Dragos Goes to Washington (Elder Races #8.5)(18)

Dragos whispered in Pia’s head, Vice President Colton is one of the ones responsible for stirring up much of the anti-Elder Races sentiment in Congress. Along with Senator Jackson, she spearheaded setting up the federal subcommittee that is investigating alleged abuses of power by the Elder Races.

Pia’s smile never wavered. She had grown used to their internal dialogue at such functions. Senator Jackson—he’s the one who lost his son in a boating accident earlier this year, right? I remember when news of his death was splashed all over the news.

Yes.

This time no pleasantries, no matter how insincere, were exchanged. Neither the vice president nor her husband offered to shake hands. Dragos did not deign to offer his either, and with a quick glance sideways at him, Pia took her cue and remained self-contained and composed.

“Mr. Cuelebre,” said the vice president, watching him with cold eyes.

It was clearly meant as an insult. The proper form of address was Lord Cuelebre. The dragon almost smiled at such pettiness, but that might involve showing too many teeth. And if he did that, he did not think he would be able to resist a little snap at the air in front of her.

Instead, he deliberately dropped the vice president’s honorific as he replied, “Mrs. Colton.”

As he spoke, he took in an instinctive breath to mark the scent of his enemy . . . but caught no scent from either her or her husband.

No scent at all.

Instead, all he scented was a faint chemical stink.

Realization raged through his veins. Both the vice president and her husband had sprayed themselves with KO Odorless Odor Eliminator.

Deer hunters used the spray to mask their scent. So did Wyr criminals.

This time the dragon did show far too many teeth. He put his hand over Pia’s as it rested in the crook of his arm, tightening his grip so hard he felt rather than heard her silent intake of breath.

He told the humans, “I look forward to having you for dinner tomorrow.”

“We will be there.” The vice president inclined her head in brusque acknowledgment.

Her manner clearly said they would be present because they had no other choice. As he spun Pia away from the other couple, she wiggled her fingers protestingly under the weight of his iron grip.

You look forward to “having them for dinner”? she asked silently, giving him a rebuking look. Really, Dragos, you’re not even trying. She paused to search his expression. What’s wrong?

He said, Did you catch their scents?

No, I— She paused thoughtfully and her eyebrows drew together. No. Not at all.

That’s because they were masking them. He glanced down into her confused face and explained, Human hunters mask their scents when they’re hunting prey. And Wyr criminals mask their scents to avoid detection.

Her confusion darkened into disquiet. That’s . . . why would they do that?

That is a very good question, and one I would like to get answered. He switched mental gears and looked for Bayne. The sentinel stood several feet away, talking to Eva. Dragos said to him, The vice president and her husband are masking their scents. I want to know why. And I want to know if there’s anybody else present who is doing the same.

Other than a quick flicker in his hard hazel eyes, the sentinel’s expression never changed. Calmly, Bayne said, I’m on it.

Since the White House was protected by the Secret Service, protocol for the evening’s function kept their individual security detail to two, one for each dignitary, which meant Bayne’s investigative capabilities were limited.

Take Eva with you, said Dragos. I’m staying with Pia.

You got it, said Bayne. The sentinel touched Eva’s arm and the pair headed off, disappearing into the crowd.

Pia rubbed her thigh as she looked over the crowd. She said in a quiet voice meant for his ears alone, “Suddenly I don’t feel like making nice or dancing with anybody.”

Distracted from larger questions, he frowned as he looked down at her leg. “Why do you keep rubbing yourself like that?”

“You don’t have to make it sound so dirty.” She scowled back at him. “My leg itches. Do you have to take note of every little thing I do? I mean every tiny, little thing, Dragos.”

“Yes,” he said simply. “When I look at you, even when things are going to hell, somehow everything is all right.”

“Ooh.” Her grumpy gaze melted into warm affection. She stepped close to slip an arm around his waist and lean against him. A corner of her mouth tugged upward. “Even when you’re about to put yourself in the doghouse over something, somehow you manage to say just the right thing and get yourself right out again.”

He put an arm around her, hugging her briefly as he pressed his mouth to her forehead. “That’s because you love me, and you hate having me in that doghouse anyway.”

“True . . .” Then she focused behind him, and her expression transformed into such complete delight, he didn’t have to turn around to know who was standing behind him. “Niniane!”

Pulling out from underneath his arm, Pia dashed forward. He pivoted on one heel to watch her throw her arms around a petite, curvy Dark Fae woman. Niniane, or “Tricks” as she had been known when she had lived among the Wyr in New York, threw her arms around Pia with an excited squeal.

Before Dragos killed her uncle Urien, who had murdered her family and usurped the Dark Fae throne, Niniane had been a refugee at Wyr Court, living under Dragos’s protection.