Brave the Tempest (Cassie Palme) - Karen Chance Page 0,118

Or let Ismitta get back to her feet with another little smile, preparing to send me out of the room.

Yeah, I thought, back on my feet, too, almost before I realized it.

Let’s see how well that goes for you!

I had a chance to see her eyes widen slightly, to watch Mircea say something I couldn’t hear because of the heartbeat pounding in my ears, to witness Marlowe jumping up and gesturing and the consul looking pissed. I didn’t care. When vamps pushed you, you pushed back, or you were a servant forever. And I was done being a servant!

But the showdown never happened.

Because someone else was angry, too, and he was a lot more vocal about it—and a lot more insane.

Chapter Twenty-seven

A man, or possibly a fey—it was hard to tell, since he was sitting beside Caedmon and all covered up—suddenly leaned forward and slapped the table.

“Can we get back to the point?” he snarled. “I’m telling you, invasion is impossible!”

I started slightly and then stared at him. I couldn’t help it, but not because of the almost palpable anger radiating off him. But because he was wearing what looked like actual dragon hide.

This wasn’t the knobby skin of legend, scarred and battle worn, but more like the liquid scales on the dress I’d bought from the coven, although these weren’t metal. They looked like flakes of precious stone or fossilized feathers, in a vibrant iridescent green that shone with a prism of other colors whenever he moved: sapphire, ruby, amethyst, and opal. They were like a carpet of jewels, and were beautiful—simply beautiful.

They were also disturbing.

Because the priceless, elegant, floor-length coat with the huge bell sleeves, the kind of thing that would have been the finale piece in any designer’s collection, turned into a farce above the neck. Where it was topped by what appeared to be an actual dragon’s head. The hollowed-out skull formed a hood—or maybe a helmet, because it was said that nothing could penetrate dragon hide—while the snout pushed out like an extra-long bill on a baseball cap. The creature’s eyes had been removed and exchanged for some sort of green stones that glowed yellow when the light hit them, flashing almost like it was still alive.

It was bizarre and freakish even among the glitterati of the supernatural world, and would have looked ridiculous anywhere else, like an over-the-top Halloween costume. Instead, it sent a shiver up my spine, although I wasn’t sure why. And then I realized why.

Dragons were the fey version of shifters, like our weres. They were called two-natured due to having both a human and a dragon form, which they switched between on a regular basis. So he was basically wearing the skin of a person—probably a very young person, because the skull was just big enough for his own head to fit inside.

He was wearing the skin of a dragon child, I realized, in creeping horror. And, sure, maybe it had been bought from the family of the deceased, because according to Saffy, dragonkind had very different attitudes toward dead bodies than humans did. But a child? Would anybody really sell their child’s body? Especially if they knew that someone else was going to wear it like a trophy?

I abruptly sat back down, feeling queasy.

“Yes, thank you, Mage Talbert,” Mircea said. “As we were saying before, the geography is certainly a challenge—”

“It isn’t a challenge! It’s impossible! Even the fey can’t get in there anymore!”

I could only see the lower part of the man’s face, thanks to the shadow from the snout. But the skin on his chin, underneath some grizzled stubble, looked like tanned leather, and the teeth were gray and black and broken. The face didn’t go with the beautiful coat.

“It’s true,” Caedmon said, looking at me for some reason, maybe because I’d missed the first part of this. “My son barely escaped from a recent scouting trip alive.”

“I told you he was a fool to try it,” Talbert said. “Svarestri are crawling all over that region, and not small parties, neither. They’ve shut down all the portals, moved two whole villages out of the area—villages where I had my contacts, at that! And put those giant bloody sentries everywhere—”

“You rule the skies, do you not?” a man asked lazily, from farther down the table. “I fail to see what a mere sentry can do.”

I recognized Anthony, the European consul, with his handsome, going-to-seed-and-enjoying-it face and crisp white toga. I thought it was a shame he had