Free The Dragon Heir by Cinda Williams Chima

collar—the tore—that circled her neck. Touching it was becoming a habit.
    “Who are you?”
    Leesha jumped and turned
round.
    The boy had slipped up behind
her. He was slender and bookish-looking, with blond curls, a fair complexion,
and eyes that were such a pale blue—behind
frameless glasses—as to be almost colorless. He might have been fourteen, too young to be
interesting, though Leesha was only seventeen herself. He was almost pretty,
but the effect was marred by a black eye and a nose that had been recently
broken.
    “I'm Alicia
Middleton,” she said, seeing no reason to lie.
    “Devereaux D'Orsay,”
the boy replied, standing rather too close and staring fixedly into her face.
“Father didn't mention we were expecting guests.”
    “Didn't he?” It
hadn't been easy to get this invitation. A fax of the last page of the Covenant
signed by the guilds at Second Sister had done the trick. She'd ordered her
grandparents' chauffeur, Charles, to drive her here from their estate in
Scotland. If she could manage to live through the day and avoid being grounded,
she'd be very very lucky.
    “Would you care for
something to drink?” Devereaux asked, nodding toward the sideboard, where
there was an array of bottles and cans of soda.
    Leesha shook her head.
“No, thank you.”
    The boy leaned against the
sideboard. “We've more of a selection down in the cellar,” he said.
“Would you like to see?”
    “No, I'm quite all right,
thank you.” Looking to change the subject, she said, “Who beat you
up?”
    That struck a nerve. “No
one beat me up, Miss Middleton,” the boy said, straightening, his fair
face flushing dark rose against the bruises. “From a power standpoint, I
totally had the advantage. Had it not been for…”
    “Devereaux.”
    Now it was the boy's turn to
jump and look guilty.
    Claude D'Orsay stood framed in
the doorway, dressed in wool trousers, cashmere sweater, and tweed jacket. The wizard's hair
was dark and close-cropped, his face fine-boned and aristocratic.
    “Miss Middleton, a
pleasure to see you again. I see you've met my son.”
    “Yes,” Leesha
replied. “I wouldn't have known it from his looks.”
    “He favors my late
wife.” D'Orsay came into the room and extended his hand to Leesha. His
grip was cool and dry, with a wizard's electrical sting.
    “You didn't tell me
anyone was coming, Father.” Devereaux still looked sullen. “How was I
supposed to know who she was?”
    “It was rather short
notice, Dev,” D'Orsay replied. “Miss Middleton requested a
meeting.” He studied Leesha appraisingly. “I believe the last time we
met was here, at Raven's Ghyll, at the last tournament.”
    “That was a
disaster,” Leesha said bluntly.
    D'Orsay didn't disagree, but
nodded toward the sideboard. “Would you like something?”
    “No, thank you,”
Leesha replied, wondering how many times she was going to have to refuse
refreshment before leaving.
    D'Orsay gestured to one of two
chairs by the hearth. “Please. Sit. Make yourself comfortable.”
    Leesha sat, not particularly
comfortably, and D'Orsay sat down opposite her. Devereaux slouched onto the
hearth itself, clearly intending to listen, if not to participate.
    Leesha nodded at Devereaux,
and raised an eyebrow.
    “Dev can stay. I value
his opinion.” D'Orsay paused. “So. Are you here representing
Jessamine Longbranch?”
    “Why would you think
that?”
    “I believe you were
working for her last year when you—
ah—brought those two young men here as hostages during the last tournament.
Friends of that bizarre mongrel warrior she created. Jack Swift. Now that was
a disaster.”
    “Must've seemed like a
good idea at the time,” Leesha said. “Anyway, I'm not working for her
anymore.”
    “Ah, yes. Didn't I hear
you'd fallen in with some traders? I don't imagine Jessamine approved.”
    Leesha examined her nails.
“You can't believe everything you hear.”
    “But you're working