The Warrior King (Inferno Rising #3) - Abigail Owen Page 0,21
which snapped their heads around to stare at him and Meira. Mostly him. The low rumble of voices that had sounded down the hallways ceased immediately, leaving a gaping silence in its wake.
Samael went still. All except his gaze, which he cast around the room, searching for any sign of threat. And I thought dragons could be intense.
“Stay here,” Carrick commanded.
The gargoyle stomped away, Vincent Van Goat following on his heels, to a corner at the opposite end of the room, followed by at least half of the adults, both women and men. They formed around him in concentric circles, then one by one, stilled and shifted to their stone forms, faces contorting and bodies changing to a multitude of grotesque shapes.
The accompanying scraping sound might be Samael’s second most hated sound in the world after the memory of his sister’s screams.
Beside him, Meira gave a little shudder.
He raised his eyebrows at her, and she grimaced. “That sound reminds me of chalk.”
“The screech of nails…” He totally got it.
“No. Chalk on a chalkboard.”
“Isn’t the expression nails on a chalkboard?” Now why had he indulged this conversation?
“Thank you, Webster.” She blinked, as if she’d startled herself with that response.
“Webster?” Again, that urge to chuckle struck him the wrong way.
“The dictionary guy,” she explained with an apologetic wince. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
She thought that was rude? Dragon shifters were going to tear her apart if she didn’t toughen up. His dragon’s instinct was to fly her away from all of it to keep her safe. But he couldn’t.
“The sound of actual chalk on a chalkboard was always worse to me.” Her explanation cut into his silent worries. “Like spiders.”
“Spiders?” What did those have to do with chalk?
She scrunched up her face. “Same sensation. Makes my skin crawl.”
“I see.” Samael battled the sudden and highly ridiculous urge to squash every spider in the world, his grip on the possessive, protective side she brought out in him slipping, his dragon pushing him even more. All while the gargoyles huddled in their silent, stone forms, deciding his fate. Strange didn’t begin to cover this.
Meira side-eyed him. “I think you actually do.”
Despite himself, Samael gave in and laughed at the suspicion coming from her. “Is that a bad thing?”
“Mimi!” a tiny girl called out as she ran across the room toward Meira, stealing her attention from him before she could reply.
All the rest of the gargoyle children, many more than Samael would’ve guessed existed in the entire world, took up the cry, rushing the woman he was supposed to protect.
They all circled her, tugging at her clothes and talking, but with words Samael couldn’t understand. Most dragon shifters spoke a majority of the most regularly used human languages. They’d been on the earth long enough, and, because female mates were found primarily among human women, other languages and cultures were integrated with dragons’ own regularly. He’d never encountered this one before. It had a vaguely Russian buzz to it, but also drawn-out sounds using intonation to form words, more like Chinese dialects.
Though Meira didn’t speak, she leaned over, holding out her hands. The children surged forward to touch her skin, making sounds that he interpreted as oohs and ahhs.
More vulnerable souls. She seemed to draw them to her…like the damn goat.
She glanced up at him, and Samael had to quiet a grunt of reaction at the lightness of her eyes, the closest he’d seen the color to matching her three sisters’. Like starlight, glowing white.
She’s happy here. Among the children.
“Why?” he asked.
She flicked him a glance that turned more serious, as though collecting back into herself. “Why what?”
Good question. “Why do they touch you?” he opted to go with.
She didn’t stand up, allowing the children to continue their exploration of her arms. “I think it has to do with how my skin is softer than theirs. I’m…different…is all.”
She waved at a tiny girl who appeared too shy to reach out and dropped to one knee to get closer to the mite, who tentatively touched one of Meira’s fingers.
“When we first lived in the Americas, most of the people there hadn’t seen Kasia’s, or Angelika’s, or my color hair before,” Meira said. “Angelika especially drew a similar response, though maybe more reserved, everywhere we went. At least until Mother used her ability to make people think we’d always been part of their community.” She gave a small shrug. “I learned early that normal in my own life might be extraordinary for someone else.”