Deven and the Dragon - Eliot Grayson Page 0,20

Deven put in with the same unbearable, implacable cheer. “So not really.”

“It’s nighttime!” Fiora snapped, pushed to his limit. “That means it’s sodding well dark, doesn’t it? And you’re alone with a — a monster. Who breathes fire. Doesn’t that disturb you at all?”

Deven sidled a little closer, leaning down as if to see under Fiora’s hood, and Fiora’s anger faded away as if he’d been drugged. A new scent mingled with the roses’ heavy perfume. A little bit of the wine Deven must have had with his dinner, and a touch of something else — something rich and spicy and alluring that seemed to be coming from Deven’s skin. Fiora tried not to inhale too obviously, but he wanted more of it, and he found himself drifting nearer to Deven as if pulled on a string. His sense of smell was naturally more keen than a human’s, and he could catch pheromones that humans would never notice, but often enough he was overwhelmed by the burnt-metal tang of his own flames.

This scent, Deven’s scent, mingled with the smoke of dragonfire like an aged whiskey tinged with peaty earth. It felt like opening the door after a long journey and catching the familiarity of one’s own hearth and home.

“I can’t say I’m feeling terribly disturbed,” Deven said softly, with a half-smile Fiora couldn’t begin to interpret. Well, that made one of them who wasn’t disturbed. Bastard. “It’s a little strange to make your acquaintance when I can’t see your face, though. Are you — I don’t even know what to call you. Your Excellency?”

Fiora swallowed hard. Of course, it would be better to maintain as much formality as possible. “Lord Fiora will do.” Never mind.

“Lord Fiora.” Deven didn’t roll the consonants in Fiora’s name the way his own countrymen did, and somehow those three syllables became something foreign and exciting in Deven’s clipped accent. “Does it mean something? I mean, other than being a name.”

Oh, bother. With the moon shining down and gilding the tips of Deven’s brown waves of hair and lighting his smile, it was impossible to think clearly. “It means — it means —” Oh, fuck. “It means ‘born of darkness,’” Fiora said, in a burst of inspiration. It wasn’t as if Deven would know any different — he couldn’t read Fiora’s native language.

Deven grinned, a dimple appearing at one corner of his mouth. Under the cover of his hood, Fiora felt the corners of his own mouth pulling up in sympathy and ducked his head to ensure Deven couldn’t catch a glimpse.

“Your parents must have, um, they had quite the imagination? Or were you born in the middle of the night? Are they the sorts to take things very literally, and not imaginative at all? Because I’d think a name like that would be difficult to give to a newborn babe, wouldn’t it?”

Fiora’s parents were the sorts to spout fire over anyone who suggested that baby Fiora had been anything but the most adorable little teeny tiny dragon ever hatched, actually. His mother liked to reminisce about how he’d sucked on his tail when he was cutting his teeth — oh, God, he must never, ever allow Deven to meet his mother. Lucky for Fiora that she rarely strayed far from her mountain home hundreds of miles away.

Fiora’s choice of a new home was hardly a coincidence.

Bother, bother, he had to get it together. “It references my destiny,” he said as loftily as possible, with a wave of his hand he hoped appeared suitably mystical. “My destiny lies in darkness. Now, if you will walk with me —”

“No, hold up a moment, I’m sorry, but were you born in darkness or meant to go into darkness, somehow?” What? What was wrong with this man? He sounded honestly curious and perfectly calm, as if he were discussing the weather! “How’s it a destiny if you started there?”

“You’d have to ask my mother! Which you won’t do. Ever,” he added hastily, panic bubbling up in his throat at the thought. “It doesn’t matter. My name is of no importance, only that my destiny is…is dark. You don’t need to know any more than that. And anyway, I’d rather not talk about it.” That, at least, came out sounding sincerely gloomy.

Deven peered down at him, his smile fading. “All right,” he said gently. “Whatever you’d like. You may as well call me Deven, by the way. The only people who call me Mr. Clifton don’t like me very much.”

There