But then Zisa was ushering in Timur, whose gaze locked on Sinder with unnerving intensity.
He knew. But how …?
Then it registered that Michaelson had carried Gregor in, which meant Waaseyaa must have brought the boy to his father. Between a likely tip-off and the threat of tattling, Sinder wasn’t getting out of this. Damn. He hated explaining things that weren’t the business of anyone outside the heights.
Timur’s arrival set off a chain reaction. Ginkgo jumped up, all pretense of drunkenness gone, to introduce Tenma. Mikoto rallied considerably. He was clearly taken by Timur in a very “notice me, sempai” way.
Waaseyaa came to the door long enough to ask if Mikoto and Tenma would help him prepare the evening meal. And invited them all to share it. Ginkgo stole Gregor and announced they needed to track down Kyrie and Lilya.
Zisa smilingly closed the door on the entire lot, offered Sinder a wink, and vanished. Leaving him alone with Timur and Fend.
The former crossed the room in two long strides and loomed over him. “Tell me what you need.”
“Who says I need anything?” Sinder rolled his eyes at Fend and grumbled, “You told, didn’t you?”
Timur looked between them, then slowly asked, “Sinder, are you afraid of me?”
The idea. “No. I wanted you more than anyone.”
“Good.” His expression softened, and he repeated, “Good. Who prettied you up?”
Sinder drew a blank.
“Your hair.”
Slowly reaching out, Timur pulled the heavy weight of Sinder’s braid forward. In addition to helping and holding him, Zisa had woven his own flowers through the entire length of his braid.
“Sneaky, flirty imp of a tree.” Sinder closed his eyes. “I couldn’t manage alone.”
“Show me.”
Sinder eased up the hem of his tunic. Timur quickly knelt and took over, hands tracing welts and abraded skin.
“No bones broken,” Sinder assured. Always a bright side.
“Who kicked you?” Timur’s voice was low, dangerous.
“Doesn’t matter.” Anger radiated from the battler, and Sinder sighed. “Trust me when I say I was asking for it. And dragons usually get what they ask for.”
Timur’s expression abruptly closed off. “Sinder, are you afraid of me?” he repeated.
“Not … specifically.”
The battler rose to his full height. “The idea of me,” he quietly amended. “You called me a dragon slayer.”
“Aren’t you?”
“I am a member of the Order of Spomenka.” His voice deepened, and his accent thickened. “My heritage. My training. We are legendary, yes? Do little dragons grow up fearing the storms we can bring?”
Sinder muttered, “I’m not a child.”
“What are your comfort colors?”
“Wh-what?”
Timur gripped him by the back of his neck, but before the move could register as threatening, he was pinching one of Sinder’s vertebrae. Then the one below it. As he added more pressure, Sinder fluted an oath, his eyes crossing.
“Can you raise your ridges in speaking form?” Timur asked.
Sinder leaned into the man, head lowered. He trilled a weak protest. Humans weren’t supposed to know this stuff.
“Which of the winds do you favor?” Timur continued. “When was the last time you were properly oiled?”
“Why?”
“Why do I want to know? For your comfort.”
Sinder shook his head. “Why do you know at all?”
Timur’s other hand began working in tandem. “I am a member of the Order of Spomenka. We only know what’s been entrusted to us. Who do you think teaches us your ways?”
Swearing miserably, he filled in the blank. “Dragons.”
“I started living among dragons when I was fourteen. Most of my early training revolved around pampering and pleasing dragons. I was a harem attendant. I was a healer in the heights. I made friends and helped three of your brethren gain the sky.”
Sinder looked up then, stunned. “They let you into the heights?”
“Not many humans learn what I know.”
“Tracking and trapping and marking.”
Timur hummed an affirmative. “Don’t forget pedicures.”
Sinder snorted. “Only if Fend goes first.”
In silence, Timur convinced him. Even Juuyu didn’t know things like this. Sinder probably wouldn’t have told him if he’d asked. But this Spomenka had him in his proverbial coils. Long-ignored instincts stirred, and Sinder crumbled under the weight of his need.
“Please?” he whimpered.
“Glad to,” Timur promised.
And because this man knew what it meant and how much, Sinder whispered, “Yellow.”
“Right. And?”
“East.”
“Ah, a contrary wind. Not at all surprised.” Timur’s smile was easy to trust. “And which of the oils should I have shipped?”
Sinder had never been asked before. In his line of work, you made do or did without. How strange to be offered such consideration during the worst summer of his life. With a low trill and a long sigh, Sinder asked, “Ever heard of spikenard?”
“I know it.” Timur promised, “You’ll have it.”
TWENTY-TWO
Asking the Right Questions
Mikoto was grateful for the distractions, even the confusing one offered by Tenma. The man kept stealing glances all through dinner, which was a little unnerving. Mikoto couldn’t help but wonder what he was seeing.
Reavers weren’t supposed to touch one another’s souls. But Tenma had admitted that he wasn’t exactly a reaver, although he had to be something similar. Otherwise, how else could he tend at all? Which was apparently his method for healing the Broken.
A mystery and a miracle worker.
His prismatic remark made no sense. And colors? That wasn’t how Mikoto saw his connection to the Amaranthine.
But Tenma seemed harmless. He meant well, and he presented himself as a modest and unassuming man. Though hard to fathom. All through dinner, Tenma sat quietly, ate sparingly, and mostly listened to everyone else’s conversations.
With traces of chagrin, Mikoto realized he was probably being equally inscrutable. Though he ate with better appetite. Uncle was a good cook, and Zisa fluttered around the table, nudging extra onto everyone’s plates. Even Noble, who’d curled up between Fend’s front paws, received the odd morsel.
Had there ever been such a dinner party? Mikoto doubted the years had brought such a group to Uncle’s table.
They lingered over the meal, but Ginkgo finally announced it was time for the young ones to prepare for bed. Their cue to disband.
Making his way to Uncle’s side, Mikoto mumbled his thanks and surrendered his hand, which Waaseyaa held until Zisa wafted over and cozied up. Nothing was said, exactly. Not even goodbye, since Glint was still monopolizing Mikoto’s room and Yulin’s attention.
Tenma migrated over to offer parting courtesies.
“Mikoto will walk you home,” said Zisa. “Unless you would like to sleep here? I have a house.”
“That’s not necessary,” Tenma murmured. “You’ve been too generous.”