Deven and the Dragon - Eliot Grayson Page 0,68

inside the house. “I’ll tell Peter you were here.”

And with that she shut the door, leaving Deven stunned on the front step.

Bother. Deven only knew one other person who said that.

Slowly, Deven made his way back home, his fingers clenched tight around the wooden box in his coat pocket. There was no way in fucking hell he was giving the scale to Holling. Even if Deven had been willing to, it wouldn’t work. The recipient had to be ‘pure of heart,’ didn’t he? George had called it, hadn’t he, saying that left out the bloody council.

And the thought of handing it to that vile old man was disgusting, obscene. Fiora had torn that scale from his own flesh — Fiora, ill and betrayed and alone, probably standing on top of his turret in his billowing cloak wishing Deven would fall into a hole somewhere and die.

If Fiora were even well enough to be on the roof. Deven had spent part of every night since he’d come back to Ridley perched on top of the highest hill in town, in a small park there. No matter how long he stared at the sky, stared until his eyes burned, he hadn’t seen Fiora flying.

Had removing the scale hurt him, kept him from spreading his wings? Had it made whatever his illness was worse? Andrei hadn’t answered his question. That meant nothing. He wouldn’t tell Deven anything.

Deven picked up the pace, all but running back to the inn. Fiora’s generosity might be wasted, but at least he ought to know that it wasn’t wasted on Deven.

“There you are! Where the hell have you been?” Phina cried, popping out of the kitchen door the moment Deven strode into the inn’s yard. “Jenna’s run ragged in the taproom, you need to get yourself in there — Deven! Where d’you think you’re going?”

“I’m sorry,” Deven called over his shoulder. “I can’t. I’ll be back later.”

He ran up the back stairs to his room, slamming the door shut and locking it behind him. He’d cleaned up a bit to go see Mrs. Holling, but that wasn’t nearly enough for his next destination.

Deven bathed as best he could in a basin, carefully put on his very best coat and the only really decent shirt and cravat he owned, the ones Phina had set aside for him to wear to the rare wedding or funeral.

The box safely transferred to this coat’s pocket, he ran down to the stable.

“You can’t take that horse!” Harry protested. “She belongs to Mrs. Drucker!”

Deven adjusted the stirrups and looked up. “Harry, has something given you the impression you’re my employer, rather than the other way around? Also, Mrs. Drucker can take it up with me later on, if she cares. I don’t give a sodding fuck.”

Leaving Harry doing his best impression of a gasping fish, Deven cantered out of the yard and set off for the castle.

His visit to Mrs. Holling had taken up a chunk of time, bathing had used up more, and the road was entirely in shadow by the time Deven set out, the sun setting behind the hills. It would be nearly dark by the time he reached the castle.

Dinner time, almost. Would Fiora be at his table when Deven pushed his way through the front door, hopefully not having to break Fred’s nose in the process? Deven liked Fred quite a bit, but nothing was going to stop him. Not Andrei’s justified hatred, not Fred’s orders to keep him out, not a whole bloody army, should Fiora have acquired one in the past week.

Not even Fiora’s clear, unmistakable preference for Deven’s permanent absence from his house and from his life.

The scale felt heavier than it should have in his pocket, a physical manifestation of Deven’s overwhelming grief and loss and determination. Fiora was ill, and Andrei hadn’t said he was better, and he could be…Deven shoved that down as well as he could.

Fiora had sent him the scale. For Peter, and Deven didn’t flatter himself that it was out of any great affection for him. But Fiora had felt affection for him, hadn’t he? He must have. Thinking of sending the scale had to mean something. He bloody well must have felt something, because Deven couldn’t bear it if Fiora’s feelings for him had been as shallow as Fiora thought Deven’s had been.

Deven couldn’t bear it, period, this heavy, foul misery that had taken up permanent residence in his mind and his heart and his blood. It was as