Up in Smoke - Katie MacAlister [35]
Fiat blinked; then a slow smile crept over his handsome face. He embraced me with great care, pressing a cold kiss to each of my cheeks. I stiffened, bracing myself for the moment when he realized that I wore the phylactery, but Gabriel’s assurances were not false. Fiat didn’t so much as sniff in the region of my chest.
“A mate at long last! I am so pleased for you, my old friend. And for you too . . . er . . .” He paused.
“May,” I said, scooting over an inch or two until I was pressed against Gabriel. “Cyrene is my twin.”
“Indeed.”
I prided myself on my ability to retain an unbiased mind when it came to people, and despite hearing much from Aisling about Fiat, I was determined to give him the benefit of the doubt. Something about him rankled, however. Oh, he stood chatting politely enough with Gabriel, but there was a tension about him, an awareness of his surroundings and everything in them that made me wary. A sense of expectation emanated from him, leaving me feeling restless and itchy with the need to get away. I glanced around, wondering whether I was influenced enough by Aisling to attribute false motives to Fiat, or whether my senses were accurate, and he really was planning something.
The dragons around us didn’t seem to notice anything. Gabriel spoke in a low tone to Fiat, Maata and Tipene hovering with an unworried air behind us. Kostya had moved over to stand with his brother, Cyrene chatting brightly to Drake’s men while the two brothers watched us with unreadable expressions. A small group of dragons entered the ballroom, all Asian, one woman and three men. They stood in the back assessing the situation, not approaching anyone.
I watched them, listening with half an ear until Fiat flashed a smile that was nearly identical to the one he’d turned upon Cyrene. “A doppelganger. How unique. I never doubted that you would find a mate, Gabriel, although I always assumed you would simply take Ysolde.”
Gabriel looked surprised for a moment. “Ysolde de Bouchier?”
“Yes. She was the mate of your wyvern Constantine, was she not? Ah, what am I saying?” Fiat made a wordless noise of chastisement. “She was the mate of Baltic first. Perhaps you did not wish to taint yourself with her.”
“The question is a moot one since Ysolde disappeared before Constantine was killed,” Gabriel answered, the muscles in his arm tensing a smidgen.
“Just so, just so.” Fiat turned back to me with a little bow. “You have my felicitations, cara. I can only hope that someday I, too, will find such a mate as my dear friend Gabriel has done.”
Gabriel’s expression was serene, but his arm slid around my waist, and Maata and Tipene moved a step closer behind us.
“Thank you,” I said politely, my lips closing on any further comment I might be tempted to make. I waited before he moved off to greet a waiting clutch of blue dragons before addressing Gabriel. “I think he’s responsible for the kidnapping of Maata and Tipene.”
Gabriel clearly wasn’t expecting me to say that, for he stepped back in surprise. “Why do you think that?”
“There’s something about him, something expectant, as if he’s been putting things in motion and is sitting back like a giant spider just waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting victim. And I have the feeling we’re the flies.”
“It’s a big leap in judgment to go from someone who has an expectant air to someone who is responsible for kidnapping my guards. I’ve talked to both Maata and Tipene about their experience with the kidnapping. They maintain that the dragons who captured them were ouroboros—unconnected with any sept.”
Maata nodded. “I’m sure I would have recognized a dragon belonging to a sept, and the ones who held us were completely unfamiliar. They were not blue dragons, May.”
“There is also the fact that Fiat would have no reason to kidnap any silver dragon,” Gabriel added. “We have not come down formally on Bastian’s side, and there are no bad feelings between Fiat’s blues and our sept. In fact, we’ve had . . .”
Gabriel’s voice trailed away as the small group of dragons in the back of the room