His comment threw Teige off for a moment’s pause. His dragon was fairly trim, Viraj’s a slender and graceful thing, near waifish. Gatlin’s was a beast of a dragon, not rotund but fearsomely large. “Pardon?”
“Mortar. Stronger in time. Much weight, break.” He gestured to the primed surfaces, the shape of their nest rather like a shallow bath, the perfect basin to contain the three, and no one more. Perhaps eggs one day, if they could adopt. It was difficult for a Dette to catch a clutch at the best of times, butconsidering Viraj’s biology—a fertile clutch was an unlikelihood. Still, they found eggs in the wildlands sometimes.
As the thought consumed him, the mason cleared his throat with a gesture, asking if he understood.
“Magic. I’ll fix.” The mortar they used improved over time, a slow crystalline growth inside improving the strength of it by the day.
“Magic. Pfft! Impatient dragon.” He waved him off as he approached and offered his hand to the stone. Sure, healing was a possibility, and mating could be done, but dragons had skills with stones and metal—a skill Teige had honed.
Like the air in his lungs, he imbibed waves in the air, microscopic sparks of electrons and molecules. Speeding them up in one way, coaxing them in another, nudging crystalline structure in subtle ways. A touch of Teige’s fingers sent a shock through the stone, the change imperceptible, but the scent in the air of the rapid dehydration of mortar, the scent of heated lime, and not an ounce of epoxy, limestone, magnesia, alumina, and iron oxide. The finest particles of silica, to keep from scratching the marble, settled in the cracks. Powdered volcanic ash piqued his senses, a unique compound that had grown out of favor since cheaper compounds came available—ones not meant to last as long as Roman pillars. For dragons, longevity was key.
A grumbled swear ended the discussion, and the mason went back to inspecting the crevices and cleaning up where necessary. His assistant milled about with a buffer, eager to get started.
As Teige straightened his sleeves and glanced about, satisfaction warmed his belly. “See to it that it’s ready soon.”
“Live forever, impatient for a minute.” The wolf mason rolled his eyes, muttering. “Dragons.”
Forever was an overstatement. A dragon aged as slowly as their magic allowed, never faster. Never slower. “I suppose the downside to living so long is that we never truly grow up.”
“Forever child.” The mason nodded and smiled.
“Forever stupid,” Teige agreed, and left to find Gatlin. He’d been in his workshop half the evening working on the new stones to line their nest. It was high time.
Teige strode through the estate, goal in mind as he slipped into the workshop, the scent of his smelter strong, flux burning his nose. “A stór!”
“Nil! Don’t ye’ come in here gabbin’ about calling me your treasure!” Gatlin glanced up, his hunched frame looming over a jeweler’s lap as he squinted at the jewel on his dop. “Having to recut this feckin’ black emerald.”
“Why?”
“They didn’t cut a girdle into it, so it has edges that are weak. Black emerald is not clean emerald, and this was a nightmare waiting to happen.” He flexed the armature of the stone holder and frowned before rotating it ever so slightly and lowering it down to the wheel once more for a hissing grind. “Going to take it one step above the final. Matte girdling…beautiful.” When Gatlin got his mind on something, there was no convincing him otherwise. It was part of the reason Teige loved him, after all.
“Can I ask for an ETA? If you don’t know, it’s okay. The mason has completed his work.” Teige grinned as Gatlin’s head swiveled around, hand poised with the dop hovering just above the grinding plate. With a quick press, hiss, and lift, he glanced down, eyes narrowed.
Gatlin held up a hand, a single finger raised as he twisted the dop and lowered it once more. Another lift, twist, and press, and he glanced down, face twisted. “It’ll never be good enough…”
He sighed and turned the machine off, unattached the dop, spit a little flame to melt the resin, and cleaned the stone offwith a cloth. And with a quick turn, he pulled out his burnishing tool and popped something into his vise, completely zoning out again before he unwound the vise and dropped the resulting trinket from his fingers into an ultrasonic cleaner before tapping a button to bring it to life.
Teige itched at his ears as the hum of it tickled his brain. But it didn’t last long before Gatlin plucked the treasure from its bath and beamed. “A treasure truly fit for our Dette.”
A soft gasp from the doorway had Teige wheeling around, heart stuttering.
“When?” Viraj’s broken voice interrupted the silence.
“When, what?” Gatlin palmed the trinket in his grasp, stepping forward.
“When did you plan on telling me you’d found a Dette? When do they get here? When did you plan to introduce them?” Viraj’s broken voice trembled.
“There isn—” Gatlin flinched when Viraj sobbed.
“Don’t lie to me!” He rubbed at his eyes.
“Ach, siúcra.” Teige rubbed at his nose. “Love, there is no Dette coming. We—”
“Then what?” Viraj tensed up, face a mask of pure fury. He’d gotten testy before over the mention, sad, besot with himself, but never furious. His dragon flared in his eyes, and a territorial aura grabbed Teige by the heartstrings, as if their bond tightened, threatening to snap. And by the way Gatlin grabbed his chest, he felt it too.
“We’re doing what we shoulda’ done years ago. Talked wit the pof doctor an’ it’s what yer due! Yer all we need, Vivi.” Gatlin kept the trinket in his hand as he approached.
“Then what was that comment about treasure fit forour Dette? You have someone off to the side? Making deals for just a heat to bring home eggs to our nest likehere, they’re yours now, love?”Flame sparked over Viraj’s lips as he spoke.
