Pia Saves the Day (Elder Races #6.6)(26)

Raging against his lost memory was an exercise in futility. He clamped down on the emotion as he tried several combinations on the computer, yet failed to discover the right password.

What would the other Dragos use as a password? He would not fall into the trap of using personal or obvious information.

When another log-in attempt failed, his self-control slipped. Snarling, he swept everything off his desk and threw a stapler with such force it shot through a window.

The glass shattered and fell out of the window frame, just as Pia walked around one edge of the doorway, talking on a cell phone.

Stopping in midsentence, she came to an abrupt halt. Then she said into her phone, “I’ll have to call you back later. I just wanted to let you know we’ll need a few days here.”

“I’ll arrange everything,” said the man on the other end of the call. “You concentrate on yourselves. Don’t worry about a thing.”

Graydon, the man’s name was.

“Give Peanut all my love,” Pia said.

All her love? Dragos’s rage acquired a new focus. Who was this Peanut?

“I will,” Graydon promised. “This is fantastic news, honey. I’ll talk to you soon.”

Her face calm and movements unhurried, she turned off her cell phone. She had showered too, Dragos saw, and had dressed in a cheerful outfit of yellow shorts and a light summer top splashed with big, bright sunflowers. Her hair was still damp, and she wore pretty flip-flop sandals with tiny yellow flowers etched into leather straps.

She looked like a happy creature of sunshine and light, while he was still seriously considering smashing the desktop computer to bits.

“You love someone called Peanut,” he growled, his fists clenched. “Who the f**k has a name like Peanut?”

She flinched. Somehow, he had managed to strike a nerve. Tucking her phone into her pocket, she said quietly, “That’s our son’s nickname. I started calling him that when he was just a little bundle of cells. You know, because for a while he was just the size of a peanut. Anyway, it stuck. His real name is Liam.”

He sucked in a breath. Pivoting away from her, he stared sightlessly out the window he’d broken.

She came up behind him and stroked his back. As soon as her fingers touched his bare skin, the last of his rage died. He bowed his head.

“What happened?” she asked gently.

He rubbed his face. “I can’t figure out his password.”

She paused, and when she spoke next, her voice had gentled even further. “His password?”

Tilting his head toward the sound of her voice, he realized what he had let slip.

His emotions surged again, a powerful cocktail of anger and frustration. All at once he let it go.

“Yes, his password,” he snapped. He shrugged away from her calming touch and rounded on her. “The other Dragos. The one who has a closet full of handmade suits upstairs. The one who reads contracts and negotiates treaties, and who debates the difference between Wolf and Viking appliances.” He gestured violently at the appliance manuals that had been resting on the desk, and now lay scattered across the floor.

She bit her lip. It was not in laughter. She said softly, “You wanted to buy the best things for my kitchen.”

The walls of the house closed in on him. Grabbing her hand, he snarled, “I’ve got to get out of here.”

Moving rapidly, he dragged her out of the house. She didn’t try to stop him. Instead, she trotted willingly at his side. As soon as they reached the open air, he let go of her hand, shapeshifted into the dragon, scooped her into one paw and launched.

Some flights are lazy, long spiraling glides through the air. This fight was a battle. His wings scything through the air, he flew as fast as he could back to the mountainside where he had rested the day before.

The ledge by the stream was just as they had left it, with the pile of his gifts, her pack underneath the trees, and the stack of firewood and partially burnt wood in the fire ring.

He landed, not gently, but caught himself up before he set her on her feet, which he did with deliberate care. Then he whirled away from her to pace.

She said nothing. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her walk to her pack and settle in the shade of the tree, with her back braced against the trunk.

Tilting his head toward the sun, he considered leaving her and taking a solitary flight. But if he had truly wanted to be alone, the dragon would have left her back at the house, and she was clever enough to let him find his own way through his uncertain, surly mood.

At last, he gave in to the summer sun and stretched out his great length on the hot stone.

He said into the silence, “I am well aware of how crazy I sound.”

He glanced at her sidelong. She had curled onto her side, knees tucked to her chest and head resting on her pack, watching him. Her expression was accepting, even compassionate. How could she look at him in such a way? She, of all people, should know that he was dangerous.

He demanded, “You do know that I am not that man, don’t you?”

Finally, she spoke. “I believe that you are not the man you think you were.”

Scowling, the dragon snapped, “What does that mean?”

“If you look at the details of his life without having his memories, I think it would be easy to get the wrong impression of who that Dragos is,” she told him. Sitting up, she crossed her legs and toyed with a blade of grass. “The handmade suits, the contracts and negotiations… He didn’t do all of that because he was civilized. He did it because he was playing the game.” She met his gaze. “And you are very, very good at it.”