Page 50 of Dance with the Dragon Duke

Masha flapped her leathery wings and made a sound like a great irritated bird. In unison, the fireplace hissed and a hot breeze blew through the room like a huff.

“It’s important,” Dark insisted. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t. Tell Sora I need her. Please.”

A familiar could communicate with their witch through the link of their souls. While Dark waited, he examined the deceptively cozy space to see if anything had changed since he’d visited last. A round wax-wood table was surrounded by chairs beside a counter littered with jars of cooking ingredients. The hut smelled of dried herbs and brimstone.

A folded bit of blue fabric sat on the table. That was new. He wouldn’t dare go searching through his sister’s drawers or cabinets, but he drew closer to the table without much worry. The hoard was aware of him and leery of intruders. He didn’t want to get his arm bitten off by a piece of furniture, so he stayedon his feet and carefully unfolded the fabric, listening for signs that he’d angered the hoard.

Other than a low rumble coming from the hearth, which had started when he entered, the hoard made no complaint. Unfolding the last section of fabric revealed the trident emblem, a discarded attempt at embroidering the new Unseelie flag.

The front door opened, and his sister—tall and willowy—stepped through. Four short bone-colored horns sprouted from the crown of her head. She wore her golden hair loose down her back. Briefly, he caught sight of sunlight over a snow-covered mountain ridge before the door clapped shut.

“Brother,” she greeted. Her hard mountain accent was thicker, more antiquated than his. “You look . . . alive enough.”

Dark dropped the unfinished flag onto the table. He needed to ask his questions and get back to his mate, but he calmed himself. No one got anywhere making hasty demands of Sora.

“Alive, yes,” he told her. Then he frowned at her feet peeking out from the bottom of her red velvet dress—a dress of many centuries past. Her toes were bare and snow-covered.

She trotted over to the hearth, allowing the heat from the fire to melt the slush off.

“Why don’t you ever wear shoes?” His skin was as dragon-tough and resistant to the weather as hers, but that didn’t mean he wanted muck between his toes.

Sora removed an apron from the hook by the hearth and pulled it over her dress—a queen in a maid’s smock, a strange sight indeed. “I love my shoes. If you keep them on your feet, they wear out, so I don’t wear them often.”

“Fair enough.” Dark tapped on the flag. “I didn’t realize you’d designed the new emblem yourself.”

“You know what they say.” Sora struggled to tie her apron in place. “‘If you want something done right, do it yourself.’”

She summoned her familiar with a glance. Masha flew to her aid, using clawed fingers to tie the apron cord into a loose bow at her back. Bricks in the chimney rolled aside to reveal the kettle Sora had conjured. She hung it over the fire, then made herself comfortable in the nearby armchair. Masha curled up on a fur rug at her feet.

Dark fingered the detailed emblem. “Why a trident, I’ve always wondered?”

“A trident is three weapons in one. It represents the three powerful women who brought down the tyrant,” Sora said.

Masha lifted her head. Her forked tongue tasted the air.

“That’s right,” Sora said, responding to whatever thought her familiar had sent her. “You were one of those powerful women.”

Dark squinted at the piece. The decorative hilt of the third prong appeared to be covered in inky dragon scales like Masha’s. “You, the queen, are the larger, center-most blade, I assume?”

Sora shook her head. “I’m not represented in the trident at all.”

The hilt of the middle prong had long curved edges that reminded Dark of fairy talons. The first blade was flecked in green and gold like the ancient weapons favored by the elves. Immediately, Queen Rain and her fairy ward came to mind.

“Darko,” Sora said reproachfully, “tell me why you’re here.”

He hadn’t realized until that moment how strongly he’d been avoiding the subject. Immediately, the reminder put a rock in his throat. He pictured his mate hiding from shadows, curling up in the bed of a near stranger, hoping he was scary enough to keep death away for her.

His poor beloved . . .

The thought must have done something to him, something his sister read on his face. In the quiet, Sora’s expression softened, a look Dark was uncustomed to seeing on her. The kettle screeched. She retrieved it, carrying the steaming water tohis side. The table had produced a tea set, cups, saucers, and a plate of cinnamon-scented biscuits. Sora folded up the flag and used it as a cozy to cushion the hot pot.

“I’ve been worried about you, brother,” Sora confessed as she lowered herself into the chair opposite him.

He sat with a plop at the head of the table. He’d never felt so heavy before, like he had a boulder strapped to his chest and a mountain on his back.

“Worried about my usefulness, you mean,” he groused.

Sora poured hot water into two cups and prepared their tea, her face placid. “When you left for the Lunar Court, I was hopeful you’d finally find the solace you wanted, but you still appear to have one eye looking over your shoulder.” She paused and her gaze met his. Hers was a deep and dark blue, as cold and vast as an ocean of glaciers.

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