Kaylin chewed on her thoughts while her familiar chewed on her hair as she walked down the foyer stairs toward the dining room. The dining room’s fancy doors were open, there was food on the table, and she was—as usual—late. Annarion was seated beside Mandoran. If Nightshade was Annarion’s brother by blood and lineage, Mandoran was a sibling by shared experience. Seated across from Mandoran was Bellusdeo, her golden hair pulled back in a braid that was looped together on the back of her head. Given the slightly orange tinge to her eyes, it was clear she and Mandoran had already started their daily bickering.
Having a Dragon living in the same house as a Barrani who’d lost his family to the Draco-Barrani wars was never exactly peaceful.
Before she could enter the dining room, Annarion looked up from his untouched plate. “I want to know how you first met my brother.”
No, mornings were definitely not her friend.
“I don’t think,” Helen said to Annarion as Kaylin made her way—silently—to her chair, “that Kaylin wishes to discuss your brother at breakfast.”
Or ever.
“I told him you’d say that,” Mandoran added, half-apologetically. Half was usually as much as he could muster.
“I’m surprised he didn’t listen,” Bellusdeo said, picking up a fork as if it were a fascinating, rarely seen utensil. “Usually you’re the one who chooses to be selectively deaf.” She smiled at Mandoran. “I’ve come to find it quaintly charming.”
Mandoran’s eyes shifted to a steady, deeper blue, the universal sign of Barrani fear or anger. And he certainly wasn’t afraid. “As charming as a Dragon in mortal clothing?”
“Oh, infinitely more so. I assume once you’ve developed better command of your manners, I will be far less entertained. But I don’t expect that to happen in the next decade. Or two.”
Mandoran’s natural dislike of Dragons as a race left Kaylin stranded with Annarion, who was still staring at her. No one could outstare Barrani.
“Why won’t you speak about my brother?” he asked. The question was softly spoken, but his tone made it more of a command than a request for information.
She considered and discarded a number of replies as she began to eat. She wasn’t hungry, and even if she had been, Annarion’s question would have killed her appetite. But she’d grown up on the edge of starvation, and she could always eat.
None of her possible replies were good. The truth was, she liked Annarion. He was—for a Barrani—honest, polite, self-contained.
“I don’t suppose you could ask your brother.”
Mandoran took a break from his barbed “conversation” with Bellusdeo. “He’s asked.”
“Nightshade didn’t want to talk about it?”
“No, he talked about it.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“He was lying.”
Annarion glared at Mandoran, looking as if he wanted to argue. He turned back to Kaylin instead. “I want to know your side of the story.” Meaning, of course, that he agreed with Mandoran’s assessment.
“I’ve got the usual mortal memory,” Kaylin replied evasively. “And I might lie, as well.”
Mandoran snorted again. “Your attempts at lies are so pathetic you should probably use a different word to describe them.”
Kaylin glared at Mandoran. Bellusdeo, however, said, “He has a point.”
Kaylin wasn’t certain how she would have answered. She was saved by the appearance of the last of her housemates. Moran—Sergeant Carafel in the office—entered the dining room. Moran was almost never late for anything, even breakfast.
Clearly, she had some reason for being late now, and it wasn’t a pleasant one. Her wings—or what remained of her wings—were stiff and as high as they could get with their protective bindings. Her eyes were blue. Aerian eyes and Barrani eyes overlapped in only one color. Moran was either angry, worried or both.
Kaylin had risen before she realized she’d left her chair, which did nothing to improve Moran’s mood. Moran did not appreciate any worry that was aimed in her direction. Ever.
“As you were, Private.” She sat on the stool provided for her; Aerian wings and normal chair backs didn’t get along well. To Helen, she added, “The mirror connection was smooth and solid.”
It certainly hadn’t started out that way. Helen had a strong dislike of mirrors, or rather, of the mirror network that powered their communication. Regular silvered glass didn’t bother her in the slightest. “I made a few adjustments, dear. I’m terribly sorry that the faulty connections to date have caused so much difficulty for you.”
“They haven’t,” Moran replied, her voice gentling, her eyes darkening.