So, she had a lead, but no answers. Only more questions, which meant she’d taken several steps backwards. But at least now she had a name. Or a…call name. Whatever it was called.

The guards allowed her and Amnan to leave, though she wasn’t certain allow was the correct term. As they walked, the geas attempted to bring her back, but she commanded her spiders and the pain flooding her veins renewed her will until the compulsion finally slid away, disgruntled.

It was eerie. As if the magic were a living thing, and understood what she was doing. And decided to bide its time.

They were walking, when Amnan touched her shoulder. “You don’t look well.”

She hated that he saw her weakness, but practicality ruled. “I need to sit.”

“Can we get out of this quarter first?”

She glanced at him. His eyes were glowing faintly, expression tight. “You think we’re in danger.”

“I think you are in danger. I don’t know what kind—and fae are slippery bastards.”

He glanced around, hand resting on her shoulder, fingers tight, but not enough to bruise. “If I have to fight, I want you to run, do you understand?”

She rolled her eyes. “My mother—”

“This isn’t about your mother!” He stopped, fingers sliding from her shoulder down to grip her wrist. “The fae won’t touch you. They’ll go through my scorching flame first.”

“You seem to be taking this personally.”

He grimaced. “It is what it is. I suppose if the dragon is to rise for any woman, it might as well be you.”

“Thanks. What a rousing—”

“I don’t love you, not yet. But I can feel the…potential. I don’t want to lose the chance. I know enough about you to know you would guard my family, my dragonlings, with your life. My mother—” he stopped, expression closing.

“You never mentioned you mother.”

“She died defending us.”

She reached up, touched his cheek. “And now you want to repay her by guarding a gaggle of females you think need your defense. Amnan. Bad trap to fall into. Mommy issues are worse than Daddy issues.”

“You should know.”

Serephone smiled faintly. “Seriously.”

“I’m older than you by centuries, woman. Do you think I don’t know my own mind?”

Serephone took a step back. She needed to think about his words—think about their effect on her. She might trust him—just a little—but was that enough to even try to give him what he was asking her for?

“I don’t need an answer now,” he said quietly “I just wanted you to know. This wasn’t really the best time to speak about it, anyway.”

She shrugged. “The time to speak is when it’s time to speak. I need to know what this compulsion is. He said it’s in my blood.”

He began walking again, accepting the change of subject. “Which confirms what my father suspected. You are fae, and your ancestry is rising up to bite us both in the ass.”

“Me. Not you.”

“Us. You’re my problem, dear sister, whether we like it or not.”

She was too tired to snap at him. The pain, the energy she exerted to cling to her own will slowly drained the strength from her bones. She needed food, and she didn’t care if that meant staying a few more minutes in the fae demesne.

“In there,” she said, pointing her chin at a corner cafe. There were quite a few in this city, she’d noticed, even in this area. As if the residents had nothing better to do than stroll the streets and sit and sip beverages all day long. Maybe that’s what rich people did. Pretend that there wasn’t a wasteland outside the Dome, radiation waiting to eat through skin and muscle. Creatures waiting to chomp on bones and internal bits.

Must be nice to live in la la land.

Amnan looked as if he wanted to protest, but glanced at her face and nodded. As they approached the door she saw her own reflection in the glass. Her face was pale, as tight as his own, her eyes glassy and bright green. Immortal bright, as if whatever non-human blood she had in her veins was rising to protect her.

They found a table and Amnan returned after several moments with beverages in his hand, a server setting a three-tiered plate of various small pastries, sweet and savory, on their table.

The drink was a frozen coffee. She stared balefully at the insipid, milky color of good black brew that had been assaulted with a flood of cream, flavored syrup, and sugar.

“You need the sugar boost,” Amnan said, eyes wide. Innocent.

He’d done it on purpose, then. He could hide behind a noble explanation all he wanted, she knew he’d gotten her this cloying confection as revenge for her earlier comment about his manhood.

“You fiend,” she muttered, suppressing a gag as she sipped. Cinvarra would have loved it. Persia would have ordered iced tea and pestered the barista about achieving the perfect water temperature for the brew, and wanting to know if the leaves had been grown in a radiation free zone or were contraband.

She selected one of the pastries, a mini quiche filled with sharp, tangy cheese, and ate it in one bite, her appetite awakening with interest. She quickly devoured two more before Amnan spoke.

“What is a geas?”

“You’re Dwyrkin. You’re asking me?”

“What is a geas?”

She should make him drink this glass of sugar suicide. “A magical compulsion. If under a geas, you must fulfill a binding oath placed on you.”

“A binding oath you must have agreed to. Stone and Skies, just drink it, Serephone. It won’t kill you.”

“You drink it.” Her hand darted out and she snatched his beverage, took a sip. Shoved hers at him. He stared at the glass, expression dark. When he looked up, her narrowed eyes warned him not to try anything funny. “I didn’t agree to anything, especially not a damn geas.”

“No, but a forebear may promise all kinds of things and drag his offspring into the promise.” He snapped his fingers. “I remember now. Goddamn fae. They have some kind of tether built into their genetics that hails back to the war. The theory was they needed to keep track of all their numerous half-human offspring to prevent any future difficulties. The geas is supposed to keep you close to home, so to speak. I remember my parents talking about it when it happened. The Tribunal almost banned it as a form of slavery, but the fae talked fast and threatened another war, and no one wanted more fighting.”

“That should be illegal.”

His lip curled, his only response.

Serephone glared at him. “So, who is Dawnthorne? The one who controls the geas? And why—”

“Don’t say his name. You speak the name and call the Lord.”

He was beyond irritating. “How can saying the word Dawnthorne—”

“You are a foolish child, not to listen to your elder.”

They both stilled, Serephone’s head whipping around as Amnan stood, expression blank. Eyes bright, slitted as his dragon rose to the surface.

“Lord Dawnthorne?” he asked, voice a deep, icy baritone.

The fae gestured. “Indeed. May I sit?”

* * *

There was a subtle shift in the traffic of the cafe. His own people should be used to a fae Lord, and maybe that was why. But a subtle, invisible barrier, a perimeter no one was willing to breach, became apparent. Serephone observed patrons politely ignore their table, walking at least three arm lengths around it to get where they were going. Which was a feat because the floor didn’t boast more than two dozen small round tables. As it was, three people sitting at one was cozy. Serephone held herself still, unwilling to accidentally bump knees with the creature who sat, silently, hands resting on the table in front of him, ignoring the drip of water off the side of her glass that trailed in an insouciant trail towards the tips of his fingers.

“What do you want?” Serephone asked.

Dawnthorne sat almost exactly in between her and Amnan, able to watch both their faces. He glanced at Amnan. Serephone wasn’t sure what the glance meant, and her ignorance did nothing to improve an already souring mood.

“You came to me,” Dawnthorne said.

And why a Lord would trouble himself to wonder why, Serephone wanted to know. There was nothing overtly different about him. He was tall, and he wore his hair long in the fashion of his people—though she’d noticed many cut their hair short. Hair as black as her own, but where hers shone blue, when the cafe door opened, letting in brief rays of extra sunlight, his highlights shimmered emerald. The green matched the undertones of his skin, a pale olive-gold that wasn’t quite the same as human olive-gold. When she met his eyes, they regarded her with the impassive arrogance of someone used to command. And when at first she thought his eyes a deep, shadowed green, they paled, abruptly, gaining a ring of gold at the rim of the iris.

Her stomach tensed. Dragon eyes were startling enough, but she was used to them by now. Eyes that changed color—that was new.

“Compulsion,” she said, not wanting to reveal her real reason for hunting him down. Let him think she’d been drawn here by the magic and her own curiosity rather than her investigation of his criminal activities.

“There is only one reason why you would be compelled.” Dawnthorne said.

Sitting here, she could taste the magic held in abeyance under his skin. A thin film of living proteins that separated the rest of the room from power that tasted as if it were enough to incinerate them all, if he so chose. Power she’d never felt before—she knew all Dwyrkin were magical, but dragons were different from fae, were different from werewolves, were different from the other creatures that also lived in human skin and came from the other dimension.

He held out a hand, a silent demand. She stared. “Take it,” he said.

“You’re insane,” she said.

“No.” His smile was bland. “Insanity is not my strength. Take it, I will not harm you.”

She glanced at Amnan, hating that she looked for his advice even that much. He met her eyes and said nothing, but she could tell by the set of his broad shoulders he was tense. But it was her choice, and he wasn’t growling.

“I don’t want to touch you,” Serephone said. “What is it you’re trying to learn?”

Dawnthorne reached out and seized her wrist, wrapping long fingers around her like a vise. She sucked in a breath and began to jerk back, incensed, but her magic chose that moment to flair to life, prickles running inside her skin in a flood toward where his flesh touched hers. Light shimmered, a tangle of green and gold, his glyph rising from her skin and hovering in the air before dissipating.

“So. You’re of my Line.”

“That’s what the light show means?”

He released her, studying her face. “I was not entirely sure—half breeds tend to look alike to me.”

Asshole. “How are we related?”

“The relationship, such as it is, would be distant.” He glanced at Amnan. “Why does a dragon accompany one of mine?”

“Her mother married my father. She is under the protection of Lord Maddugh of the Dwyrkin Adallsthone”

“I see.” Dawnthorne rose. “That will complicate things somewhat.”

Serephone crossed her arms. “Why?”

“I imagine your Lord will protest when he discovers you must remain here, but I do have the prior claim of blood. And I cannot let you leave, I fear.”

Her immediate, visceral reaction was violent. Serephone stood, her chair skittering backwards with an awful screech, whispering to her darlings. They emerged from their nests inside her sleeves, crawling up her arms and through her hair, a half-mechanical, half-psychic hiss only another magic user would recognize, much less hear.

Dawnthorne did not move, though his eyes widened slightly. Not in fear—there was no fear in how he held out his hand, as if in wonder.

“Don’t touch me,” she hissed again.

His hand lowered slowly. “Apologies. This is unexpected.”

“More unexpected than her existence?” Amnan asked.

Serephone glanced at him. Her own emotions were heightened, but Amnan stood with arms crossed over his chest, calm, speech dry.

“Put those away, Sere, we’re not alone,” he continued. She studied his face for a split-second, accessing their bond. His ease was all illusion. The lazy carelessness of his tone hid something deeper.

“Not until he takes back his threat.”

Dawnthorne’s brow rose. “I did not threaten you.”

“You said you would try to stop me from leaving.”

“Ah. The geas, not myself personally. There is paperwork to fill out, now that I am aware I have yet another half-breed cousin.”

She wondered what he would think if he knew she had sisters.

“Where are your parents?” he asked.

“As if I would tell you.”

“Child, I must know from whom you are descended. I mean you no harm.”

She snorted. “I’ll think about it. You say you mean no harm? Then I’m walking out of the demesne, and if there’s paperwork, you can send a courier to a postal center and I’ll pick it up.”

The spiders continued to roam, occasionally turning to hiss at the threat. As her heart rate slowed, they began to retreat, hiding back under her clothing. He weighed her expression, the tense stance of the dragon at her side, and hopefully came to the conclusion that a scene in the establishment wouldn’t be to anyone’s advantage.

“You’re an animage,” Dawnthorne said. “You should be trained. I’ll courier the paperwork—and I would like you to consider availing yourself of my hospitality for a time, until we may be certain you are neither a danger, nor an embarrassment to our line.”

“I’m only a danger to those who threaten me—and I don’t give a flying, mechanical monkey whether I embarrass you or not.”

Dawnthorne bowed. “We will speak soon.”