Last Immortal Dragon(39)
“Your mate?” he asked low.
Heat flushed her cheeks, and she hugged his side tightly and nodded. “My mate.”
“Glad to hear it, Grandma.”
“Eee, I hadn’t thought about that. Ha! I would be your…step-grandma? Weird. I’ll be sure to send you birthday cards with five dollar bills in them.”
Creed pumped his fist and hissed, “Yes.”
With a laugh, she swatted his arm and told him, “Go to your meeting before Damon eats you.”
Her chest rose and fell deeply as she watched the four alphas saunter down the hallway. Tagan made sure to splash Creed with the fountain water that spewed from the naked Grecian man’s penis as they passed.
Clara turned to the final visitor, who lingered at the threshold. “Hi Beaston.”
He ducked his head respectfully. “Mate of the Dragon.”
The title brushed over her skin, lifting gooseflesh in its wake. “Do you want to come in?”
“In there?” he asked, his dark eyebrows jacked up and his eyes blazing an inhuman seafoam green. “Fuck no. Too many ghosts.”
Clara turned and narrowed her eyes at the shadowy figures who lined the hallway. Honestly, she’d gotten used to their presence as she imagined Damon had gotten used to them over the centuries. That or Damon couldn’t see them. But apparently, Beaston could.
“You see beyond the veil, too?”
He backed away from the door. “Like my Mom did. I have a gift for you.”
She stepped out the door and shut the huge wooden barriers behind her. Then she sat beside Beaston on the porch stair.
“I was going to wrap it pretty, the way girls like. Glittery paper and ribbon and fancy shit, but I need to tell you why I’m giving you this, and I don’t write good.”
“Okay.”
He pulled a long knife from his belt, the blade gleaming in the sunlight. “I’ve made knives for all my Gray Back girls, and I know you like things that match.” Beaston swallowed hard and shook his head as he handed it to her, hilt first. “I wanted to make it small like theirs, but you have a big job to do.”
“What kind of job?”
“I had a dream.”
“About me?” she asked, her voice nothing but a shocked squeak.
“No,” he murmured, leveling her with his wild eyes. “About her. About your job.”
“Her?”
“He’s going to ask you to leave, Clara. Don’t go. Stay here. Fight. Fight even if you think it’s over. Fight until you’re dead. Fight until she’s dead.”
Clara stared down at the long, sharp blade of the knife in her open palms. He’d etched her tattoo into the silver near the handle and had carved D + C along the curve of the dragon’s spine.
“Damon and Clara?” she whispered.
Beaston nodded and ran his thumb under her eye. He frowned at the drop of moisture on the pad. “Soft bear. Soft and full of tears. So soft you’ll bring our dragon to his knees.” He lifted that inhuman gaze back to her. “Save him.”
Beaston stood and strode for a tree where a shiny, feathered raven sat on the lowest branch.
“Save him?” she called.
Beaston didn’t turn around or answer. He simply held his forearm out for his Aviana to wrap her small talons around, and then he disappeared into the woods with his mate.
How could she save Damon from Marcus? How could she save anyone? She was a sometimes-defective clairvoyant grizzly shifter—not a fire-breathing dragon.
Clara felt completely helpless to fight against the force that was coming, but Beaston had given her a twelve-inch blade and told her to do just that.
She wiped her still damp lashes on her shoulder and picked up the fine leather sheath that sat in the exact place Beaston had. After sliding the blade safely inside, she clutched it to her chest and stared at the place the half-wild bear shifter had disappeared.
She’d felt a connection to the man from the first time she’d met him at the barbecue with the Gray Backs, but maybe her intuition of his brokenness didn’t lie.
Perhaps Beaston really was crazy.
Chapter Fourteen
“Have you seen him?” Clara asked Mason, who sat at the kitchen island, sipping a mug of steaming coffee.
Damon hadn’t been in bed when she’d woken up an hour ago, and he hadn’t shown up while she was readying for the day. And after searching all his favorite haunts in the house, he was still a no show.
“He’s out on the terrace.”
“There’s a terrace?”
Mason chuckled and stood. He made a second cup of coffee and handed it to her. “I wanted to say something to you.”
“Oh God, what did I do now?”
He laughed, and a blanket of relief slid over her shoulders. She wasn’t in trouble then.