Page 8 of Delinquent Dette
“Only a Dette too dumb to know his family’s history and as wild and foul as Frikka would mate that boy.” Colborn grinned, and it did Frikka’s heart good.
“I apologize. I made assumptions.” Frikka followed suit as Sten found a seat, finding purchase on the Drake’s lap. If anything, the brute made a comfortable chair.
Frikka held Gaspard’s handkerchief to his nose as a future flashed in his eyes of more pups than he could count, one with a king’s coat, and a tiger lily Dette with silver scales.
Chapter Five
Sten
1825
The new world treated them well. Sten’s knowledge of trade and the spicelands, his men, and their combined wealth had seen to them making the voyages over winter to do trade with faraway places. Frikka? He drank himself stupid and picked fights with Drakes as a hobby. Part of him never could get over their lost son.
The boys were largely independent, thankfully, and the revolving Dettes that the Dior den brought in always grounded Frikka a little. He found solace in helping them and peace in taking revenge.
Cairn, for his part, had gone two years after arriving, making Hallr mope an entire season as the Dette wrote to them about the lovely Long Drake that he’d mated to, all thanks to Frikka’s wild magic that fixed his face andmostlyrepaired his arm. The Dette would never be fully right, but Tao Long, his mate, never noticed a thing. Like Hallr, he declared the male beautiful. And they’d had a clutch of two eggs. No word on what they’d hatched to be.
There was a Slang Dette after that, more Lochs than Sten could name, and even a Zmei Dette who came to them as a stowaway, delivered to them by the council head himself, a young and indomitable Long dragon—Sile.
And Hallr, coming in to the wiles of youth, sniffed about the estate, none the wiser as to the trade of Dettes or their purpose there. Colborn had even started chasing Hallr off until Sten had to bring him through the winter on a trip with his brothers. In the spicelands, Sten always asked for the blue flowers, and sometimes he’d get one, sometimes not.
On the years he got them, Frikka seemed to take to him, more affectionate and calmer.
On the years he didn’t?
Sten shuddered. It was hit or miss the coming season, as Sten had only gotten a bottle of crushed blossoms and told a tale the flower was near extinct. The seller doubted any would remain the next year.
Hallr, as obsessed with flowers as he was, treasured the tales and searched for more. Treasured it almost as much as he treasured meeting with the Indian counterparts to the Neilsens, the eunuch Drakes of the Vritra—dragons born with no proclivity to mate or be with Dettes.
They told him fanciful tales of sacred flowers, the first dragons, and the blossoms that males would present to their mates to make them accept their bonds and bear large clutches. The same stories that Sten had been told when he’d paid the last of his loose gold for the original handful of blossoms in hope to woo Frikka.
Worked for me.
Though, his whore goose had more to do with that. Poor bastard.
Hallr had spent a fair penny in a coppersmith’s forge one winter, working with the eunuch Drakes to learn the power of herbs and had built a distillery that—rather than making medicine—earned him a small fortune in scented oils that led him into ambergris—whale vomit. Hallr could smell the vile chunks and always brought back a few small whiskey barrels full of the stuff that he purified and sold at the markets for increasingly steep prices. He was exceedingly lucky and blessed with a power for riches.
Sten had never been a poor dragon, his savings plenty to get him started—especially with the aid of Frikka’s longboat. He was not the wealthiest of dragons, but he earned the low rankingof gold and never ceased to bring Frikka treasures and coins, stocking up the cavern under their home with more gold and treasure than was strictly wise. Because if Frikka wouldn’t mate him, he’d at least never give the wild Dette a reason to leave.
Sten had never seen a living version of the flower, just the odd ones here and there dried for Frikka. Hallr was obsessed, fixated on the things and the tales they weaved of healing broken Dettes, fixing heats, and helping love. The romance would be crushed from him soon enough. He had a mind full of questions and chased Dettes just as fervently as any Nielsen.
That summer, Hallr spent searching for more tales of the blossoms, of medicines Dettes used to heal.
Jasper and Jörmun took a ship back to the homeland, determined to find their mates.
Peter and Torsten forged their own path, buying ships and starting trade routes as they found new homes in the Canadian colonies. Sten had all but retired, giving the boys their free rein as he drew interest from old ventures.
“Dette! I’m home!” Sten sniffed his home, always in search of an odd Drake stalking his mate—it had happened before. Ended badly. The Slang clan still held a grudge for it, and Frikka had a belt made from the Drake’s tail he’d severed halfway down.
Spring had sprung and Frikka was no exception when the sweet scent of heat lured Sten down into their nest. He wasn’t ripe, but he wasn’t in his full rights, either. “God morgen to you, lover.”Good morning.
“It’s afternoon and you stink of ale. Did you get drunk today?”
“Got drunk the day before yesterday. Haven’t sobered, since!” Frikka laughed and Sten pulled out the vial of flowers.
“Let’s get some tea in you and see if you did any damage I cannot afford this year.” Sten picked his mate out of their nest, slipping on coins as he did so. The carved stairs from the cavernled up to the house built atop it. It provided cold air in the summer’s heat.
“I love you, Dette.” Sten sighed as he spit fire into the hearth and cleaned the kettle to boil water.
