my eyes,” Hari said. “Look into my eyes, and tell me you do not see something not entirely human. It is there, waiting. Waiting for me to find my skin.”
She did stare into his eyes, deep and deeper, but despite his best efforts, he could not perceive her emotions. He saw himself reflected in the sweet sky-blue of her gaze, and thought he had never seen such lovely, thoughtful eyes.
“How many of you were there?”
“At one time, many. Now, I do not know. We can be found in the water, on land, in the air. Dragon is a little of everything, but that kind was rare even then.” Hari paused. “During my last summons, I found a date. 1423. How long …?”
“Six hundred years,” she said, growing pale. She pressed her fingers against her lips. “You’ve been imprisoned in that box for almost six hundred years.”
A very long sleep, indeed.
He would have said more, but someone knocked on the door. Amid slight protest, Hari hurriedly tucked Dela into the small corner between bed and wall, concealed from the narrow entrance. She stooped to gather the bloody towels, tossing them deep into the shadows beneath the bed.
“Stay there,” he whispered. Dela glared at him.
Amusement—biting, quick—flared in his gut. He struggled mightily to keep his face straight. So she did not like being left behind? Or was that worry in her eyes?
Again, someone rapped on the door, this time harder. Troubled, Hari slipped into the bathroom for his discarded weapons, grabbing a dagger to hold tight against his thigh. Adrenaline sang through his limbs. He pressed his ear to the door, and—
“I smell food.”
Dela appeared. “Room service. I hope.” She carefully peered through a tiny glass hole he had not noticed, and smiled. “Hide that knife,” she said. Hari frowned, holding it behind his back as he gently shouldered Dela aside to answer the door. This could still be a trap.
But the tiny gentleman who smiled and pushed in a large, laden cart did not threaten them in any way beyond a somewhat heavy glance at Hari’s scars. Hari had long ago rid himself of self-consciousness; everyone stared when they saw his chest. Dela, however, spoke several sharp words that made the oldman jump and shuffle his feet. She passed small papers into his hand and walked him to the door.
Her unexpected protectiveness startled him. It was another strange reversal of that to which he was accustomed, and he fought the urge to speak of it, to point out the needlessness of her consideration.
Hari laid his dagger upon the table. Warm, rich scents assaulted his nose as Dela uncovered their meals, and he feared acting like a true animal. Thick cuts of meat filled his plate, accompanied by green vegetables. Fruit, exotic and varied, were piled high in a wide bowl. Dela poured tea.
“Come on,” she said, when he hesitated. “You haven’t eaten in six hundred years. Pig out.”
Hari was not sure what the last two words meant, but her intent was clear. He used his hands to pick up a slab of steaming meat, and had his mouth set to tear when he noticed Dela, eating delicately with fine silver utensils.
Dela saw him watching, and something passed through her eyes. She set down her utensils, plucked a vegetable from her plate, and popped it into her mouth. She licked her fingers. Her invitation was clear.
“Eat, Hari. Nothing you do will offend me.”
Warmth rushed down his spine, pooling in his stomach. So much time alone, suppressing dreams of simple kindness, and here—finally—a woman who showed him effortless compassion over something so small as a meal. It was almost too much to bear.
He did not mean to, but hunger of an entirely different sort suddenly flowed through his veins. He imagined Dela stretched amid the food, splayed upon the table, creamy skin exposed to his hands and mouth—a consumption of the senses, filling, being filled, her legs wrapped around his waist….
A flush stained Dela’s cheeks, and Hari wondered what
She did stare into his eyes, deep and deeper, but despite his best efforts, he could not perceive her emotions. He saw himself reflected in the sweet sky-blue of her gaze, and thought he had never seen such lovely, thoughtful eyes.
“How many of you were there?”
“At one time, many. Now, I do not know. We can be found in the water, on land, in the air. Dragon is a little of everything, but that kind was rare even then.” Hari paused. “During my last summons, I found a date. 1423. How long …?”
“Six hundred years,” she said, growing pale. She pressed her fingers against her lips. “You’ve been imprisoned in that box for almost six hundred years.”
A very long sleep, indeed.
He would have said more, but someone knocked on the door. Amid slight protest, Hari hurriedly tucked Dela into the small corner between bed and wall, concealed from the narrow entrance. She stooped to gather the bloody towels, tossing them deep into the shadows beneath the bed.
“Stay there,” he whispered. Dela glared at him.
Amusement—biting, quick—flared in his gut. He struggled mightily to keep his face straight. So she did not like being left behind? Or was that worry in her eyes?
Again, someone rapped on the door, this time harder. Troubled, Hari slipped into the bathroom for his discarded weapons, grabbing a dagger to hold tight against his thigh. Adrenaline sang through his limbs. He pressed his ear to the door, and—
“I smell food.”
Dela appeared. “Room service. I hope.” She carefully peered through a tiny glass hole he had not noticed, and smiled. “Hide that knife,” she said. Hari frowned, holding it behind his back as he gently shouldered Dela aside to answer the door. This could still be a trap.
But the tiny gentleman who smiled and pushed in a large, laden cart did not threaten them in any way beyond a somewhat heavy glance at Hari’s scars. Hari had long ago rid himself of self-consciousness; everyone stared when they saw his chest. Dela, however, spoke several sharp words that made the oldman jump and shuffle his feet. She passed small papers into his hand and walked him to the door.
Her unexpected protectiveness startled him. It was another strange reversal of that to which he was accustomed, and he fought the urge to speak of it, to point out the needlessness of her consideration.
Hari laid his dagger upon the table. Warm, rich scents assaulted his nose as Dela uncovered their meals, and he feared acting like a true animal. Thick cuts of meat filled his plate, accompanied by green vegetables. Fruit, exotic and varied, were piled high in a wide bowl. Dela poured tea.
“Come on,” she said, when he hesitated. “You haven’t eaten in six hundred years. Pig out.”
Hari was not sure what the last two words meant, but her intent was clear. He used his hands to pick up a slab of steaming meat, and had his mouth set to tear when he noticed Dela, eating delicately with fine silver utensils.
Dela saw him watching, and something passed through her eyes. She set down her utensils, plucked a vegetable from her plate, and popped it into her mouth. She licked her fingers. Her invitation was clear.
“Eat, Hari. Nothing you do will offend me.”
Warmth rushed down his spine, pooling in his stomach. So much time alone, suppressing dreams of simple kindness, and here—finally—a woman who showed him effortless compassion over something so small as a meal. It was almost too much to bear.
He did not mean to, but hunger of an entirely different sort suddenly flowed through his veins. He imagined Dela stretched amid the food, splayed upon the table, creamy skin exposed to his hands and mouth—a consumption of the senses, filling, being filled, her legs wrapped around his waist….
A flush stained Dela’s cheeks, and Hari wondered what
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