There had been so many happy, eye-opening moments since their break-down in the shower yesterday, and one of those was that she hadn’t had a single headache in an entire day. Not one. And she couldn’t get over the giddy sensation that everything was going to be okay. The visions, dreams, coincidences…all of it. Damon was still wary, but she couldn’t shake the growing feeling that perhaps the point of all of this was that she and Damon met, and some cosmic unbalance was reset by them finding each other.
She turned around and startled to a stop, dropping a slice of roast beef onto the tile floor with a tiny splat.
A striking woman with dark hair, dark eyes, and the smoothest, fairest porcelain skin she’d ever seen stood in the doorway smiling at her. “Hello. Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” She approached and held out her hand. A little girl followed closely behind, gripping onto her jeans. “I’m Damon’s daughter, Diem, and this is my daughter, Harper.”
Clara’s eyes bulged wide as she hurried to wipe her hands on a napkin to shake Diem’s outstretched palm. “Oh, I would’ve dressed up and done my hair if I knew I was meeting you today. Damon’s talked about you.” Clara patted her wild hair, which did nothing but fluff it up more.
Diem’s grin grew deeper, and her dark eyes danced. “I like that you aren’t dressed up. Formal isn’t my favorite.”
Clara would definitely say she wasn’t a formal type of gal. She was wearing frayed cut-off shorts with holes that allowed her upper thighs to play peek-a-boo, and a T-shirt clung to her torso like a second skin. She and Damon were a study in opposites.
“Hi, Harper,” she said, kneeling by Diem’s legs. She offered her hand for a shake, and the little girl stepped out from behind her mother. She was perhaps four years old, and when Harper lifted a shy gaze to Clara, she stifled a gasp. Dark ringlets of shiny hair tumbled down the sides of her round cheeks, but her eyes were the real stunners. One was a soft brown color, like Diem’s, and one was blue with a long, reptilian pupil. “Ooooh, are you a little warrior dragon?” Clara asked low.
The girl smiled and nodded as she gripped her index finger and shook it.
“I love dragons.”
“What are you?”
“I’m a warrior grizzly.”
The little girl smiled bigger. “I love grizzlies.”
Clara chuckled and jerked her chin toward the counter piled high with food. “Are you hungry? I have all the sandwich stuff out still if you want to help me make one.”
“Can I make my own?”
Clara nodded decidedly. “Of course. If your mom says it’s okay.”
Diem gave her consent, and the little girl blasted off toward the sprawling pantry, only to return moments later with a little red stepstool. “Pop-Pop gave me this so I could help Chef while he’s cooking,” she explained in a squeaky little voice that made Clara want to scoop her up and cuddle her.”
Harper went to work making a sandwich and a mess of the counters, and Clara turned to Diem and asked, “Where did the name Pop-Pop come from?”
“Well, that one,” Diem said, leaning on the counter and nodding toward her daughter, “is a fire-breather like Damon. She was a little hellion when she learned she could do it, blowing flames at anyone who told her ‘no,’ so I sent her up here with Damon for a few weeks last summer, and he got her straightened right out.”
“How?”
“Fire with fire, and Harper came back a lot more cognizant that her flames hurt people and that it wasn’t okay to throw tantrums like that. Thanks to him warning her off bad behavior with a couple of warning clicks of his firestarter, she now calls him Pop-Pop.”
Clara ducked her head, laughing. “Oh gosh, I love that.”
“You look just like her,” Diem said, though her scrunched up nose and apologetic look said she wished she hadn’t. “I’m sorry.”
“You saw the paintings of Feyadine?”
Diem nodded once. “I grew up on stories of the dragon wars, but I thought they were all pretend. In my father’s bedtime stories, Feyadine was the dragon queen who didn’t deserve her crown.”
“Okay, it feels so weird when you call Damon Father. We look the same age!”
Diem giggled. “Strange, right? Have you met Creed?”
“Yeah, I met all of his Gray Backs, too.”
“He’s Damon’s grandson, and Rowan is his great-granddaughter.”
“Stop it.”
“I’m serious. Creed is my—he’s my nephew!” Diem had the case of the giggles right along with Clara now.
“Wait, did he tell you why I’m here?”