Page 17

Chapter 17

HELP. THE WORD, THE OFFERING, the act itself, can be a surprisingly divisive thing. There have been times in my life where I treated the notion like a venomous threat, and others where I saw it for the lifeline it was. It took me a long time to accept that needing help wasn’t a reflection of weakness or some sort of failing on my part. Knowing that you can’t do everything alone, that no one is meant to, takes strength and fortitude.

I’ve learned many valuable lessons at the hand of someone else’s support or assistance, but today isn’t going to be one of those days. Maybe it’s the sniping I can hear jostling back and forth in the other room, or the shit-eating grin on Tove’s face, the one she keeps trying to tame only for it to creep back in place like an irritating rash that just won’t go away. Or perhaps it’s because I’m about to officially step back into a world I’m not prepared for and pretend to stake a claim on a dragon I have zero interest in claiming.

Fucking? Sure, why not.

Claiming? Not for all the magic in Drameric.

However, as annoying as the Seeder is, she’s right. If Enslee were here, she’d be giving me the same lecture about how I can’t let my pride or my aversion to The Horde screw things up. If this is my way in, if this is how I find what we need, I’ll play along. Regardless of all the ways it’s going to chip away at my self-respect and more than likely my sanity.

“Here we go,” Chastain mumbles just as he walks through the doorway in front of me.

I fill my lungs with one last fortifying breath, and then it’s my turn. My face is blank of all emotion, my shoulders square, and my bearing as regal as I can manage wearing nothing but a silk robe, a charm to hide my scars, and a hefty chip on my shoulder.

The room immediately falls silent as the members of Aeson’s Wing stride out from the bathroom, and I can practically feel people straining to look past the guards to get a peek at whoever is behind them.

The sleeves of my robe drag on the ground, a train of midnight blue silk extending several paces behind me as I step out from between the four guards and finally let the room see me. No one gasps or reels back, but I sense shock and confusion pulse through the room all the same. I stand like some statue built for worship and stare at the newcomers and their pious offerings just as intently.

Standing amidst dozens of floating racks of garments are four drakes, a kyba, a griffon shifter, and—I scent in the direction of the man to make sure I’m right—a human…which is a surprising addition. No one bows, but they do drop their eyes and chins for a moment in deference before their curious gazes are once again drinking me in. The sitting area of the suite has been rearranged to make room for the visitors and their wares. One plush chair is sitting front and center, and I figure that’s where I’m meant to perch while they do whatever they’re here to do.

No one says a word as I make myself comfortable, careful to pull part of my train over my ankle with the charm on it. As soon as I look up, two drakes step forward. They both stop suddenly and glare over at the other.

“Seniority says I go first, Seza,” the drake on the left snaps, the boxy periwinkle dress she has on glimmering in the late morning light.

“Perhaps, but my client list is much longer, Bettany, which means I’m entitled to first pitch,” Seza answers, the pleats layering her floor-length gown fluttering with each irritated breath.

If I had to guess, she’s the one who created the outfit Tahir was wearing the other night.

Both females try to step forward again, and the racks floating behind them crash together with a clang. Instead of doing anything about the squabbling, I quickly look over the dresses they have. Not finding anything I think might work for me, I move on to the racks of clothes that belong to the other stylists and designers in hopes of spotting something practical.

It’s a sea of geometric-shaped tops and bottoms, ruffles galore, glimmering fabrics that gleam and preen for attention, capes, a whole rack that looks like a garden upchucked all over it, and several more floating displays packed to the brim with even more impractical…dresses.

“Does anyone have pants?” I ask, and the arguing in front of me pauses. “Preferably the kind with reinforced knees or a layer of hidden armor sewn in?” I try when everyone just stares at me like I’m speaking a different language.

The human starts to step forward and then balks when both Seza’s and Bettany’s heads snap in his direction, their glares incinerating. Another drake takes it upon herself to maneuver in front of the human as though keeping him from sight will cause me to forget he ever existed in the first place.

“So sorry, uh…” the drake trails off in search of what to call me. Her blue eyes dart to the guards imploringly, but no one takes pity on her and provides her with a name or a title. “Dragoness,” she finally fills in, but it rings with uncertainty when her nostrils flare and she scents me. “I’ve brought the latest fashions taking Four Tiers by storm. You’ll be the talk of the keeps and the envy of all. If you’ll just allow me to show you—”

“Any of the latest fashions include pants?” I ask, cutting the female off just as she calls forward a rack of dresses that look like they’re made of strips of seaweed.

“I don’t understand,” Seza clucks testily.

I turn to her. “You don’t know what pants are?”

Her eyes narrow infinitesimally before she gets a hold of herself. “You’ll be dressing for royal functions, won’t you? Public appearances? Dinners? Important announcements?” the female hedges.

I shrug, and I swear I hear one of the guards behind me snicker quietly.

“Is there a rule against pants at those kinds of things?” I inquire innocently, despite my patience starting to wear thin.

“Those kinds of things?” Seza repeats, slightly scandalized. “A rule?” she goes on, her gaze, like the other female’s, searching the faces of the guards behind me for help. “Dragoness, I dress Arsenna Dacre and her kindred, the Isidores, Varuca Cesarini and the entire Cesarini line, just to name a few of the prominent dragons that trust my expert guidance. But, I promise, not one of them will hold a candle to you under my care and tutelage. Let me show you some designs I’ve been working on that I think will be perfect for what you need …” she coos at me as though lording a few noble names over my head will put me back in my place.

I smile sweetly at the female, and she mirrors it, taking a step closer, wrongly scenting victory.

“Seza, is it?” I ask.

An arrogant gleam enters her eyes, and she nods, aiming for demure but missing it by a mile—probably because she shoots a nasty sneer at Bettany while she’s doing it.

I lean forward, the saccharine grin never leaving my face. “What I need are some fucking pants. Stop name-dropping like some naughty puppy that’s piddling all over the carpet. I don’t care who you dress or what you think I should wear. Do you have what I want or not?”

“I do,” a silvery voice declares as the human man steps out from behind the drake that tried to block him. “Not with me, dragoness,” he corrects when my eyes move to the clothing behind him. “But I can get what you’re looking for.”

Bettany snorts, and the obnoxious sound tugs on my last thread of restraint.

“How did you even get in here, Azo?” the female demands.

The human man glowers over at her. “I was invited, just like you.”

“A mistake, I’m sure?” the griffon shifter mocks.

“Enough,” I bark out, and the room goes silent.

“What’s your name?” I ask the human, who seems to deflate a little.

“Azo Endebry, dragoness. I’m a representative of designer Fenox Lael.”

It’s clear in the way he says the name that he expects some kind of reaction from me, but whoever Fenox is, it’s not ringing any bells.

“Very well. Azo, stay, the rest of you can go,” I order.

“You can’t be serious,” both Seza and the kyba exclaim in harmony.

Several other trumpets of dismay fill the room as Ogdan and Tove step around me to escort everyone out. I’m tempted to trip Tove as she passes, but I manage to wrangle the desire and behave myself. I sit in my plush chair and pretend to be important while the guards herd the whining group and their racks. I’m pretty sure Bettany hits Ogdan with hers on purpose, which earns her a warning growl from the Burner, which I’m pretty sure has the female shitting in her shiny dress.

Quickly and efficiently, the room is cleared and I return my attention to the human. His presence here is curious but ultimately none of my business, so I don’t bother voicing any of the nosey questions flitting around in my head.

“How long will it take to get me what I need?” I ask the man, who looks a little surprised to still be standing here.

“Fenox can have some custom designs for you by tomorrow, maybe even the end of day, depending on what you want. She’ll need to take measurements, and she’ll draw up some sketches when you meet and discuss exactly what it is you’d like.”

“Perfect, how soon can she be here?” I ask, feeling better already.

Azo pales and suddenly looks panicked.

Alarm shoots through me, and I turn to Ogdan, confused by the human’s reaction. “What am I missing here?” I press, when it’s clear I’ve done something to upset the poor creature.

Ogdan sighs. “Fenox isn’t allowed to travel to Four Tiers.”

“Piss off the wrong duke?” I tease in an effort to lighten the mood and help the human stop fidgeting, but it only seems to make it worse.

“Fenox Lael is a wyvern. She can’t cross into Horde territory. It’s a death sentence for any wyvern that tries,” Ogdan politely supplies.

Knots form in my throat, and an icy chill spills through my veins.

Why does this suddenly feel like a trap, one I didn’t know I’d stepped into until now?

Yes, I grew up around wyverns, but those were trusted members of my mother’s guard. Not condemning them for what happened to my parents is not the same as seeing all wyverns sympathetically. Most of the culprits that participated in the rebellion were caught and punished, but I guarantee there were wyverns that slipped through the cracks and slid under the radar. I have zero interest in giving any of them another opportunity to kill a Syphon who stumbles into their midst.

“If you want to work with Fenox, you’ll have to go to the Wyvern Den,” the Burner adds, like it’s no big deal.

Well, shit. I was afraid he was going to say that.

I stare at Ogdan for a moment and then look over at the other three Wing members in the room. None of their faces give anything away, but the dread pooling in my chest has me on high alert. Didn’t Ogdan say he and Jori were escorting a last-minute addition here when they were summoned? I’d wager my left tit it was this Azo guy.

Outside, I’m as calm as can be, but internally, I’m reeling and trying to figure out what to do. I was wrong about the Noctises not wanting to take me out. They just didn’t want to get their hands dirty. It’s probably why I still haven’t met the king. Why waste your royal time when you know the problem is going to be dealt with shortly? And what better way to take care of a little Syphon problem than to let the wyverns finish what they started all those years ago?

“Okay, when can we go?” I ask evenly, refusing to let even the faintest pitch of panic seep into my tone.

They got me with this one, but I’m not going to let them know I’m on to them.

“It’s still early. We can go now if you want,” Tove answers, just as nonchalantly.

I swallow down my trepidation and rise from my chair with a nod.

Fuck.

I’m going to need weapons.