, blowing holes in dragons’ coin purses as they obsessively collected the jewel-tone outfits and shiny accessories.
Because no rules had been established, the highest politician could clothe herself in the same outfit as the lowest brimstone miner. As their ongoing sales proved, many dragons were willing to transform themselves into squishy “lesser” human forms. In all classes.
“You get it, don’t you?” Sard laid out his hand, palm up, in a gesture of solidarity. “This is larger than us. Larger than our companies. Distributing crests widely shakes the very bedrock of dragon society. You hate aristocratic privilege? Join me in destroying it.”
“Why would you want it destroyed?”
“I have my reasons.”
Fine, be cryptic.
Pyro grinned. “And I have my reasons for not wanting to be skinned, dead or alive. Sharpen your own flaying knives. The Onyx Corporation isn’t disrupting the Empire’s order just to make you a billion in coin.”
Sard grimaced. He stared at his curled fist and then one side of his lips flattened into a smirk. “That’s rich. You’re afraid to upset the order.”
His vision reddened again and every muscle in his body tightened. He was going to rip this aristocrat’s spine out. “Your meaning?”
Sard glanced at him. Disgust clearly showed. “Your family turned down the Empress. Twice. And you still live.”
Pyro’s fists shook … but that wasn’t what he’d expected Sard to say. He’d expected Sard to sneer at Pyro for refusing an aristocrat’s orders.
Sard was right. Most dragons would not dare to deny the Empress. If they didn’t give in out of fear, most would do so out of greed. It was lucrative to become an aristocrat.
“It’s a new generation,” Pyro said instead.
“She would have strung you up a few decades ago.”
Yes, well, Mal preferred death to marrying into the aristocracy. Pyro felt the same way.
“I haven’t informed her of my marriage,” he finally said.
“You will.”
Irritation jumped under his skin. Pyro flashed his teeth. “You didn’t congratulate me.”
Sard twitched. Irritation accomplished. “Congratulations.”
It was weird to hold the cards in this encounter. But it seemed Pyro actually did.
He knew what Sard wanted. He knew what the arch-rival hoped to gain. And his knowledge gave him, a low-class bastard, actual power over the fate of the aristocrats.
They’d both come to the table five years ago and held their cards close to their chests. Sard had cheated prolifically. And now Sard was the one standing up and walking away from the game.
Of course, Pyro was also getting forced out, so they ended in the same place. But he held power. He had a choice.
Become the subsidiary of Carnelian Clothiers. Distribute class-disrupting jewelry.
Every day Pyro had to look one of the aristocrats in the eye and say, “Yes, sir,” he’d feel the pain of his soul burning.
Pyro stood with both hands on the table. “We done?”
Sard flexed his fists. His incisors flashed. “When does Mal get back?”
“As soon as our mother lets him and his pregnant wife out of her claws.”
“Your mother is an extraordinary dragon.”
Pyro searched the CEO’s tone for a hint of derision, but he found nothing but respect. Strange. “She has extraordinary tenacity.”
“That also.” Sard blew out a stream of air. Then, he looked Pyro in the eye. From this position, looking up, it felt like a gaze between equals. “I made a promise to my dragons. I will not betray their loyalty. You have my offer. Decide in three days.”
Pyro grinned. “You’ll have my answer when I’m ready to give it.”
The aristocrat ground his teeth.
Pyro flew back to the office pumped.
For the first time since his first wife had left him, he’d been able to be in the same room with an aristocrat without it turning into a bloodbath.
And he’d upheld his promise to his siblings to steer the Onyx Corporation like a responsible officer.
Amy would smile. Shyly, like when he’d adjusted her wedding dress, or wantonly, like when he’d taken it off later. No, perhaps proudly. Like he’d done something right for once.
He’d done a lot of things wrong in his life, so it was great to finally do things right.
Pyro flew down the glass shaft, landed in his office, and strode to the conference room where she would be getting to know his siblings.
The conference room was empty.
He stopped by Jasper’s office. “Where’s Amy?”
“Kyan took her to her home.”
Hellfire. Pyro wanted to celebrate with her now. Share how the conference went, watch her face beam with pride, and then celebrate in a more sensual way in the privacy of his office.
Oh, well. At her place then.
He turned on his heel.
“Amber believes you
should give her space,” Jasper called.
He checked. “What? Why?”
“Because she intends to murder you and claw your eyes out.”
“Claw my eyes out?” Humans didn’t possess claws so it would take effort to inflict that level of damage. “What’s got her so mad?”
“You did, Pyro.” Jasper’s worried honesty cut to the bone. “You made her disappointed.”
Chapter Eighteen
Kyan dropped Amy off below the steps to her apartment — beside two pallets of plastic-wrapped clothes. The camisoles packed down smaller but still required a forklift to move and would not fit in her elevator.
“You have to take these back,” she insisted.
“Dragons do not take back gifts.” Kyan flew away.
She wanted to scream invectives at him. Just to vent her frustrations. Pyro would do it. She took a deep breath.
Her building supervisor exited out the front door.
Amy let her scream die away and composed herself into the nice, quiet, friendly tenant who would never cause anyone any trouble. Ever. “Hello, Mrs. Maples.”
The older woman regarded the pallets with dismay. “These are blocking the entrance. It’s an unsightly hazard.”
“I know, and I’m so sorry. I tried to get the delivery people to take it back. This isn’t even what I ordered.”
“So long as you get it taken care of.” Mrs. Maples shook her head and continued off.
Dragons were nothing but a pain. And a hassle.
The afternoon mist congealed into a wimpy drizzle, soaking the plastic and adding weight to the clothing.
Ugh.
Amy ran up to her apartment, grabbed plastic bags and scissors, and began the process of transporting clothes up to her apartment. Two hours later, arms and legs aching and headache gone from irritation to near crying, she set the last bag inside her door and collapsed on the thread-worn couch. She should have asked for something easy to carry. Like a hundred packets of dental floss.
Oh, who was she kidding? She hadn’t asked for a hundred of anything!
Stacks of clothes mounded around the living room like snowdrifts of denim and silk. Outside her living room window, the sun touched the horizon. It was a school night, and she hadn’t done any work all weekend.
