Page 191 of Nine-Tenths

I smile at her fussing, pleased by this other side of her. In front of the other humans downstairs, she'd been aloof and politely amused by my showy barista antics. Now she's clucking at me like a particularly ruffled mother hen.

"I'm Canadian," I remind her. "This is barely out of shorts-and-tee-shirts weather. The snow’s already melting."

Lady Isobel chuckles. "You aren't half-frozen, and that's all that matters. You'll be keeping the fur, lad."

"Oh no, I—"

"A gift," she says, with a sort of eyebrow wiggle that makes it clear that it's not only in bad taste to decline, but that it wouldmeansomething in the way that things among dragons always do. "From one Favorite to another, ye ken?"

"I'm beginning to." I fuss with the ends of the wrap—soft, smelling of cedar, absolutely older than I am, and, dear god, made ofrealdead animals—and giving her one of those little head nods that I'd seen humans offering each other on Halloween.

"Good fellow," Lady Isobel says. "Turn toward me, now smile wider, and there we are. That will make the press happy."

I heroically don't turn and scan the bushes that rim the grand entryway to the castle. "So this was a photo op?"

"As well as a chance to let you know that I think you're both daft. I can keep you warmandprovide some handy symbolism to hammer the message home to Cousin Lizzie."

"And what are we, uh, hammering home?"

Lady Isobel smiles indulgently. "Marquess Niagara and his Favorite are protected by Raibert Rìgh. Quite literally." She pats the heavily jeweled clasp that could probably pay off the student debts of everyone in my cohort. "No matter what happens in the coming days, you will find succor and support at Cardross."

"Thank you." I swallow hard against a knot of fear and anxiety that her assurance shoves into my windpipe. Because you don't say shit like that unless you think someone's going to need it. "We are honored, Your Ladyship."

She cuts me a wink. Whatever little pageant we've just put on, I've performed admirably.

There's no goddamned way I'm going to ask her about what I'm supposed to call Davnow, not when I know there might be high-powered mics or lip-readers in the bushes. And then the doors open again, and there are dragons walking towards us.Threeof them.

David Beithir looks like his father, only his scales are rich dark copper, his glossy mane shining in the sunlight. Next to him, Raibert Rìgh looks even smaller, and grayer, and dustier than he had in the throne room.

But between them, it’s the third dragon who holds all my attention.

I've never seen Dav’s dragonshape outside. I let myself stare openly, taking in the features I miss when he transforms in close quarters to sit on me for cuddles in the hideous orange lounge.

He's taller in the shoulder than the other dragons, I realize, more on the scale of an Irish Wolfhound to their St. Bernards.And longer by a lot, too. His tail curls and whips behind him, held up off the stone floor, undulating. He's not just red, he'severyred. In the sunlight, his scales are brilliant carmine, glittering ruby, bright vermilion. His underbelly shines like new pennies, and as the cold air hits him, he stretches his wings up in a draconic yawn. The light through the delicate membrane turns them a glowing terracotta.

The first time I’d seen this, I’d been scared.

Not by the dragon himself, but by what getting to see his dragonform had meant. Seeing him now, unashamed and comfortable, I’m proud. Proud that this beautiful creature is mine. That I can look at him like this any time I like. That I'll have years, decades, to study every scale, examine every claw, kiss every little pokey spike down his back.

"Handsome," Lady Isobel says, catching my expression.

"Damn straight," I agree.

When Dav reaches the bottom of the stairs, he turns to offer the other two dragons some sort of elaborate wing-and-leg dip that I take to be a bow when they offer him a shallower version in return. When all eyes turn to me, I give an equally low, fist-over-heart bow of my own, and then the driver is opening the door for us.

We’d driven ourselves to Scotland in a rental, but Lady Isobel had insisted on loaning us a chauffeur and a roomy compact limo for the ride back to Wales.

"Do you want me to change back?" Dav asks as I clamber in. "My clothes are with our luggage in the trunk, I can step into the vestibule—"

The thought of being in the secluded rear of the car with this scaly, fascinating, beautiful version of my dragon sends an intrigued, pervy shiver up my spine.

"The poor lad is freezing," Lady Isobel says with a knowing grin. "You'd best be on your way now, and you can warm him better like this."

We're bundled into the back of the car—me in my seat, Dav sprawling on the spacious floor, tail curled around my waist and head in my lap—and then we're off. Straight back to St. Ffagan’s, becauseoptics.

Can't hang around the Scottish throne looking like panting beggars, is how Auntie Pattie had put it. It needs to look like it was a social visit, quickly done and quickly over. For the first few hours, we fill each other in on what our days have been like. I pet over his head, cataloging the difference in texture between the soft scales on the tip of his nose, the armored ones that surround his eyes, and the silkiness of his ears.

Lady Isobel was right, and I'm shedding the fur before long, the heat from Dav's internal furnace more than enough to chase away the Scottish winter.