Oaths (Dragon Blood, Book 8)

by Lindsay Buroker

  “Got that right,” Therrik muttered and strode for the door, clearly not interested in receiving credit for their admittedly bumbling detainment of the criminals.

  “If you say so, sirs.” The officer scratched his head, but turned the gesture into an upraised hand. “Wait, let me at least reward you with something I can’t enjoy while on duty.”

  Ridge arched his eyebrows.

  The officer drew a stoneware bottle out from under the counter. “It’s vodka infused with peaches. The captain’s brother runs the local distillery, so we get free spirits for our after-hours office parties. We had a get-together earlier this evening.”

  Ridge accepted the bottle, swishing the liquid around. It was only about a fourth full, so he decided he could accept it as a gesture from one king’s officer to another without feeling it was compensation. “Thank you.”

  “Least I could do for the man who keeps dragons, airship pirates, and Cofah invaders out of the sky.”

  Ridge glanced toward the door, certain Therrik would have a snide comment if he heard him getting praised, but he’d disappeared outside. Good. Ridge offered the officer a lazy salute and strolled out after him.

  Therrik waited on the stoop. “You convince him not to record anything?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Good. I’d rather there not be any record of our misadventure.” Therrik closed the door firmly behind them. “Or the fact that we would have been walking back if your guard dragon hadn’t been keeping an eye on the flier. I suppose you’ll have to file a report, especially since you called back to the fort.” From his tone, it was clear Therrik didn’t want Ridge to file that report.

  Ridge snorted, amused by his discomfort. Oh, he thought their detour was embarrassing, too, but he wasn’t an elite troops soldier, so he didn’t have to worry about living up to a reputation as a deadly killer who wasn’t to be crossed. Not unless he was in the air.

  “I’ll need to file a report, yes,” Ridge said, “but I don’t think there’s a need to mention anything other than that we found a derelict ship and apprehended a couple of thieves.”

  “You don’t need to explain that your dragon helped?”

  “There’s not a field on the form for dragons.”

  Therrik stared at him. Ridge didn’t truly think he would object—not when he was the one who wanted to save face. But he didn’t expect what came next. Therrik threw back his head and laughed.

  Ridge stepped away, more alarmed by the gesture than pleased by it. He’d never heard Therrik laugh, and he feared it was a sign of imminent insanity.

  “Not a field for dragons,” Therrik said, when he stopped laughing. “Some clerk was shortsighted in assembling those papers.”

  “I’m fairly certain Form DDIA-1079 came from a different time.” Ridge doubted the report templates had been changed in a hundred years. Maybe longer. “A less dragon-filled time.”

  “The good old days.”

  “If not for a dragon, my flier would have been stolen, and we’d be walking back to the capital right now.”

  “Don’t remind me.” Therrik pointed to the bottle. “What’s that?”

  “Peach vodka, I’m told.”

  “Peach? Who would put fruit in a vodka? That’s sissy.”

  “Someone who owns a distillery and likes to play around.” Ridge unstoppered the bottle and sniffed. The aroma wasn’t strong, but he found it pleasant. Curious, he took a sip. “It’s actually good.”

  “Sissy.”

  Ridge didn’t ask for clarification about whether that referred to the drink or to him. He didn’t want to know. “Does that mean I can have it all?”

  “Seven gods, no. You’re flying me back tonight. It’s bad enough riding with you when you’re sober.” Therrik snatched the bottle from him.

  Ridge snorted. He hadn’t planned to pour it all down his gullet before climbing back into his flier.

  Therrik sniffed it dubiously, then took a swig.

  “Not bad, right?”

  “It’s horrible.” Therrik took another swig.

  “Obviously.”

  “It’s still mostly alcohol. It’ll take the edge off.”

  “The edge off spending the evening with me?”

  “That too.” Therrik waved toward the street. “Which way to Dotty’s house?”

  “Follow me.” As Ridge led the way, he realized Therrik must have been referring to meeting Lilah’s mother. Was he actually nervous about that? Worried he wouldn’t make a good impression?

  Therrik grumbled something to himself, squeezed water out of the hem of his uniform jacket, and drank from the bottle again.

  Ridge trusted he would only “take the edge off” and not drink enough to arrive on his Aunt Dotty’s doorstep smashed.

  He wondered if Dotty would even be awake when they arrived. When they turned down a new street and walked under a clocktower, he was surprised that it hadn’t yet chimed eight. He could hardly believe their misadventure had only put them a little over an hour behind schedule.

  “To answer your earlier question,” Therrik said as they walked along, wet and chafing, “I am not an ass to Lilah.”

  Ridge glanced at Therrik, startled by the statement. Had he been thinking about that all night? Wanting to make sure to clear up any doubt? If so, Ridge was surprised Therrik cared enough about what he thought to bother. Maybe the alcohol was affecting him.

  “Glad to hear it,” Ridge said.

  Therrik sipped from the bottle—he’d shifted from swigs to sips, perhaps also wanting to ensure he didn’t arrive smashed.

  “She makes me want to be a better man,” he said quietly.

  “Is it working?” Ridge asked.

  As soon as the words came out, he realized Therrik would consider them flippant. Why couldn’t he ever keep himself from goading the man?

  Fortunately, the alcohol seemed to be mellowing Therrik, and he didn’t respond with his typical glare. If Ridge had known vodka had that effect on him, he would have tried to get the colonel drunk every time they’d met.

  “I didn’t kill anybody tonight,” Therrik said.

  “Clear progress.”

  Therrik’s grunt sounded agreeable.

  They walked in silence through the residential neighborhood, and Ridge wondered if he should change his mind about Therrik’s relationship with Lilah. At the least, he probably shouldn’t try to stand in the way of it.

  As they turned down the tree-lined street that Dotty lived on, Ridge dug into his pocket. Glad taffy was largely waterproof, he held the bag out toward Therrik.

  “What’s that?”

  “Candy. I doubt offering Aunt Dotty alcohol will do anything to warm her up to you, but she adores taffy.”

  “You’re saying I need to ply her with gifts to make her like me?”

  “Hells, Therrik, you need to ply everyone with gifts if you want them to like you. You’ve got the charm of a scouring pad.”

  Therrik’s eyes narrowed, but he took the bag of taffy and stuck it in his pocket. “You know people only like you because you twirl at dragons, right?”

  “Because I twirl and shoot them.”

  “Damn coddled pilots,” Therrik grumbled.

  * * *

  THE END