by ReGi McClain
A few minutes after the sky began to glow with warm colors, a soft, hesitant knock sounded on their door. Maura, being the most awake at the moment, opened the door. Zeeb leaned into the room, keeping his feet in the hall. His eyes darted from Harsha to Seraph and back.
“Ready?” He lifted a shoulder in front of his face as if he expected some kind of missile to hit him.
“Why wouldn’t we be?” Seraph drew in a tremendous yawn.
Zeeb gaped at her a moment before correcting himself. “Oh… no reason. How are you doing, Harsha? All rested?”
Harsha glared at him from her pillow. He didn’t deserve it, and she knew it, but his attempt at cheeriness grated against nerves she hadn’t realized she’d had before The Flight.
“I’ll head down to the Saddle Room and order dinner.” He disappeared down the hall.
Harsha crawled out from under the covers, grunting and groaning. Looking herself over in the mirror, she wrinkled her nose at the aged bruises covering most of her body. She brushed on powder foundation to hide the yellowish-green marks cluttering her face and hid the rest with clothing, glad for the chill in the air, which made a handy excuse to cover up.
“This man who’s driving us out to visit your grandmother, is he a hider?”
“No.” Seraph pulled a colorful summer dress on over her perpetual underwear. “He’s the farmer who owns the land she lives on.”
“He knows about her?”
“He knows the castle on his land is no ordinary castle.” With this vague answer, Seraph led the way to the Saddle Room, the Shelbourne’s dining room, where they joined Zeeb and another man.
Harsha asked the farmer, a ruddy, middle-aged man, questions throughout the meal, hoping to goad information out of him. He answered in short phrases, all of which amounted to “my farm’s haunted” and “the saints be with you.” She never caught his name. When the sun’s last rays slipped beneath the horizon, he drove them out to his farm and dropped them off by a rickety metal gate sporting a rusty “No Trespassing” sign. They watched him drive back up the road before climbing over the fence.
Seraph ran ahead, ditching her sundress along the way. Harsha squinted into the dark, trying to discern the nature of the large shadow looming in front of her. As they drew closer, she realized she was staring at the ruins of a large stone structure, not as big as the castles she associated with medieval Europe, but solid, once upon a time, and able to protect and defend like its larger cousins. Vines covered most of one wall, giving the impression they were bracing the structure against the effects of time.
A wizened lady with white hair that looked as if she rinsed it with bluing poked her head out. When she saw Seraph, she stepped outside and stretched her arms for a hug, “Welcome, dearie, welcome!” Her gray tongue, human in appearance except for the color, flicked out to lick Seraph’s cheek. “And these are your friends. You’re the werewolf, are ye not?” She held out a hand to Zeeb.
He put on his courtly manners, as with Phyllis, and bowed with a flourish as he lifted the offered hand to his lips to brush a kiss across the wrinkled skin. “Pleasure to meet you.”
The old woman chuckled. “Aye, dearie. What a beard ye have. It tickles my hand.”
Zeeb grinned at the compliment.
The old woman came to Maura next and licked her face. Maura squeezed close to Harsha, giving the impression she was doing her best not to shudder.
For the first time in her life, Harsha regretted not having a beard. Or a rash. Or a balaclava. Anything to make her cheeks as inaccessible as Zeeb’s. When the old woman came to her, she extended a hand at eye level to be sure the old woman noticed it and dipped a little curtsy.
“It’s an honor to meet Seraph’s grandmother.”
The lady jiggled Harsha’s hand and laughed. “Ah, no. I’m not Sephy’s granmum. Just her ma’s old Nanny. Now then, I smell the old one gettin’ ready to mist.” She leaned in to whisper, “These ancient dragons give off a bealin’ odor when they change.”
Zeeb pressed his lips together and made choking noises. Harsha tried to shoot him a “be polite” glance, but then noticed Nanny wink and stifle her own chuckle. “Come, let’s watch. These grand, big dragons make such a spectacle.”
The vine-covered wall shimmered into fine green mist that hung in the air like flecks of sparkling dust on an alien world and it did, indeed, give off a strange odor. It reminded Harsha of rotten eggs and petrichor. Seraph’s odorless bronze mist joined the green, and heartbeats later an enormous, emerald dragon cradled dragon-Seraph.
Maura’s knees gave way under her. Harsha tried to catch her but ended up tumbling down with the girl.
“The poor darlin’.” Nanny knelt beside them. “Is she all right?”
Harsha put a hand to Maura’s forehead and watched her breathe for a while. The girl’s temperature felt normal and her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. “She fainted, but I think she’s okay.”
“She looks so peaceful. Seems a shame to wake her. I’ve just the thing in my hole.”
Nanny stepped into what remained of the castle, where she stomped on the ground near a crumbling staircase. A gaping cavern opened beneath her foot and she jumped in. Seconds later, she emerged with a blanket, pillow, and jar. Together, she and Harsha arranged Maura into a comfortable position.
A heavy floral scent drifted out of the jar when Nanny opened it and placed it near Maura’s nose. A deep sense of peace and wellbeing settled over Harsha, teasing her with the offer of escape from her world of troubles. The contents of the jar seduced her, sweeping away all desire to resist it. A contented sigh oozed out of her, taking with it tension and worry. Yearning for the respite, she settled next to Maura with an arm around the girl’s waist.
Zeeb looped his arms under hers and hauled her to her feet. “Up you get.”
Offended with his interference, Harsha mumbled a sleepy, “Hey, what’re you doing?”
“Getting you away from the jar.” Moving one of her arms over his shoulders and snaking one of his around her waist, he half-carried, half-dragged her toward Seraph and her grandmother.
A few yards away from Maura, Harsha’s head cleared and sprang to life as though she’d enjoyed a good night’s rest followed by a strong cup of coffee. Wondering what the jar contained and how much a barrel cost, she got her feet under her.
Zeeb loosened his grip to allow her freedom of movement, but kept hold of her. “Awake now?”
“Yeah! What’s in that jar? It’s amazing.” She tried to sniff it from where she stood.
“A few herbs, dearie, with a wee touch of magic. Your lass will have pleasant dreams for a hundred years or until I put the lid back on.”
Forget this hopeless search for a cure. With the potion to keep her unconscious, Harsha could sleep through the rest of her illness and never suffer the humiliation of needing to be cared for like an infant. If she had herself buried alive with it, no one would have to deal with the mess of a dead body. All she needed was an unethical mortician to carry out her wishes. She stared at the dragons without seeing them, planning out the details. Comfy coffin, silk pajamas, relaxing music…
Zeeb waved his hand in front of her face. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop thinking it.”
“Hmm?”
“That is the creepiest speculative expression I’ve seen since the first time I met Younkins.”
Harsha shrugged. “My family dies young. Morbid speculation is necessary.”
Zeeb’s arm still circled her waist, so when his shoulders shimmied, the quivers shook Harsha, too.
She stepped away and wrinkled her nose at him. “Did you just…” It seemed silly coming from a werewolf who hung out with a dragon, ran a business with a sasquatch, and noshed mad scientists on occasion. “Shudder?”
He shrugged and focused on the dragons. Seraph and her grandmother were playing, seemingly oblivious to Maura’s fainting episode. Harsha watched them with mixed apprehension and wonder. Seraph’s grandmother, a gargantu
an beast personifying the horror of all the old tales, filled her with terrible awe. With long claws, sharp teeth, hard scales, and black smoke, she was like a waking nightmare to watch. Except, she behaved like an ordinary grandmother.
In the monster’s arms, tiny by comparison, Seraph giggled, cooed, and nipped like a kitten. The magnificent grandmother dragon cuddled and rocked the way Harsha remembered her mother rocking her. Her blood-red, forked tongue darted between her dagger-like teeth to shower her little granddaughter in kisses. Her claws, swords of bone, wiggled across Seraph’s belly, eliciting boisterous laughter.
Nanny watched with a smile. “It is nice to see the wee one. It’s been almost a century, and they grow so fast at that age.”
Seraph and her grandmother rubbed noses before the elder set the younger on the grass next to Harsha and Zeeb. Zeeb stood on firm legs with his usual smile. Harsha wished she held such command over herself. As the huge claws lowered her best friend, her knees knocked and she feared she might pass out like Maura. With this colossus towering over her, she understood why dragons were the source of horrific tales, playful motherliness notwithstanding.
Seraph’s grandmother swung her smile in Harsha’s direction. Harsha’s knees gave way and she sat down with a plop on the grass.
The dragon bent low to eye Harsha. “Oh, dear. Sephy, it seems I’ve startled one of your friends.”
Harsha tried to smile and say ‘hello’ but the word stuck in her mouth and her vision darkened. Zeeb knelt to put a supporting arm around her. Seraph gave Harsha a slobbery dragon kiss, the smell of which nauseated her back to full consciousness.
With difficulty, she swallowed her stomach back down to its rightful place and managed to stammer, “H-h-h-hello.”
The grandmother dragon huffed a steamy sigh over Harsha, clearing her head and stomach. She stood, trembling, but no longer worried about passing out or vomiting.
“Welcome, Harsha.” The grandmother dragon settled herself into a catlike position. “It’s an honor to meet the last descendent of the Fae-mermaid.”
Last descendent? Harsha craned her neck back to address Grandmother. “Are you sure?”
Too late, it occurred to her she must be insane to argue with this creature. Grandmother’s head loomed twenty feet or higher above the ground, and she was sitting.
Happily, she seemed unperturbed at being questioned. “Yes. The rest of us believed you died out five centuries ago. I’m afraid with your brother gone, and no heirs by you, the line is broken. A shame. Really, quite a shame. But not to be dwelt upon. Shall we have a little refreshment? Nanny?”
Nanny disappeared into the hole. Moments later, a blue, serpentine creature with a long belly between its fore and hind legs crawled out, carrying an enormous tray in its claws. Harsha squawked at its appearance and moved to be closer to Zeeb.
“Oh, sorry, dearie. Didn’t mean to startle you.”
The voice belonged to Nanny. The tray she set down included two live sheep grazing on mounds of grass and two bowls giving off steam, which carried a meaty smell to Harsha’s nostrils. Next to these sat a silver teapot and all its appurtenances, most of which looked large enough to make sufficient hiding places for children wishing to play hide-and-seek.
Nanny lifted a small cup from its hiding place among the oversized dishes, pinching it between two nails. Harsha watched in fascination as Nanny drizzled a delicate stream of steaming liquid from the enormous teapot with the precision of a scientist working with dangerous chemicals and the casual grace of a Jane Austen heroine.
“Here you are, dearie.”
The knife-like claws swung toward Harsha. Thankful to be sitting and blessing herself for using the bathroom before they left the hotel, Harsha sucked in her breath and held it to check the impulse to run.
Nanny is not much bigger than Seraph and Seraph is my best friend. There’s no need to be afraid. I’ll just take the cup and say thank you.
Telling herself the reasonable thing turned out to be a different matter than doing it. It took four tries to get her hands to move. By concentrating on the image of the human version of Nanny, she managed to get her fingers to within an inch of the cup. There she froze, unable to convince herself to follow through or retreat.
Zeeb’s hand intruded on the vision of elegance held captive by death. Unwavering, he reached between the vile instruments of dismemberment and plucked the cup from their grasp like Heracles stealing the golden apples. Fingers steady, smile reassuring, he offered the prize to Harsha. The stinker. Harsha wanted to throttle him for that serene poise. It smacked of knight in shining armor and made her feel as though she belonged in a cheap romance novel. Irritated, she took the cup but withheld her thanks.
Without seeming to notice Harsha’s rudeness, Zeeb accepted his cup and set the two bowls of stew Nanny offered between himself and Harsha. Nanny poured out tea for the dragons next and slid the tray of grazing sheep toward Seraph.
“Aren’t you eating, Nanny?”
“No, dearie. I ate a few cows last week.” She coiled her lower half and picked up her cup of tea. “Don’t worry about old Nanny, Sephy. I won’t be hungry for a while yet.”
Seraph looked up at her grandmother.
“It’s all right. You may eat without waiting for Nanny this time. Would you like me to kill your snack for you, or do you want to try to do it yourself?”
“I can kill my own food, thank you, Grandma.” To prove it, Seraph clenched her jaws around one of the sheep’s middles and snapped her head to the left.
A sharp cracking sound brought bile into Harsha’s mouth. She flinched, shuddered, and swallowed, hoping the sheep’s quick demise spared it from suffering.
Zeeb mumbled, “Wish I had it so easy.”
Seraph grinned at him with the sheep hanging out of her mouth.
Harsha shuddered again. She tried to soothe herself by telling her brain Seraph’s style of killing made many a rancher’s methods look like twisted products of disturbed, cruel minds. It worked too well. Vegetarianism suddenly held glowing appeal.
Grandmother smiled. “Very good, dear.”
She mirrored the action with her own sheep, but with movements so rapid that Harsha missed it, for which she felt deep gratitude toward the large dragon. As Seraph started in on her sheep, Harsha decided to study the teacup she held. It was made of silver, like the pot, polished to a high shine and free of marks of wear or age. A pattern more exquisite and intricate than any she had seen before laced and twined around the metallic surface. She held it close to her face, trying to follow the loops and crosses, but her eyes lost focus with the effort.
Her attention fixed on her cup, Harsha avoided seeing Grandmother finish her sheep in one gulp, but she heard the slurp and swallow. Another spine-rattling chill distracted her and she almost missed Grandmother’s words.
“Beautiful, isn’t it? It makes my eyes water when I look at it too long. The leprechauns who lived in this field gave it to me when Nanny and I moved here. You may keep it.”
Leprechauns? The image of a mischievous, little man tormenting Sean Connery popped into her head. Maybe if I catch one, I can wish my disease away. Except, leprechaun gifts always come with a curse.
At least, she seemed to remember so. Perhaps Grandmother knew whether the old legends told the truth. She looked up at the dragon in wonder, caught sight of Seraph, forgot what she intended to ask, and jerked her head back down. Seraph’s muzzle dripped blood, as Zeeb’s had in the SoPHE lab. It reminded her of the incident and she needed a minute to recover before she spoke.
“But, it’s too special. I can’t accept it.”
Grandmother whuffled a soft, low laugh. “My dear, hasn’t Seraph told you? It is exceedingly unwise to refuse the gift of a dragon. I will forgive you this once since, these days, so few creatures know how to pay proper respect to us. Do you realize,” she addressed herself to Nanny, “we haven’t been given a decent sacrifice since the eighteenth century.”
“Oh, yes! Tho
se wonderful, little morsels they gave us every year. I always liked the screamers best. I do miss those days.”
Harsha glanced sidelong at Nanny, avoiding the sight of Seraph. Nanny stared into space with a dreamy look in her snakelike eyes and licked her lips. Harsha watched the serpent-tongue flick over the reptilian lips with growing concern, wondering if Nanny fancied her for supper. Or if Seraph befriended her only to make her a gift to her grandmother, like a box of chocolates.
As the quivering in her limbs increased, she wished Seraph’s grandmother had let her faint after all. It would be better to be gulped down while unconscious than to see the teeth heading for her middle and feeling them wrap around her for the split second before the dragon snapped her neck. Or worse, to watch the flame burst out from a toothy maw, then burn until she succumbed to the cooking process.
Zeeb cupped her elbow and leaned close. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “She wouldn’t give you a leprechaun teacup if she intended to eat you.” He let go of her elbow and straightened. “If I remember correctly,” he said for all to hear, “these cups are indestructible.”
Nanny stopped daydreaming to look at Zeeb. “Indeed. They never tarnish, and they’re quite impossible to damage, I assure you. Unless you happen to have Cúchulainn’s spear, but why anyone would want to spoil one of those is beyond me.”
Zeeb nodded in agreement. Harsha smiled and nodded as well, but her limbs shimmied with anxiety. She sloshed her tea during her next attempt to bring it to her lips, spilling scalding liquid over her hands. She dropped the cup and gasped with pain.
“My goodness!” said Grandmother. “You needn’t to prove it by us. We’re the ones who told you they can’t be damaged. Here.” She picked up the cup between the tips of her claws and held it out. Harsha reached for it, determined to get it for herself rather than let Zeeb do it, with tremulous hands.
“Why, Harsha, you’re shaking like a leaf. Are you cold? Sephy told me you spend most of your time in Hawaii. Terribly hot place.”
Zeeb answered for her. “I don’t think she’s shivering because of the chill, ma’am. I think she’s feeling intimidated.”
