Page 29 of House of the Iron Reaper

The others are still looking at me.

“It smells… good,” I finish lamely, my bravery tapped out.

Ronan brightens.

“Well, then I will gladly take you up on your offer, my friend,” he says to Deimos before patting his stomach. “Although, truth be told, I would eat the legs off a table right now.”

“I would be happy to come, also,” Novalie says. “If you allow, Deimos.”

“I would love nothing more.” Deimos beams.

Three pairs of eyes turn to me. I rub the back of my neck.

“Uh… I do not think I can-”

“You would not decline a formal invitation, would you?” Deimos asks, clutching his chest in mock offence.

It draws a smile from my face, but I shake my head.

“I cannot be seen,” I explain. “Not without my mask.”

“Oh, that.” Deimos waves his hand. “I would not fret about that. Us Coppers are daylight dragons—the whole restaurant will be empty at this time of night. Besides my mother, perhaps, and she would not say a word about you. I swear on it.”

I shift from foot to foot as though standing on hot sand. I should not—no, I must not. I have more work tomorrow, as I always do. And I should spend my time resting. I can make do with the cold root stew.

A fourth stomach growl—louder than the rest—echoes through the night. Mine.

“That settles it, then,” Ronan says with a grin.

House Copper stands out against the sandy brick surrounding it, the once brilliant shine dulled with age to patina green. It holds a unique beauty, like the stained-glass windows Novalie hails from.

Deimos leads us to a narrow alley to the side of the House, where sandbrick walls tower high on either side. At the end sits a green door, the Copper emblem hanging on a sign above it. Deimos knocks twice before entering.

Inside is quiet but bright, algae lamps set in alcoves around the room, and the ceiling is open enough to allow the moonlight through. Benches with long tables run in parallel lines across the mosaic floor, the seats worn down with use. A Shivanya shrine sits imposingly next to the door, a cushion on the ground before it. On the far side of the room, behind a cookery counter, an older dragon washes her hands.

“Welcome, welcome!” she calls, eyes crinkling.

She grabs a cloth rag and dries her hands as she comes to greet us. She is stout, two heads shorter than me, with brilliant blue eyes and hair the colour of sea foam. Deimos’s mother. We tap our chins in unison, even Ronan, and she does the same.

“Meris of House Copper,” she introduces herself.

“Novalie of House Glass,” Novalie replies, and Meris puts a hand to her chest.

“Shu Novalie! It is a great honour to host you this eve,” Meris says and Novalie’s shoulders straighten, pleased.

“Ronan of, uh, Swordstead. House of… werewolves and such.” Ronan makes to stick out his hand again before remembering and drawing back. He gives a charmingly awkward grin and rubs the back of his neck. I get a twinge of jealousy at how he pulls off awkward in an endearing way and not a terribly embarrassing way, like me.

“Ah, I did not think you looked a dragon, but it is impolite to presume,” Meris says with a laugh that rings around the room.

“Did the accent give it away?”

“The fur,” Meris says with a smirk, gesturing at Ronan’s beard. He strokes it affectionately.

Meris turns to me next, eyebrows raised expectantly. I startle.

“Oh! Am, me, I-I am Deyanara,” I splutter.

Meris waits for me to continue and we stare at each other blankly. Novalie’s sharp elbow nudges me in the side.