Flight of Dragons(40)

It was perhaps foolish to hope that Eva and her father had found clues to the whereabouts of his scale. He had spent two centuries looking for it on the battleground of the Snaefellsnes Peninsula with no luck. Still, he was taking a huge risk with Eva today—he would show her proof of the existence of dragons.

Balthazar rubbed his shoulder, wincing as sharp needles of pain dug into his flesh. His missing scale had left a raw wound several centimeters in length. Bandages only aggravated it, and he couldn’t stand to look at the exposed pink tissue—it constantly reminded him of his loss. Lancelot had suggested that he get a tattoo to cover the wound. He had thought to stick with a simple pattern of his scale, but his brother encouraged him to be more elaborate. So he decided that in honor of his parents, he would have their faces tattooed over his wound.

Dad’s midnight skin contrasted nicely against Mom’s emerald, and he lightly caressed their images. The artist had done an exceptional job, creating his parents’ likenesses to the last detail. It served as a painful reminder that he would remain human until he found his scale.

He sensed someone in the formal living room to the left. The room hadn’t been used since his parents’ deaths, and he experienced an irrational stab of resentment that someone was in there. However, as he reached the main floor, both he and Bal realized it was Eva.

He leaned against the doorway to watch her. She stood at the opposite side of the room, looking at the dusty old armoire that Mom had ordered from a well-known Viking artist. She traced her fingers over the intricate carving, hesitating over the image of Dad in full dragon mode—head reared back and flames spewing from his mouth. Dad hated that image—he said it made him look too aggressive. And Mom laughed, patting his cheek gently, agreeing with him, and then she turned to look at him and his brothers with a knowing wink.

He knew Bal watched Eva as intently as he was doing now. In his life, Balthazar had met only one other human woman that Bal liked. However, the poor thing almost lost her mind when she found him lying on the floor, bathed in dragon flame and screaming for help—that had been the first time Balthazar and Bal fought for dominance. She had disappeared into the late winter night. By the time he had regained his wits and went looking for her, the front door was wide open and her coat and boots were still on the threshold. He finally found her, almost frozen and half-buried. She had regained her health, but her mind had broken, and any time she saw him, she’d run, screaming uncontrollably.

Balthazar closed his eyes, willing the unpleasant memory away. When he opened them, Eva stood in front of the fireplace, looking at their family portraits. As she turned, her beauty struck him again. Her hair hung just below her shoulders and framed her dark face in black curls. The sweatshirt hid her body, but he remembered how Eva looked beneath her gown last night. But her eyes held his attention—dark pools of intelligence and wit. Eva offered something that other females only hinted at, and Balthazar allowed himself a glimmer of hope that maybe she could accept him for who he truly was.

“Oh!” Eva’s surprised expression changed to interest, and he caught her giving him a very quick and appreciative once-over before focusing on his face. “I didn’t hear you.”

“You weren’t supposed to.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “How long have you been standing there?”

He shrugged. “Long enough.”

“I was up early—I couldn’t get back to sleep.” The skin under her eyes was puffy, and she wasn’t smiling, which bothered him even more. Eva moved past the fireplace and laid her hand on the ancient stone wall. “I was worried.”

“About what?”

She glanced at him, then looked away quickly. “The house has been in your family a long time?”

“A very long time.” He moved to stand beside her, watching. She wouldn’t look at him, and he wondered if Eva heard his screams last night—he hoped not. “It needed the odd renovation, but it was built to withstand a lot of punishment.”

Her clean scent aroused him, and he shifted his stance so that she couldn’t see his reaction.

“It looks like the house dates back about eight hundred years.”

“Nine hundred.”

She moved away, and Bal growled in annoyance. Balthazar felt the same way, and followed her as she moved to a display case filled with weapons and pieces of jewelry. “That’s an Ulfberht sword,” she said, pointing at the gleaming steel.

“It certainly is.” He loved her knowledge of Icelandic history. “Thorsson has one too.”

“Seriously? These are rare, and when we find one, it’s in bad shape.” Eva leaned over the glass for a closer look. “This one looks like it hasn’t seen any battle.”