Dragon Bound (Elder Races #1)(76)

Hard on the faerie’s heels stormed the gigantic American Indian male Pia had noticed in the group of sentinels greeting Dragos’s return to New York. At six foot four and 250 pounds, with barbed-wire tattoos circling thick, muscled biceps and swirls shaven into short black hair, the Wyr male was no less a frightening sight in broad daylight than he had been at night. His face looked like it had been hewn with a hatchet.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. Graydon’s eyebrows rose. Either not noticing or not caring about their presence, the male charged around the corner. Tricks stepped out behind him and smacked him flat-handed in the back of his head.

The American Indian spun on one heel with blinding speed. He grabbed Tricks by the shoulders and hauled her up so she was nose to nose with him.

Pia made an involuntary noise. Instinct took over and she tried to move forward, to do something to help the delicate faerie. Rune’s hand tightened on her arm, anchoring her in place. He whispered, “Not when there’s thunder in the air.”

What the hell did that mean?

Tricks shouted point-blank into the Wyr male’s angry face, “I’ve had it up to here with your mulish bad-tempered crap, Tiago! I’ll thank you to remember my name is not ‘Tricks goddammit’ or ‘God damn you, Tricks.’ Henceforth those phrases are against the law—when you yell at me again the next one out of your mouth better be ‘Goddammit, ma’am’!”

For one throbbing moment they stared at each other. Then the rage in Tiago’s face splintered. “‘Henceforth?’ ” he said. He started to chuckle. “You’re kidding, right?”

She kicked him in the shin. “Don’t you dare laugh at me!”

He laughed harder, and the ruthless hatchet-faced assassin transformed into a handsome man. “But you’re so damn cute when you’re mad. Look at you. The tips of your ears turned pink.”

As the Wyr male’s anger dissipated the faerie seemed to compress, even vibrate, with deeper fury. “Wrong thing to say, moron,” she snapped. She drew back her fist and planted it in his eye.

Tiago’s laughter hiccupped. “Ow.” He put a hand over his eye and glared at her. “Have all the hissy fit you like—you’re still not leaving New York without a Wyr security detail.”

At some unspoken signal she didn’t catch, Rune and Graydon relaxed. Graydon’s hand fell from his sidearm as Rune let go of Pia’s arm. She glared at him and rubbed the spot, even though he had been quite careful not to cause her discomfort. She followed the gryphons as they stepped out of the elevator.

“Tiago,” Tricks said, sounding severely tried. “First of all, Urien isn’t dead yet.”

“I give it a week,” said Tiago.

“Second,” the faerie continued, “after he’s dead, Dragos and I have already decided there will be no Wyr allowed when I leave. The Dark Fae would never accept the presence of a Wyr force, and if any of the other demesnes even suspect that the Wyr are trying to control the Dark Fae succession, shit would really hit the fan.”

“That’s suicidal,” said Tiago flatly. He crossed his arms, thick muscles bunching. “And it’s not happening.”

“Third,” Tricks continued through clenched teeth, “I’m going to be Queen. It’s the scissors-paper-rock game. Queen trumps Wyr warlord ass**le. I get that you’re used to commanding your own army, running around and killing things and doing whatever the hell you want. That doesn’t happen in New York, and it doesn’t happen around me. Get over it or go home. If you have a home. If you even live in a house.”

Tiago scowled. “I live in a house when I have time.”

Rune strode forward, demanding, “When did you and Dragos decide you would leave New York without Wyr bodyguards?”

The faerie threw him a hassled look. “We discussed it this morning.”

Graydon joined the triangle. “Sugar, I think we should revisit that decision. It’s gonna be a hell of a shock when you go public with your real identity. Most people think your whole family’s dead. There’s gonna be some Dark Fae who will feel mighty displaced when they find out you’re the real heir to their throne.”

Tricks slapped her fists over her ears. “We’re not talking about this. I’m not talking.”

Still standing by the elevator, Pia watched the angry quartet in fascination. She didn’t understand everything that had just happened, but it was clear the four of them were tied together with much more than just inter-Elder politics. They were in the middle of a knockdown, drag-out family fight.

She looked around, feeling awkward and quite the outsider. She recognized where they were from the earlier tour. At the end of the hall were large double oak doors, at present propped open. They led to Dragos’s offices.

Overcome with curiosity, she inched down the hall and peered into the inner sanctum to find yet more luxurious appointments and a rampant display of wealth. She sucked in a breath. She didn’t recognize a lot of the artwork she had seen in the penthouse, but she was pretty sure she was staring at a painting by Jackson Pollock that hung directly opposite the open doors.

Dragos stood nearby. He was deep in conversation with a large shaggy young man who managed to look rumpled and somewhat shabby despite wearing an expensive suit. Dragos caught sight of her and he smiled. The warmth of his smile spread through her, and she smiled back.