Page 3 of Blue Embers
Malisa scowled, tossing her napkin at me and spitting something in French. Most likely a very dirty insult that no old lady should be spewing, but strangely enough, French was not one of the six, human languages I’d learned over the years.
“Also, that woman called from the museum,” Malisa continued. “Ms. Grant. She said some things in the exhibit need your approval.”
“Ms. Grant?” I asked, trying to recall a face that went with the name.
“Persephone Grant? The woman who has been overseeing the Draak exhibit for you these past three months? Mr. Valentyne, you really should have a better memory. A man of your experienced age?”
“Right,” I nodded, still unable to recall if I’d ever seen the woman.
Ms. Grant had been handling the exhibit downtown while my job was mostly to fund it. Although, she’d been hired while I was in Nytho dealing with the excitement of the gala attack and I hadn’t really thought of the museum much since.
“Did she leave a number?” I asked, reminded that the museum was actually something I had been passionate about before the rebel attack.
“No. She seemed adamant about you coming to the museum yourself. I think you should. It’s your exhibit after all. And you said you wanted to contribute that fancy blade of yours.”
“I’ll head over in the morning and visit,” I nodded. “Today is my day off.”
Malisa snorted. “From what? Being a handsome prick?”
“It’s hard work, love.”
2
Killian
. . .
I stood at my bedroom balcony, leaning forward on the metal railing overlooking the beach. The sunrise was a splash of warm colors on the horizon the next morning, bleeding over the calm surf. I enjoyed the earliest hours of the day the most. It was a quiet time in which my thoughts found the most solace and my focus was at its peak, but this morning I was a bit jumbled.
I was eager to get back to Draven with some good news or information pertaining to the rebels, but I was stuck with nothing to give. After being reminded of the museum I’d been donating to for almost a decade, I realized I could really use another project to sink my mind into. Perhaps it was the break I needed in order to find my bearings with the rebels again. On one note, the museum felt unimportant compared to the more dire problems surrounding the gala attack, but on the other hand, the point of the exhibit I was funding was meant to improve human/Draak relations for the future. I wasn’t about to let that progress slip away while I dwelled on things I couldn’t immediately fix.
The museum was a half hour drive into the city and when the sun was finally up, I slipped into a pair of dark jeans and a blue button up. Fixing my hair in a neat brush back from my face, I walked downstairs where Malisa had already prepared some coffee for me in a glass mug on the table. It was nearly boiling when I grabbed it and took two, large sips. Swiping one of the blueberry pastries she was baking in my other hand, I headed for the carport.
Outside, the air was a humid, warm breeze that carried the fresh scent of the salty ocean in from the coast. I enjoyed the aromas of the trees and water where the manor sat, isolated by a few miles from any other properties. It gave me room to breathe.
In the carport, a midnight-blue Bugatti sat waiting. I slipped into the driver’s seat, the black leather making that wonderful creaking noise as I settled behind the wheel. I chugged the last of my coffee and set the mug down in the cupholder before pulling out of the port.
The drive to the city was usually a peaceful one until the traffic reminded me why my house was so far separated from the more populated areas and even more separated from the Draakir headquarters on the north end. Making the decision to retire from council duties was one of the best I’d made in the past decade. Now I was free to fraternize, misbehave, and throw my money at the things I enjoyed rather than things that benefitted my public image.
Driving through a glowing city near the east coast filled with the urgency of thousands of people scrambling to be places was worth it when I came to the old building. It was a stone structure with pillars on either side of the glass entrance and a large, Draak statue standing erect in the courtyard. That little detail was new, put there to welcome the upcoming addition to the museum. An attraction completely dedicated to Draak history. One I’d been funding for years and only now was seeing come to a head.
I parked the car around the back of the building where I could access a door by the loading dock. I hated using the front for fear of seeing the strange security boy at the lobby desk, who always thought it appropriate to ask me to set him up with one of my many female acquaintances. I was partly certain he wasn’t even the right age to be involved with any of the women I knew, but then again, all humans seemed young.
Stepping into the museum was always like crossing between worlds. Inside, everything was old and fixed. Polished wood railings framed the staircases. Chandeliers hung over the main foyer, casting an almost romantic lighting across the marble floors. Everything smelled classic, like wood by a fireplace or the wax of burning candles.
I slipped my car keys in my pocket and stepped lightly across the floor toward the staircase, but rather than ascend to the second floor where the museum was mostly dedicated to art and sculptures, I strode around to a set of double doors that led into another wing. The doors were closed at the moment, but soon they’d be propped open for the public. I took a deep breath and stepped through into a large, open chamber that had once been a sparse architecture exhibit, but was now a treasure trove of Draak artifacts, art, and historical documents.
The exhibit, which had been growing for years, was now a sizeable collection of donated items from around the world. The center of the arrangement was a metal sculpture that nearly reached the ceiling. I looked up at the titanic display of a dragon rearing toward the sky, mouth agape with a jaw full of teeth. The sister statue to the one standing outside. Its wings were outstretched and hovered over other parts of the exhibit. Its broad chest was split in a graceful manner, its body deteriorating to show a man on the inside, head down, arms to the sides in an almost biblical fashion. It was a magnificent telling of transformation that made my kind beautiful in a world where some humans still looked at us like monsters.
Around the ballroom-sized exhibit, the walls were filled with paintings, scrolls, and photos dating back to the invention of cameras. History was documented in that room. The Grey War that happened over a thousand years ago between Draak and man. The wars on Kumir. The dead world of our birth and on to the war that concluded barely a hundred years ago and ended in Draak and humans living in peace. A tender peace, but one that stopped the fighting nonetheless.
Historical documents sat under glass on tables around the room, narrating the formation of the Draakir, the Draakir-protected sectors, the human councils, the creation of the Red Race, and other meaningful events that shaped the society we lived in. Even after many years hunting down each piece and paying others to organize it, I was still fascinated about the progress. It was a feat to have so many things in one place. Even some Draak from the first wave of arrivals had come forward with belongings of their own. I, of course, had been through the collection many times. Today I was there on real business. I was there to meet this Persephone Grant, a woman I’d hired a few months back to oversee the finishing touches and the grand opening of the new wing.
Bordering the large enclosure was a second story terrace where two private rooms were located. An office and a storage room for items not yet identified or categorized. My first guess at where Persephone might have been was the office. I walked up a narrow flight of stairs to the walkway and gave the wood door to the office a small knock before entering. Inside was a middle-aged man with a balding head and a pair of glasses on his friendly, round face. He stood from a cluttered desk as soon as I entered and immediately straightened his maroon-colored tie.
“Mr. Valentyne,” he greeted, stepping around his workspace to shake my hand.
“Benjamin,” I greeted.
