by CK Dawn
“We needed answers,” Saras said again, taking a hesitant step into her own kitchen. “I could get them, but having her,” she gestured to Phyllis, “would take less time.”
“I’m still your blood,” Phyllis said shrilly, increasing the distance between her chair and Dragon’s before easing into it.
“Phyllis,” Saras said, pinching the bridge between her eyes, “let it go. You were a bitch then and you’re probably a bitch now. That information is simply not relevant to our current situation. Something to wet your whistle?” she inquired politely.
Phyllis looked at the wine rack that dominated one wall of the connected dining room. Enormous glass doors kept Saras’s precious babies safe, yet visible, and a complex refrigeration system powered partly by rooftop solar panels and partly by a what’s-mine-is-mine charm kept them perfectly chilled, or not, per each varietal’s requirements.
“It’s barely 10:00 a.m.” Dragon said.
“And her granddaughter just tried to kill her. She’s due,” Saras said, selecting a brooding Cabernet from the rack.
Phyllis downed the contents of the balloon-shaped stemware in front of her and nodded for Saras to hit her again. “What is relevant?” she said after three large, careless gulps of what Dragon was sure was a superb red.
“Well, our Dragon met a guy,” Saras poured herself a coffee and sat at the table. “Not some normal bloke who will fuck her over and then realize after he’s cheated on her a few times that she’s The One. A real loser—a fae reject if you can believe it—and his family’s come ՚round to have a look at her.”
“So?” Phyllis looked at Saras’s cold box meaningfully. “Anyone else feel a bit peckish?”
“So, a prince of the Sun has taken an interest and not just for purposes of slumming.” Saras put a box of Fiber Chews cereal in front of Phyllis, who it picked it up with a sneer, then met Saras’s hard eyes, an understanding waving the air between.
“When Will was barely a year old,” Phyllis began, watching as Saras made a big show out of pulling out a dozen eggs and putting them in a pot of water with a liberal pinch of lemon flavored Boil-It-Fast.
Satisfied that their unspoken bargain of real food for real information was being implemented, Phyllis continued. “Katie was in a bad way—no money, no prospects,” she clarified. “And I wasn’t in any shape to help her—barely making ends meet bartending at World o’ Girls,” she said, her eyes sliding away from the derision in Dragon’s.
“Bartending? Is that what the kids called stripping and a bit of hooking in those days?” Dragon said, trying to find some satisfaction in the humiliation that reddened her grandmother’s cheeks. The verbal jab wasn’t nearly as restorative as Dragon had imagined it would be.
“You wanna hear this or not?” Phyllis said defensively.
“Cut it out, Dragon,” Saras admonished, peeling the eggs she’d hard boiled. She carefully sliced the whites and tossed the round yolks into a bowl with mayonnaise, paprika and wild onion marinated in brine, dried, grated and blessed by Halo City’s local chapter of emancipated saints.
“She needed cash badly—for rent, food, diapers—so she went to that clinic with the ads all over the buses. ‘Participate in our trial and get cash up front and as you’re heading out the door.’”
“Nobody goes to those places. Nobody with sense,” Dragon said.
“She was desperate,” Phyllis said. “When they saw you on her hip, they doubled their payment and threw in a carton of cigarettes.”
Dragon gaped at her grandmother and blinked back tears. She thought she’d reconciled herself to Katie’s indifference long ago. Thought she’d dealt with it and was over it. But deep down in her most unspoken heart, she’d held on to the hope that her mother loved her after all. Fantasized that she would find Dragon one day, apologize for all and beg forgiveness.
Who knew a mother’s love could be overcome by a carton of cigarettes?
“What was the purpose of the study?” Saras said, coming to stand behind Dragon and wrapping her arms around her in a brief hug before returning to sow rosebud-shaped egg yolks into their waiting white beds.
“I don’t know,” Phyllis said, rising to filch two newly deviled eggs. “You were fine when she brought you in the clinic,” she looked steadily at Dragon. “And bawling when you both left.”
“And?” Saras held away the tray of deviled eggs she’d been about to set on the table.
“That’s it. You were seriously cranky for a couple of weeks. Katie damn near gave up on you altogether, but I convinced her it was just a bit of colic and would pass.” Phyllis looked beseechingly at Saras still holding the tray hostage. “You were different after that,” she continued, grinning as Saras finally put the food in front of her. “Always watching folks—like a cat.” She devoured a deviled egg, her eyes closing in bliss.
“Katie loved you, you know. More than anything. You know what your first words were?” she continued when Dragon shook her head. “‘Mommy wrinkled.’ Which turned into ‘Mommy ugly.’ Only so much of that shit anyone can take before you start wondering why you’re putting up with it in the first place.”
“That’s why you left me?” Dragon said bitterly. “Because I saw who you’d turn into?” She bit her lip to keep her mouth from dropping open. She shouldn’t be shocked by her grandmother’s callousness, but she was. She thought of Jasper and was grateful to him all over again for his sacrifice. Food, shelter and love weren’t the only legacies he’d bestowed upon her. She could now add the loyalty one should feel for one’s family. As unconscious as a fireman’s instinct to head back into a burning building as many times as it took until all were safe, it was an enduring claim, unfazed by disappointment or inconvenience. It was not just a promise to love. It was everything.
Phyllis and Katie talked a good game, but when push came to shove, they’d be okay—consider it a job well done even—with pulling a few out of that crumbling building and leaving the rest to burn.
Jasper would never let Dragon believe she was unwanted. His threat to repudiate her was bullshit and they both knew it.
“Did anyone ever love you?” she said finally. “Because it suddenly occurs to me that in order to give love, you have to have been taught to love.”
“I’ve been loved plenty,” Phyllis said defensively.
“No,” Dragon shook her head. “You’ve been fucked. Sometimes over and sometimes well, but not one person ever considered you while they used you. They didn’t even know you were there. But what I want to know,” Dragon pressed on, meeting her grandmother’s fulminating glare with a smirk. “Is why you ever thought you were fit to spawn.” She sat back in her chair with a sigh. She’d gone for Phyllis’s jugular and this time, watching her bleed felt just right.
Saras caught Phyllis just as she lunged for Dragon.
“Whoa there, sister,” Saras said, body-slamming Phyllis on the kitchen’s cold, tiled floor. “Hurt?” she asked the stunned older woman, gasping for breath.
At Phyllis’s pain-filled nod, Saras said, “It’ll pass,” and helped the older woman to her feet. She slid Phyllis’s wine glass and the entire tray of deviled eggs in front of her. “Sit, eat, have a few sips of that divine Cab and you’ll be right as rain in no time.” She turned to Dragon, watching them with a satisfied smile. “Cut it the fuck out. I mean it.” Saras pointed her finger at Dragon for emphasis.
“Not gonna happen,” Dragon said through clenched teeth. “She deserves to be beaten with a lead pipe. A little bitchiness from me doesn’t even scratch the surface of the debt she owes me.” She took several deep breaths and pinched the acupressure point between her thumb and index finger for a measure of calm. “Just tell me this,” she looked at Phyllis. “What was so all-fired important that made you think, ‘Fuck Dragon’? ߴ’Cause I’m just dying to know if abandoning me was worth it.”
“Ahh,” Saras said, pulling the Cab and tray of eggs out of Phyllis’s reach. “Excellent question.”
When Phyll
is didn’t respond after a tension-filled minute, Dragon said, “Saras, punch her in the nose.”
“What? Why me? She’s your grandmother.”
“Oh I’m sorry. I saw you put on the brass knuckles and naturally assumed you were up for some violence.”
“Well you know what they say when you assume.”
Dragon’s face was charmingly embarrassed. “Oh my God, do I have egg all over my face or what? Can I borrow your brass knuckles? I left mine in my other pants.”
Saras sighed. “Just this once, I’ll take care of it.”
“Really? I don’t want to put you out.”
“Well, I’m already here, so you’ll just—” Saras’s fist was a blur as it clocked Phyllis, smashing her nose—“owe me.”
Admiring Saras’s handiwork, Dragon said, “Is it just me, or does she look unnaturally vibrant?”
“Well her nose is gushing blood, but now that you mention it, she does look sort of, actually, extremely well rested.”
They both blinked at the older women using her hand to stanch the fountain of blood coming out of her broken nose.
Handing her the dish towel hanging from the oven door handle, Saras said, “So, Phyllis. What have you been doing with yourself the last twenty years?”
When Saras raised her fist again, Phyllis quickly responded, albeit nasally, “Been sunning.”
“You’re a toy?” Dragon was annoyed at herself for being so incredulous. She’d suffered enough shock and consternation at her grandmother’s hands. Finding out that she’d just up and left Dragon without a word so she could go be a slave in the House of the Sun should’ve been yawn-inducing information. Instead…
Saras, her eyes soft with compassion, reached for Dragon to administer a hug.
Dragon evaded her with a few jerky steps. “I will lose it if you do that,” she said, pasting a smile on her face.
She switched her gaze to her grandmother and, ignoring the wetness trailing down her cheeks said, “I fucking hate you. You know that, don’t you?”
“Willie, I regret everything.”
“Only because everything didn’t work out for you, not because it was completely fucked up to leave me in the first place!”
“She’s looking good though,” Saras said, referring to the perks gotten by humans who voluntarily bathed in the Sun. “No wrinkles. Wouldn’t put her past thirty if I had to guess. You’re what? Fifty?”
“Sixty at the very least,” Dragon corrected.
Saras set the tray of deviled eggs in front of the bleeding woman. “That’s one year erased from your body for every year given in service. Well, you look like a million bucks,” Saras said to the now weeping woman. “That should make up for everything.”
“How did you know I would need your help?” Dragon said, giving in to her anger and reaching across the table to claw at her grandmother’s face.
Saras caught her around the waist and backed her up against the wall. “We can still use her. Calm down.”
“I didn’t know if I would hear from you and neither did my owner. I’d hoped though.” Phyllis went to the cold box and made herself an ice pack. “They were ecstatic when the call came in.” She leveled a significant look at Saras as she filled her bloody dish towel with ice cubes and covered her nose with a weak groan. “Crowed about using you to get close to the royal circle. Promised me the moon if I could get you to walk West on your own,” she said, using the slang reference for humans who willingly enslaved themselves to a member of the Sun fae. “And freedom if I bring them a DNA sample.”
At that Dragon stopped struggling and met Saras’s eyes.
“But I don’t need it,” Phyllis continued with a desperate smile. “I have a lock of your baby hair—before you went to the clinic. I kept it in a scrapbook Katie left behind when she moved out.”
“When you kicked her out,” Dragon said. She pushed away from Saras, raising her hands in surrender to signify that she was done fighting, grabbed Phyllis’s drink, and contemplated taking a header right into it.
“It’s too early.” Saras pulled the glass out of Dragon’s reach.
“I give Branch that,” Phyllis continued a little frantically. “He sees that you’re clean, lets me go and forgets you ever existed. Everybody wins.”
Dragon eyed her grandmother suspiciously. Phyllis’s generosity extended as far as it benefited her. If stressed beyond its self-serving capabilities, Phyllis risked actual caring, which was taxing under normal circumstances and interfered with the time she’d allotted for herself each day, i.e., every hour she happened to be awake.
“I want things to be different between us. Better.”
Dragon looked at Saras for confirmation. At her shrug, Dragon executed an emotional back flip, back handspring, double layout of her own, marveling that this tiny kernel of faith came to her so easily. “Fine.”
“Really?”
“Why not?”
Smiling gratefully, Phyllis said, “Do you remember how we used to—”
“Easy there, Nellie,” Dragon said curtly. “Let’s not get carried away. I believe that there’s only a thirty-five percent chance that you won’t screw me. This time. That’s all.”
“Dude, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Saras said. “I mean, when’s the last time you’ve seen a Nooner walking around without a leash?”
Dragon raised her brows, a crooked smile on her lips. “Nooner?” She quickly extrapolated the new term’s meaning: The sun at its highest point plus disposable sex equaled an obligatory relationship with light retaining dominance. Shaking her head, Dragon said, “That’s a little too hip for me.” She huffed a bit of a laugh.
“Anyway,” Saras said. “Unlike typical slave behavior, a measured kind of trust does not flourish between those who sun and their masters. The docility that came out of Stockholm is generally avoided as it tends to interfere with fear, a necessary component of narcissistic behavior. And since fear and degradation are the breast meat of that relationship, your owner should be close. As in three feet away from you close.”
“Do I even want to know how you know all this?”
“My twentieth dissertation was titled Crafting Love: The Effects of Inherently Coercive Relationships among Fae-Human Pairings,” Saras admitted defensively.
“An actual doctorate in partying,” Dragon laughed. “Who would’ve thunk.”
A knock sounded at her door and, clearly relieved to have everyone’s attention focused on something else, Saras hurried to answer it.
“Requisite perfectly fabulous gay friend reporting for duty,” Sage said, stepping into Saras’s loft with a stylish salute. His elephant ears were decorated with tourmalines and emerald cut citrines. “Hey, baby.” He waved at Dragon and struck a pose to highlight his designer duds.
“Now there’s a handsome devil,” Dragon said, rising to kiss Sage’s cheeks.
“Who’s the titian lovely?” Sage said with a wink at Phyllis.
“Dear very old grandmama.”
“Very old, you say? And don’t we look like the cat’s meow—apart from the nose,” he said, tapping his own delicately tattooed trunk and shooting Saras a knowing look.
“You know what they say about idle hands,” she said with a grin.
“They’re full of violent-y goodness? Well, that certainly explains the flock of bright ones hanging around your front stoop,” he said.
“Bright ones?” Dragon said.
“Sun fae.”
“Guess my ride’s here,” Phyllis said, standing. She took the ice pack off her nose and fingered it gently.
“Wow,” Saras said. “Being in the Sun definitely has its privileges.”
Apart from being a bit red, as if she had a cold, Phyllis’s nose was perfectly healed. She met Dragon’s indifferent stare, her familiar green eyes desperately pleading, for what Dragon didn’t care enough to imagine. She held that gaze, making sure to infuse her own with as much disdain as she could manage.
Her anger q
uickly evaporated as she watched Phyllis’s eyes change from lush green to a blue so icy it was nearly white.
Phyllis held her index finger to her lips in a plea for quiet then pulled a small ornate knife from between her breasts.
Dragon stiffened and placed a staying hand on Saras’s arm, which was already reaching for the dagger sheathed at her thigh.
With false cheer Sage said, “Saras, sweetheart. I’m parched. Wouldn’t happen to have any twice distilled witch’s brew handy?”
“That’s a tall order, handsome,” Phyllis said, drawing the knife across her palm. She downed the last swallow of wine in her glass and held her hand over it, stropping her forearm from elbow to wrist until blood dripped steadily from her hand into the glass.
“I have particular tastes,” Sage said, continuing their fake conversation.
“I’ll see what I can scare up.” Saras positioned herself between Phyllis and Dragon, her knife out and gripped firmly in her fist. “Will you take a glass, Phyllis?”
“Not me,” Phyllis held up the palm she’d sliced when the glass about an eighth full. The edges of her wound had already closed like the cut was a zipper fly, and she dug into her cleavage again, retrieving a tiny plastic bag of herbs. “I’m strictly a wine drinker. Anything else and I’d be passed out in five seconds flat,” she said as she emptied the contents of the bag in the glass.
The blood steamed a bit as the herbs dissolved and the resulting condensation made an ordinary red wine goblet look veiled and mysterious.
Phyllis laid the knife and a small square of cloth on the table next to the glass. “Gotta fly, Chicken,” she said to Dragon. “Come give Granmommy a kiss.” She raised her arms. Her newly colored eyes, shadowed and lined to imply a dark kind of sensuality, were suddenly tired, resigned, needy.
“Granmommy,” Dragon murmured. “I haven’t thought about that in twenty years.” She stood still, caught up in her memories of curling in Phyllis’s lap or climbing into Granmommy’s waiting arms when thunder had spooked Dragon out of bed, and allowed Phyllis to enfold her in her vanilla-scented warmth. And while she didn’t hug her back, Dragon didn’t step out of her grandmother’s embrace either.
