Deven and the Dragon - Eliot Grayson Page 0,19

Deven at all, but years before when he was able to have assignations in a moonlit garden — well, Deven would have been just the sort of man he’d want to have one with. Now, even if by some chance Deven felt the same about oddly blue-tinted dragons with flat asses, it was out of the question. He couldn’t, not to put too fine a point on it, get laid — and Deven was likely plotting to rob him, anyway.

By the time Andrei shoved him out the side door from the main drawing room and onto the long terrace overlooking the rose garden, Fiora’s mood had hit a nadir.

A low stone balustrade ran along the edge of the tiled space, perfect for leaning on and watching the moon rise over the flowers. Several sets of steps broke its line, leading down to winding pathways and tall hedges that divided beds overflowing with crimson and yellow and apricot roses, and even a few rare blue-tinted flowers. Hidden deeply in Fiora’s heart of hearts was the sad little wish that someday, one might be offered to him, perhaps with a silver-tongued comparison of its petals to his skin.

He’d have allowed his claws to be slowly removed with red-hot pliers before admitting it, of course.

No, he was doomed, and also terrifying. Fuck the roses.

Fiora swept down the nearest staircase, fluffing out his cloak a bit so that if Deven were watching he’d get the full swirling effect. Andrei had said he’d sent Deven out toward the rose garden, but hadn’t specified any part of it. Deven clearly wasn’t in this section — the roses only grew to Fiora’s shoulder-height, and Deven would have been instantly visible towering over them. Fiora set off somewhat at random. Not entirely. He wanted to be facing away from the moon as much as possible, so as to keep his face in shadow.

Gravel crunched beneath his boots, and a few small creatures rustled in the foliage. An owl hooted in the distance, sounding more pissed-off than mournful. A soft breeze off the river ran its cool fingers under Fiora’s hood and ruffled the long strands of his hair.

It was in every way a beautiful night. Fiora’s gloom deepened.

Around the corner of a bed of magnificent peachy roses, and almost certainly behind the hedge Fiora was approaching, he heard a second set of footsteps, a little heavier and slower than his own. Fiora’s heart thudded unevenly beneath his layers of heavy black, and his whole body prickled. He didn’t sweat — dragons never did. It was a small mercy, but it also meant no relief at all from the heat building up, like flames licking at the inside of his skin. He could let off a little puff of smoke and fire to relieve the pressure, but that always gave him such a sore throat in his human form. Bother.

“Mr. Clifton?” Fiora pitched his voice low and smooth, as a creature of the night ought to do. “A melancholy evening, is it not? I hope you’re not afraid of the dark.” I very much hope you are, and that you tremble at the sight of my ominous figure, you too-handsome cretin.

A rich laugh rolled through the sweet-scented air. “In reverse order, no, and also no. So I suppose the order doesn’t matter, does it?”

He sounded as bloody chipper as those cardsharp kitchen maids on a sunny morning, and when Deven popped out from the other side of the hedge he was grinning very wide, his teeth gleaming in the moonlight.

Fiora drew himself up to his full, unimpressive height. He was at eye level with the middle of Deven’s chest, and it was hardly confidence-inducing. “I beg your pardon?”

Deven blinked at him. “The night. It isn’t melancholy. And no, I’m not afraid of the dark, but if I were, it’s not particularly dark out here and the castle’s fifty feet away. I can hear Mrs. Pittel shouting about the dishwater spilled on the floor, can’t you? Hardly a setting for night terrors.”

Fiora paused to listen. To his great, cringing, humiliated chagrin, he realized he could indeed faintly hear his cook berating someone or other for not knowing how to use a mop properly. The door from the scullery into the herb garden must have been propped open.

Bloody hell. No cloak, no matter how hooded and swirling, could overcome the ambiance of an angry cook with strong opinions about clean flagstones.

“I suppose not,” he muttered sulkily. “But it’s still dark.”

“Moon’s up,”