Chapter Eighteen
Gatlin
Two servants walked in quiet tow behind Gatlin as he navigated the estate and brought them to a room that had once been a sitting parlor that Leo had turned into his office, whittling away his days talking sense into the dragons of broken Dettes.
“Karam? Mahava?” Gatlin offered the two a place to sit on Leo’s expansive couch.
“I prefer to kneel, Lord Stoor.” Mahava lowered his head, thick lashes lining his hooded eyes as he sank to the floor in a demure pose.
“Do as you wish. Things within my household are far more informal.” Gatlin took a seat in a chair in the corner, glancing up when a wiry male strutted in, a ginger-haired little Dette at his heel. Frikka and Cinder.
“Think it wise to let Cinder in here?” Gatlin gave Frikka a long stare.
“Either he comes willingly where we can talk through the difficult parts, or he drops the eaves and does what he pleases.” Frikka sighed, and Cinder strutted up to the kneeling Mahava.
He stared at the kneeling male and squinted. He tilted his head and frowned. “Why?”
Mahava glanced at the Dette and then toward Gatlin and then Frikka.
“You may speak,” Gatlin said, gesturing for Mahava to address the boy.
“Little Dette, what is it you ask?” Mahava lowered his head and moved as if he wanted to bow.
“Why do you have that thing in your neck?” Cinder frowned and reached a hand out, halting as the Hijada flinched, shoulders pinching, body shaking.
“What do you see, little one?” Frikka crossed his arms, face stony. “You have what I don’t.”
“Their dragons are scared and broken. I can’t see if they’re a Dette or a Drake. And they have a nail in their neck.” Cinder stepped back as Mahava seized up, tears welling in his eyes.
“Are you a Dette or a Drake?” Cinder stared at Mahava and then glanced toward the still-standing Karam. “And you?”
“We are not dragons. We are Hijada.” Karam’s voice came out small and broken.
“Are you like my papa when he didn’t know he was a dragon?” Cinder stared at Mahava again and prodded at his neck when the male gave him a permissive slouch.
“We are born from the union of dragons, but we are not dragons. We are neither Dette nor Drake. We are Hijada. Other.” Karam reached down and rested a hand on Mahava’s head and sighed.
“So why you got the little silver bit in there?” Cinder tapped at Mahava’s neck as the male shook violently, breath hitching. “It’s pressed up against important stuff… I think. Is that what it means when all the lights there are brighter?”
Gatlin had no idea what the Dette meant, but Frikka seemed to understand, giving him a nod.
“Do you want it in there?” Cinder prodded at the male’s neck again.
Mahava didn’t respond, only continued to shake so horribly.
“Generally, they do not,” Gatlin spoke up, relaxing in his seat. “I don’t like to bring attendants into my home held captive. If you stay with us, we’ll work to remove it. Some can be, but we’re still rese—”
“Why?” Cinder stared at Mahava’s neck. “Why would they put that there?”
Frikka opened his mouth to speak, clearly at a loss for words. Karam spoke, though. “It is placed there to separate us from the dragon. Because we are not dragons. We are not mate material to a Drake or a Dette. We are born to serve—”
“Well, that’s shit. Can I take it out?” Cinder traced his finger over a small scar over Mahava’s neck.
Nobody spoke, everyone hesitant.
“Mahava is close to his expiration.” Karam’s hoarse voice petered out. “It will eventually work into his brain, like mine will, too. One day.”
“Can I have it?” Cinder poked Mahava’s neck again.
“What?” Karam blinked.
“If I take it out, can I keep it?” Cinder prodded the male’s neck again, studying it.
“It’s yours,” Mahava said, his voice barely a whimper.
Cinder shifted a fingertip into a dark claw and pressed the tip into his skin. A light glow surrounded it, a healing magic or something Gatlin had never seen before, old magic that Frikka was a master of.
Mahava gasped softly, his breath a soft squeak as Cinder drew his claw back, a bead of blood welling where he had prodded.
And so, with a glint of the light and a pitiable cry from Mahava, a bloody pin about four inches in length pulled free of his flesh before tumbling to the ground with a chime of song.
Cinder picked it up and stared at it. He gave it a lick and frowned. “Can I go back out and play? All my magic is tired out, so I can’t do the other right now.”
Frikka offered a half smile. “Absolutely. Go play. You’ve earned it, little one.”
“Thanks, Farfar!” Cinder bounded off, grinning from ear to ear, happy as anything to add another silver bauble to his growing little hoard.
Mahava sobbed, wrapping his arms around his chest. Grateful whimpers and promises of a lifetime of loyalty made Gatlin sick.
He cleared his throat. “It is the very least a Drake is obligated to do. Do what you wish. You’ll have a place here.
Serve Ashwin until he leaves, but once he’s gone, you will be a dragon.
You will be whatever you want to be—Drake, Dette, Hijada.
We will address you as such and help you start a life. ”
Mahava’s sobs petered out into hard, breathless heaving sounds. “If I only ever meet my dragon once before I die, I will be happy.”
“Your dragon will be yours.” Frikka helped Mahava up and gave him a hug. “Let us go somewhere to meet them. Leo will be there to talk to you.”
Gatlin watched the two saunter their way out as Karam stared at him with wide, wild eyes.
“Am I going to truly have— Will you?” His voice came out in a whisper.
“You can stay with us—we’re due nine pups and could use the help.
You’ll be paid more than fairly, and reintegrated into dragon society.
If you wish to leave—you may. Staying just ensures you get a tidy sum before leaving.
Upon completion of a psychological evaluation and some training, you’ll be given a share from a fund specifically for displaced Hijada and Dettes.
” Gatlin shrugged. “Or not. Your choice. Tell me what you dream of. What you want.”
Karam swallowed hard. “I want to raise pups, to go to movie theaters… I want to find a mate and… I want a little cottage far away from dragons and to raise goats and…”
“Lovely goals. Assert your wants and needs with us.” Gatlin rubbed his hands together. “Want me to stay with you? Or do you think you can handle the Dettes coming to pick your mind and check you over?”
Karam stared at Gatlin and glanced at the couch before taking a step and sitting down, as if the very act were defiance. He smiled, posture still stooped.
Small steps.