A flutter erupted within Geoffrey. Excitement and terror and keen anticipation. “And if I refuse to enter that deathtrap?”
The infant leveled a stern look at Geoffrey. “Get in my Speedster now, old man. Don’t make me have to repeat myself.”
Geoffrey bit his lip, conflicted, then climbed up into the yellow offense to all decent sensibilities.
* * *
Geoffrey stirred from what was half memory and half dream, still slumped in the wingback chair, the fire now nothing but sullen coals. His inclination wasn’t to move, but he forced himself to stand and make his way up the steep stairs to his bedroom.
Mechanically, he disrobed, then slipped on night clothes. He climbed into his bed, a mahogany half tester that had been made especially for his very tall frame nearly two hundred years ago. Furniture fashions came and went, but Geoffrey held onto the unusually long bed stubbornly, much to Ian’s amusement. As lengthy as the bed was, it was still quite narrow by modern standards, forcing two people to sleep quite close. It was, Ian said often, his favorite feature of the ornately carved relic.
The bed was a tight squeeze for two men. It would be an impossibility for three. It was, Geoffrey thought morosely, likely to be his bachelor’s bed for the rest of his life. It wasn’t a bit like the roomy California king that Ian now owned, or even the sleek, modern bed he’d had back when they’d first met, made of polished and gilded ebony.
Geoffrey missed Ian with an ache that was physical, and that was no surprise. They often slept apart, but with the knowledge that it would only be days, or at most weeks, before they reunited. Geoffrey couldn’t face the idea of never seeing his lover again. The surprising pain, however, came from the thought of being shut away from Matthieu as well. They’d had only one night, and the expected feeling he should have had for the other man was jealousy. Instead, there was a shocking weight of grief that held him immobile in the bed and made thinking of their one shared night excruciating. So instead, Geoffrey’s mind slipped down a well-worn path to his first night with the man he wanted to spend forever with.
* * *
Geoffrey stared up at the ornate gates of the Topaz consulate and felt a trickle of uneasiness pervade him.This is a bad idea. My worst ever idea. It’s an Alistair kind of idea.
Still, he didn’t jump from the car when the gates opened to allow the yellow vehicle entry, and he didn’t fly away when the large mansion’s door opened and a butler stood there, assessing him with sharp eyes.
“Welcome home, Master Ian. I see you have company.”
“Yes, Bishop. This is Geoffrey Drake, one of Uncle Jelte’s colleagues, and now mine. Despite the animosity between our families, or perhaps because of it, I feel it’s incumbent upon me to try to build a bridge between our clans.”
Geoffrey snorted.
Bishop raised an eyebrow. “Indeed, sir.”
“Is anyone here?”
“No, sir.”
“Honk! Honk honk honk honk!”
Geoffrey startled, then saw three large peacocks strutting their way, tailfeathers dragging behind them like elaborate trains.
“Honk,” proclaimed the bird in front. Then all three spread their tails.
“Hello, boys,” Ian called out cheerfully. He held out his hand, and each one came to him and received some sort of treat and a pat on their feathered heads. “I missed you, Peter. And you, Edward. And of course you, Thomas.”
With a few final honks, the birds waddled off. Ian looked back at Bishop. “See we’re not disturbed,” he said.
“Of course, sir. Should I have tea brought to the parlor?”
“No need,” Ian replied with a wave of his hand. “But do send some sandwiches up to the library. Mr. Drake, here, looks like a stiff wind might blow him away.”
Geoffrey snorted again.
After their encounter in the restroom, Geoffrey had pictured Ian taking him to some secluded spot to… actually, Geoffrey had no clue what the whelp intended. It could have been fucking him roughly against the wall of some stinking alley, or taking him back to a den of Topazes where he’d be beaten bloody and incinerated. Instead, he was shown into the nearly empty Topaz consulate. Not for the first time in his eight hundred years of existence, Geoffrey reflected how strange life could be.
He found himself plied with first sandwiches and coffee, then with whiskey, and later brandy. Geoffrey had never been much of a drinker, and the liquor went right to his head. Awkward silence gave way to polite small talk, then to animated discussion, and at last to argument. Ian had a fine mind, but to Geoffrey’s way of thinking, he was shockingly modern and liberal in his ideas. The conversation he had that day, and into the evening, was infuriating, and stimulating, and exciting.
Geoffrey never wanted it to end.
Not even when Ian went on about draconian leadership being subject to a vote among dragons, rather than being granted by dint of wealth and strength. Ian’s ideas were mad, and the whelp refused to give ground.
“You’re wrong, infant. You’re just too young and foolish to see it.”
