No Good Dragon Goes Unpunished

by Rachel Aaron

“He liiiiiiikes me,” she sang happily as she tried on all the shoes the staff had left to find the pair that fit best. “He really liiiiiikes me.”

  Of course he likes you, Ghost said grumpily from the bed. You’re one of his best tools.

  “Don’t be a downer,” she scolded as she slipped on a pair of spindly heels before shaking her head and going back to the comfortable black flats. Never knew when you were going to have to book it around here. “Let me have my moment, would you?”

  And oh, what a moment it was. After months of crushing hard on Julius, all the time knowing she didn’t have a chance due to the whole “human” thing, things had taken a dramatic turn for the awesome. She’d known something was up when he’d kissed her before Vann Jeger, but she’d written it off to pre-battle jitters. Since then, things between them had been a mess of interrupted conversations and the hesitation she’d always assumed was disinterest, but was now starting to realize was actually Julius’s crippling shyness. When he’d found her on the stairs just now, though, Marci had finally understood that it wasn’t just friendship for either of them. Julius cared about a lot of people, most of them dragons, but he’d never looked that scared for anyone but her. And yeah, part of it was probably the natural attraction of having gone through so much together, but when she’d taken a chance and kissed his cheek, he’d looked every bit as happy about it as she’d felt. That was very promising, and after the week she’d had, Marci was ready to jump on it.

  Don’t get your hopes up.

  She stopped her happy humming and turned to glare at her cat. “Why are you acting like this? I thought you liked Julius.”

  Ghost flicked his ears. He’s not bad for a dragon, but you’re forgetting the part where he’s immortal and you’re not. He likes you now when you’re both young, but when you get old, he’ll leave you.

  “Don’t bury me yet,” Marci grumbled, glaring stubbornly at the mirror as she ran the complimentary brush through her short hair. “Why do you care, anyway?”

  Because he isn’t worth so much of your attention, Ghost said, jumping up on the vanity beside her. He has a whole mountain. I only have you. He shouldn’t get that, too.

  He finished with a lash of his tail, and Marci started to smile. “I get it now,” she said, scooping the spirit into her arms. “You’re jealous.”

  Ghost huffed at her, and Marci bent down to bury her face in his soft, freezing fur. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “I like Julius a lot—like a lot a lot—but you’re my cat. Whatever happens, nothing changes that.”

  Nothing changes that, he agreed, flattening his ears. But I still don’t like how much of your thoughts he takes up.

  “Part of growing up is learning to share,” she said, checking the time. “And speaking of sharing, we have to go. I’m supposed to meet Sir Myron in five minutes.”

  The moment she said the undersecretary’s name, Ghost’s attention begin to slide. You can handle a human, he muttered, closing his eyes. I’m tired.

  “Poor baby,” she cooed, tucking him back inside her tattered shoulder bag. “You’ve been through a lot today. Go to sleep. I’ll wake you up when something happens.”

  She sent him a little pulse of magic from Amelia’s fire as she finished, and Ghost gobbled it up, his presence in her head curling into a ball. A few seconds later, he was asleep, his transparent body little more than a glowing shadow inside her bag as she hurried out of the room to find her ride.

  As with everything else since Fredrick had tied his name to hers, this proved to be a cinch. Now that she was approved as a VIH, or Very Important Human, the staff of Heartstriker Mountain was falling over themselves to do her bidding. She barely had to breathe the word car before she was bundled into a huge, black, armored SUV with nearly opaque tinted windows and on her way into town.

  A few minutes later, she discovered calling Heartstriker, New Mexico a “town” was being generous. The cluster of buildings on the road leading up to the dragon mountain was a tourist trap, plain and simple.

  Enormous, boxy shops lined both sides of the two-lane desert highway, and their kitschy windows were filled with every imaginable bit of dragon merchandise and paraphernalia. Some of it was pretty clever, like the bottles of ketchup-scented novelty body lotion and the T-shirts with the fake scorch marks that read “I SURVIVED HEARTSTRIKER MOUNTAIN!” The hot item seemed to be signed hardback copies of Bethesda’s fifth autobiography, Mother of the Year, which was stacked four rows deep in every store, but most of the merchandise was standard-issue lazy tourist junk: key chains and postcards and stuffed feathered dragons with huge eyes designed to entrap children and separate tired parents from their money. It was nothing Marci hadn’t seen before at tourist shops back in Las Vegas, though now that she’d actually lived with dragons, she was surprised Bethesda tolerated her image being exploited like this. That said, the Heartstriker matriarch did love attention, and Marci supposed it wasn’t so bad when you were the one doing the exploiting.

  But in the midst of all the rampant dragon commercialism, there were a few holdouts of actual local business. On the back side of the strip, sandwiched between the Dragon Theater and a dragon-themed buffet, was a classic American diner. It was one of those shabby, hole-in-the-wall, locals-only joints with the faded red leather booths, counter service, and pancakes sold by the stack. It definitely didn’t look like the type of establishment where the undersecretary of magic to the UN would eat, but according to the address on the card Raven had given her, this was the place, so Marci grabbed her bag with the still-sleeping Ghost and climbed out of the car. The moment she was out, the automated vehicle turned itself around and started back toward the mountain, leaving her blinking in the bright desert sun before she gathered her courage and marched into the diner, pushing open the dusty glass door with all the self-importance she could muster.

  This turned out to be a lot of show for nothing. The tiny diner was empty. Marci wasn’t sure if this was because it was eleven thirty a.m. on a weekday in the middle of nowhere, or if the restaurant was deserted because the undersecretary of magic wanted it that way. In either case, there wasn’t even a waitress there to greet her, though the complete lack of customers did make it easy to spot Raven perched on the back of a large circular booth in the diner’s far back corner.

  “Well,” he croaked, looking her up and down. “Took you long enough.”

  The sorry was on the tip of her tongue before Marci remembered she was the one doing them a favor. “I was busy,” she said instead, walking around the counter as confidently as she could to get her first look at the legend she’d come here to meet.

  Given the importance of any of his numerous jobs, Marci had expected to find the undersecretary of magic holding court at a table filled with aides and security. When she turned the corner, though, there were only two people sitting in the large booth. The first was obvious—Sir Myron Rollins looked exactly like the pictures on the back of all his books right down to his perfectly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard and immaculate tailored suit—but she didn’t recognize the extremely intimidating woman beside him. Even under the conservative black suit, it was obvious she was augmented—muscles simply didn’t grow that big on a woman without serious outside help—but that kind of thing was pretty common these days, especially in the military. She was waffling between battle mage or bodyguard, or maybe even battle mage bodyguard, when the woman suddenly rose from her seat with what looked like a real smile.

  “Marci Novalli?”

  Marci nodded, and the woman’s smile grew even wider as she offered her hand. “I’m General Emily Jackson, commanding officer of the UN’s Magical Disaster Response Team. Thank you for agreeing to meet with us.”

  “Sure,” Marci said, taking her hand…only to nearly drop it again. For someone who wasn’t wearing any of the normal mage trappings—no rings or wards or obvious sources of power—the general’s fingers were humming with magic. It reminded Marci strongly of the few times Julius had let her hold his first
magical sword, Tyrfing, but she’d never felt anything like it in a living creature before, much less from a person. But if General Jackson noticed her odd reaction, she didn’t show it. She just squeezed Marci’s hand and sat back down, nodding to the famous mage beside her, who had yet to acknowledge Marci’s presence. “I’m sure my companion requires no introduction.”

  “None at all,” Marci said, forcing herself to stay calm and not squee like a rabid fangirl. “It’s an honor to meet you, Sir Myron. I’ve read all your books.”

  “They are required reading for most institutions,” the undersecretary replied, though he made no move to stand and did not offer her his gloved hand. He wasn’t even looking at her face. His attention was entirely fixed on her shoulder bag where Ghost was sleeping, and his dark eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Is that your spirit? The cat?”

  That struck Marci as a weird question. She wasn’t even sure how Sir Myron had known Ghost was a cat considering there was no way the mage could see through her bag. But he was a legend for a reason, and they were here to talk about Mortal Spirits, so she brushed it off and sat down on the padded bench across the booth from them. “He is,” she said, pulling Ghost out of her bag and placing him gently on the table. “I call him Ghost.”

  The moment the sleeping spirit came into view, the look of bored apathy fell off the undersecretary’s face. He sat up at once, leaning forward so fast he almost knocked over his coffee. “Extraordinary,” he murmured, his gray eyes satisfyingly wide when they glanced back up at Marci. “What’s his name?”

  “Ghost,” Marci said again.

  Sir Myron’s look turned sharp. “His actual name.”

  Marci clamped her jaw shut. Starstruck or not, that was not information she was comfortable giving to just anyone. She wasn’t exactly sure how it worked, but considering how much stock Ghost had put into learning his true name, it wasn’t hard to guess that spirit names were powerful mojo. Too powerful to just give away, even to someone as famous as Sir Myron Rollins. She was trying to think of a polite way to say No way when the general raised her hand.

  “This isn’t an interrogation,” she said, looking at Marci with an expression so extraordinarily patient and polite, it had to be practiced. “We’re not here to make demands, Miss Novalli. I had Raven ask you—”

  “Wait,” Marci said, confused. “You told Raven? Not…”

  She glanced at Myron, and Raven squawked with laughter. “Surely you don’t think I listen to him,” the spirit said, hopping off the back of Marci’s padded bench seat to land on the table in front of the general. “Mr. Labyrinth’s razzle-dazzle might be enough to impress some spirits, but I’ve been playing with mages since before your kind learned to write. I’m not so easily won over.”

  “So you’re a mage?” Marci asked the general.

  “Not exactly,” she said. “I—”

  “She’s my special project,” Raven said, fluffing out his chest in pride. “I found her on a battlefield ages ago. My children have always been carrion eaters, and I’d meant to let them have a little fun, but despite all cause to the contrary, this one wasn’t quite dead yet. I found that interesting, so I patched her up and we made a deal.”

  “Don’t make it sound so sinister,” General Jackson said, giving the bird a stern look before turning back to Marci. “Raven and I aren’t tied by the usual links because I’m not a mage. There’s no spell binding us or anything like that. It’s more of a mutually beneficial partnership. He helps me, I help him.”

  “Do you have to be so practical?” Raven croaked, irritated. “Now it doesn’t sound interesting at all.”

  Marci thought it sounded quite interesting. She’d never even heard of a link between a spirit and a normal human. Sir Myron, on the other hand, looked put out by the whole conversation.

  “Interesting or not, none of this is fit to be discussed in public,” he said crisply. “Let me get us some privacy, and then we’ll get down to business.”

  He removed his gloves as he finished, revealing a set of wide metal rings carved with an intricate geometric line pattern, like the turnings of a maze. Marci was trying to get a better look when he flicked his fingers, and magic exploded into the room.

  The blast sent Marci flat back in her seat. There was no circle, no spellwork, nothing to channel the power or tell it what to do. The undersecretary was simply moving magic through the labyrinth of his rings, tweaking the power on the fly like an artist manipulating clay. But where shamans made this sort of on-the-fly casting look reckless at best, every one of Sir Myron’s movements felt like a natural extension of the power he was shaping. This, she realized with a start, was Labyrinth Magic, the school Sir Myron had created himself that was so complicated, no one had ever been able to copy it properly.

  Watching it live herself for the first time, Marci could see why. He didn’t throw the magic around like shamans did or run it through a Thaumaturgical equation full of variables like Marci. He simply pointed, and the spell followed, weaving itself through the maze he traced in the air until the table was surrounded by a Gordian knot of magic so perfect and precise, she could have studied it for hours.

  “There,” he said proudly, tying the ward off with a flourish. “That should stop anything short of a full attack from the Heartstriker herself. Now.” He turned his glare on Marci. “Would you care to explain why you’re letting the first Mortal Spirit to rise since the return of magic waste away?”

  “What are you talking about?” she asked. “He’s just asleep.”

  “Spirits don’t sleep unless they are critically low on magic,” Sir Myron said authoritatively, staring critically at her snoozing, transparent cat. “They are the sentient embodiment of magic, not biological—”

  “Wait,” she said, eyes going wide. “You know spirits are sentient magic?!”

  “Of course I know,” Sir Myron scoffed. “It’s the central conceit of my latest book, New Spirit Theories.”

  Marci slumped down in the booth, defeated. So much for her Nobel Prize in magic. She’d thought for sure she was the first modern human to know when Amelia had explained it on the beach, but apparently she was a day late and a whole textbook short.

  “Don’t feel down,” General Jackson said, giving Marci what was probably supposed to be a kind smile. “Not to downplay Myron’s accomplishments, but our office has access to a wealth of information that we’ve kept secret from the larger academic community.”

  “Why?” Marci asked. “This is huge! If spirits truly are sentient magic, then we’ve been thinking about them all wrong for decades.”

  “Not all wrong,” Raven said. “The current prevailing magical theory is that spirits are great, mysterious powers to be respected and honored, and that’s true. It’s also true we’re basically giant walking, talking bags of magic, and that’s where things get trickier. If humans start seeing us less as terrifying supernatural forces and more as untapped magical wells, it’s only a matter of time before you start sucking us dry like you do every other resource on this planet. That’s actually why I’ve been corrupting Myron’s final publication draft file every chance I get for the last few weeks. I’m not sure if the world is ready for this yet.”

  Sir Myron’s look turned murderous. “That was you?”

  The spirit shrugged, and the mage raised his fist before General Jackson grabbed his arm with a firm gloved hand. “We’ll discuss this later,” she said in an iron voice. “For now, I’m more curious as to how you learned about sentient magic theory, Miss Novalli. Myron figured it out through years of top-level research with some of our greatest spirit allies, including Raven, but how did you learn the truth?” Her eyes flicked to Ghost. “Did he tell you?”

  Marci shook her head. “Ghost is a pretty new spirit. He says he doesn’t know this stuff, and I believe him. I learned about Mortal Spirits and the sentient magic from Amelia.”

  Everyone at the table jumped. “Amelia?” Sir Myron demanded. “Amelia? As in the Planeswalker, heir to the He
artstrikers?”

  Marci nodded, and the UN officials shared a look. Raven, on the other hand, started to laugh. “That sounds just like her! Greedy snake never could resist a power play. She was trying to recruit you, wasn’t she?” When Marci nodded, he cackled again, his beak open in the closest thing a bird could get to a grin. “So did she mention me? Huh? Huh? Did she?”

  “No,” Marci said, trying not to wince when the bird looked crushed.

  “I didn’t even think the Planeswalker was in this reality at this moment,” Sir Myron said, stroking his beard as he gazed at Marci. “Though an alliance with Amelia would explain the car you arrived in.”

  “I don’t have an alliance with Amelia,” Marci said. “I don’t belong to any dragon, actually. I’m just here to help Julius. He’s my partner.”

  She’d almost said boyfriend, but confident as she was feeling right now about how things were going, that felt like a bridge too far. The UN team looked impressed in any case, probably because they’d only met Julius, Council member and Usurper of Bethesda, not Julius the Nice Dragon. Personally, Marci far preferred the latter, but she wasn’t above riding on his new coattails, especially since Sir Myron was finally looking at her with something like grudging respect.

  “I’m happy to hear you’re not beholden to a dragon,” he said at last, folding his hands on the table in front of him. “How much do you know about Mortal Spirits, exactly?”

  “Not as much as I’d like,” Marci admitted. “When Amelia explained it to me, she said that when lots of humans believe something, it creates an impression on the magical landscape. When this impression fills with magic, it becomes a spirit of the idea the same way magic collecting in a lake or mountain creates a spirit of the land.”

  “But far, far bigger,” Sir Myron added.

  Marci nodded. “She said that as well. That’s why we haven’t seen any Mortal Spirits yet, because the indentations that create them—the big human concepts like death or love or whatever—are so big, so deep and so wide and so huge that the last sixty years of magic simply hasn’t been enough to fill them yet.”