Dragon mating season was always an uncomfortable time in the Blan-Virgine household, and not for the obvious reason. Lillet Blan wasn't actually interested in having baby dragons running around; that sort of thing was properly done in the country where the hatchling had space to run, pounce, and learn to fly, all while being trained to accept human handlers. So the actual mechanics of conceiving, hatching, and raising a new generation of dragons was not the problem burdening the household.
Rather, it was the noise.
The mating calls of dragon queens announcing their availability were raucous and high-pitched. Thankfully, they weren't too loud, at least inside the house with windows closed, and dragons were only fertile for one week every two years, so it wasn't awful.
At least not if one's hearing was in the normal human register.
Shuck the barghest, however, was a dog. A quarter-ton, flaming-tongued, giant black hellhound, yes, but nevertheless a dog. He liked to play fetch and dig holes and bark at things he thought needed reminding of his existence and get scratched behind the ears and have his belly rubbed and snuggle up at Cressidor Blan-Virgine's feet while he napped.
Napping being something that was very hard to do while a couple of lady dragons were telling the world that they needed a man.
He'd tried sticking his head under the furniture, which just made the headache worse when his shoulders upended the loveseat. He'd tried pulling his heavy, quilted bedding up over himself, but while that had muffled the sound a bit it had also left him feeling overheated and short of breath to be wrapped up like a mummy.
So at the last, with ears ringing, head pounding, and eyes that would have been red and bloodshot from lack of sleep had they not been glowing red anyway, Shuck gathered up his courage. It was something that no dog wanted to admit, but in a time of crisis, a barghest had to do what a barghest had to do.
He went to the library, where Amoretta Virgine's somewhat unimaginatively named grimalkin, Grimalkin, was curled up in one of the overstuffed reading chairs, sleeping.
Sleeping!
Now, Shuck was an intelligent dog, but understanding that grimalkins weren't actually cats—even magical cats—but instead devils of darkness that looked like cats (...and acted a lot like cats, at that) and therefore didn't necessarily have catlike biology was beyond him. All he saw was that Grimalkin had somehow found a way to avoid the bellowing scourge.
On the one hand, that was bitterly unfair.
On the other hand, it boded well for Shuck's mission.
He nudged Grimalkin with his nose.
The black cat slept on.
Shuck nudged him again.
Grimalkin continued to sleep. This called for sterner measures.
One bark later, Shuck looked up at the ceiling. Four clawed feet were sunk into the underside of the gallery, suspending a now quite wide awake cat from falling.
"'Tis very lucky that I am not the embodiment of wrath," Grimalkin hissed sharply.
Shuck looked up at him and whimpered plaintively. The cat measured him with a long glare, sighed, and dropped back onto the chair. Shuck was impressed by how he'd landed on his feet both going up and going down. But then, Grimalkin's skills were why he was there.
"What is it, Shuck?"
He whimpered and hung his head.
"You want something. 'Tis too bad you cannot talk."
Shuck laid down and put his paws over his eyes.
"Ah, I think that I understand. Well, 'tis not in my nature, as my ears are ringing as much as yours may be. Yet..." He lifted one paw and gestured in Shuck's direction. A puff of sparkling lights, like a tiny cloud of fireflies, shot out and struck the barghest, and the lids drooped shut over the blazing eyes.
"I suppose 'tis generous I am being," Grimalkin murmured as he settled himself back into the seat cushion to resume his nap, "but he ensured some consideration, methinks, by swallowing his canine pride so far as to allow him to ask for help from a cat."