Ian
Two days later found the three alphas, two omegas, five eggs, one whelp, one iguana, and one very insistent peacock driving in Ian’s Mercedes AMG to the home of one of Geoffrey’s brothers. It was an incredibly tight fit. Everard and Harry, in order to keep a low profile, had made it known they were checking in on Matthieu, Ian, and their clutch. The council had been alerted that the eggs had been laid, but otherwise, Everard and Harry had succeeded in keeping the details to themselves.
“Do peacocks like to drive?” Harry asked Ian curiously from the back seat as the car rolled out of the private garage. Upon Harry’s lap rested a black nestler with a brocade pattern, around which Darwin was curled. It was often hard to tell with pre-vocal whelps, but Ian was under the impression that Darwin was curious about the nestler on Harry’s lap. Every now and then, he’d nuzzle the padded exterior and chirp happily. Steve, Harry’s lizard, had found a sunny spot on the rear deck and had spread out, limbs splayed, as he enjoyed the ride.
Beside Harry sat Geoffrey, who kept one nestler safe between his legs, and another on his lap. He’d insisted on sitting next to one of the doors so he could collect Darwin and exit the car immediately to help keep a low public profile. Everard, looking none too happy to be along for the ride, refused to take the inferior middle seat, so Geoffrey had conceded and taken it in his stead. Matthieu would not consider sitting in the back—the way he glared at Everard’s reflection in the rearview mirror spoke for itself. Everard appeared unfazed by Matthieu’s occasional glares—he had his elbow on the window ledge and watched the scenery pass them by.
With nowhere else to go, the aforementioned peacock had settled on Everard’s lap.
Ian checked the rearview mirror again and frowned.
Perhaps “settled” wasn’t the best descriptor. Bellamy gazed hungrily at Everard’s buttons, but had begrudgingly given up trying to devour everything in sight.
All in all, Ian was fairly pleased. Most times, when Bellamy insisted on coming along for drives, he picked at the stitching of the upholstery until it unraveled, and while the cost to have the car’s interior repaired was a nonissue, Ian’s hoarder heart hated to see the empty space in the garage while the stitching was being repaired. With Everard in the car, no such damage had happened.
Bellamy preferred buttons over thread, and was especially interested in Everard’s belt buckle. Since coming to sit in the car, Everard had yelped more than once thanks to Bellamy’s enthusiasm, but after several strong words, it seemed the bird had finally gotten the message.
“No, chicory root,” Everard said stiffly. “I don’t think peacocks much like to drive. This one seems to enjoy pretending to be a Corvidae.”
“Bellamy is not pretending to be anything, magpie or otherwise,” Geoffrey defended. He glanced at Everard’s belt buckle, then lifted his chin and adjusted the position of the nestler on his lap as if to angle it away from witnessing what was going on. Bellamy, excited by the conversation, lifted his neck and started to peck and tug at Everard’s buckle again. “All peacocks enjoy shiny objects, particularly polished chrome bumpers. The fact that your belt buckle is ostentatious is no one’s fault but your own.”
“Ostentatious?” Everard squawked. “I beg your pardon?”
“It means designed to impress or to attract the eye, Ev,” Harry said helpfully.
“Pecan, I am aware, but—” Bellamy pecked again, his beak narrowly missing Everard’s much thinner, beak-susceptible fly. Everard yelped and pushed the bird’s head away. “Brother!Restrain your fowl!”
Ian bit down on the inside of his lip to keep from cackling. Allowing Bellamy to come along for the ride had been a good idea, if only to help lighten his mood.
“You’ll need to hold your nephew, then.” Geoffrey lifted the nestler, and Bellamy, who’d been more than happy on Everard’s lap, scrambled over and plopped down on his papa. Everard gladly took the nestler.
There was a momentary pause, during which peace returned to the vehicle. Then Harry spoke again. “I suppose by ‘drive’ I mean ‘be driven,’ you know, as passengers. I don’t think a peacock’s legs could ever be long enough to reach the gas pedal, and I’m pretty sure bird feathers are hollow, right? So he couldn’t use his tail to assist. And even if he could, he looks like most of his tail feathers have molted off. Admittedly, I don’t know a lot about birds, although birds and reptiles are related in many ways.”
“HONK,” Bellamy agreed as Ian made a turn onto the access ramp leading to the highway and began to accelerate. He rested his head on Geoffrey’s chest and chittered.
“I don’t think many birds enjoy being hurtled down a strip of asphalt at seventy miles an hour, chocolate souffle,” Everard replied. He craned his neck to peep over the seat in front of him. “Strike that last thought—what I meant to say is almost eighty-five miles an hour. Are you trying to get us killed, you bronze bastard? Or, worse—arrested?”
Ian held back a sigh. “Do you see anyone else on the road?”
“No,” Everard said. “But police have a way of hiding in the places you’d least expect, like around the bend on highways where motorists are likely to speed. Really, I would have expected you to take more caution, what with your dirty martini with extra olives aboard.”
Ian blinked. What the hell was Everard going on about? “Excuse me?”
“Your rum and coke overloaded with slices of lime,” Everard said flatly. “Your tequila sunrise with supplementary cherries.”
“Pardon?”
“He means Matthieu and the eggs,” Harry replied, upbeat as ever. “I don’t think you would ever drive with open bottles of alcohol in the car, let alone mixed drinks.”
Matthieu, who’d taken refuge in the front seat next to Ian with their remaining two nestlers, turned his head to look into the back seat. “Are you insulting me,monsieur dragon excessif?”
“No, vodka gimlet. Why in the world would I ever do that?”
Matthieu crossed his arms and glared at Everard through the rearview mirror. His dissatisfaction bled through his mate bond with Ian like wet ink across a newspaper.
“Everard,” Geoffrey said in a stiff, pained way. “You’re making Matthieu upset. Can you please stop giving him alcoholic beverage monikers?”
“I’m coming to believe ‘upset’ is his default way of being,” Everard replied. “Ruby heritage runs rampant in this one. The family resemblance to Nate is astounding. I can’t believe I didn’t notice it before.”
