by Sara King
Dragons’ somewhat…wild…imaginations, Kaashifah had noted, often did the rest of her work for her.
The dragon’s upper lip twitched in a snarl, but he reluctantly folded his wings back to his body and glared at her. “What are you?”
“Remove my curse,” Kaashifah challenged, “and find out.”
The second weapon, when dealing with dragons, was to use their curiosity against them.
“Unless,” she offered, when the dragon merely peered at her, “you’re…scared?”
The third weapon, when dealing with dragons, was to invoke their pride.
The dragon cocked his head at her like she were a bug that had just grown a small horn from between its eyes and used it to stab him in the foot, looking a cross between irritated, angry, and anxious. She watched him debate, then fidget, then lick his lips, and her heart began to pound as she watched the contortions play out through his head before he finally growled, “Fine, wench. I shall remove your curse and spare my uncle the waste of his time.” He reached out and Kaashifah’s ribs became a thousand anvils in Hephaestus’s forge as her blood thundered through her ears. Oh gods, she thought, holding her breath. He’s going to—
“She’s a Fury,” the djinni blurted, popping back into the First Realm between them like an ebony mountain. “No need to remove her curse,” he said. “She’s a Fury.”
“You backstabber!” Kaashifah cried, rounding to face him. “He was about to do it!”
But the djinni ignored her and, to the dragon, said, “If you remove her curse, she is going to kill me. You can’t bargain with me if she kills me.”
Kaashifah froze, open-mouthed in horror. She, it seemed, wasn’t the only one who had learned how to manipulate dragons. Utterly disgusted, she snapped, “We just spent months trekking through the snow, and you never planned on letting them work their magics on me, did you?”
“Of course not,” ‘Aqrab said, still watching the dragon.
The dragon gave ‘Aqrab a long look, then peered around him at Kaashifah with a mixture of trepidation and suspicion. “The Furies are dead.”
The words, so calm and final, settled in her gut like a cold rot. Her confidence leaving her in a wave, Kaashifah stammered, “They are?” She’d had her suspicions, but the dragons, of any race, were the chronologists, the historians, the record keepers. If anyone would know of other survivors, it would be them.
‘Aqrab turned to look at her, commiseration in his face.
“They got slaughtered before the fall of Rome,” the dragon said dismissively. He watched her a moment longer, then his eyes flickered to the djinni. “They gave you a Fury as a mate? Whose daughter did you bugger, djin—”
The sudden blast of sizzling light and thunder knocked them all from their feet, and a tall Athabascan man strode into the cave, daintily stepping around plates of food. “I thought I’d given you enough time to bargain with the wench and I was getting bored, so I—” Thunderbird’s sentence cut off suddenly as he passed a plate of strawberries. He paused, stooped, daintily plucked one from the top, examined it from all sides, discarded it, then picked up another. Seemingly finding it to his satisfaction, he bit into the fruit, considered it thoughtfully, then lifted his electric eyes to the dragon and immediately his face darkened. “Ugh.” He tossed the half-eaten strawberry aside. “Very well, lizard. Shall we take this outside?”
The dragon puffed up like an angry bird. “You are on my land. We discussed this.”
“You are detaining my entertainment,” Thunderbird said, gesturing vaguely at the djinni.
The dragon looked like he was about to explode. “Detaining? They were copulating on my floor.”
Thunderbird hesitated, then turned to face ‘Aqrab completely. “I’m impressed.”
“Get out!” the dragon roared, barreling past them, shoving the Thunderbird backwards with a taloned foot. “Now!”
Thunderbird, who landed sprawled amidst a congealed roast and a platter of grapes, picked himself up slowly, a deadly look in his eye. “Try that again, lizard.”
“You are in my cave,” the dragon snarled. But he did not try it again.
“Your cave is on my land,” Thunderbird replied, picking grapes from his robes.
“…your…land?” the dragon sputtered. “Since when was this your land?”
“Since before your impudent family moved onto my continent,” Thunderbird replied. He flicked a bit of gristle to the floor, then cracked his knuckles, his electric eyes locking onto the dragon. “So. Runt. Shall we retire outside, or shall I hollow out the mountain with your remains?”
The dragon lowered its head and hunched its back like an angry cat as it backed away, flaring its wings.
Once it was out of range, the Thunderbird calmly found a clean blanket, inspected it for dirt, and regally sat down. Gesturing at the djinni, he said, “You may begin. If the lizard interrupts you, I will deal with him.” He reached over and picked up a pomegranate. “Pomegranates again.” He sighed, deeply. “You know, I greatly prefer blueberries. They don’t have those miserable seeds.” As he spoke, he began peeling the red rind back, exposing the ruby gems inside. Then he raised a brow at ‘Aqrab, obviously waiting.
The djinni cleared his throat, giving the dragon a wary glance. “Ah, well, there’s the Ballad of the Dragon King, where the great serpents—”
“I don’t want to hear about a lizard.” Thunderbird took a handful of the ruby gems into his mouth, chewed, and spat a cluster of pomegranate seeds on the floor. “Tell me about unicorns. I find them fascinating.”
“Ah, well,” ‘Aqrab said, “I’ve already sung you twenty-three songs about unicorns.”
“You said you knew over thirty of them.” Thunderbird tossed a chunk of pinkish-red rind deeper into the cave, where it rolled to a halt near the dragon’s feet. The dragon speared the rind with a talon and hurled it out the front of his cave with a snarl. Unconcerned, the Thunderbird said, “How about The Ballad of the Unicorn’s Horn? I find that one amusing.”
The djinni looked torn. Glancing between Thunderbird and the dragon, he said, “I’ve already sung that one sixteen times.”
“Yes, and?” Thunderbird said.
Remembering the disgusting song that seemingly had become the Thunderbird’s favorite, Kaashifah growled, “We do not have time to listen to an ibin himaar sing a filthy song.”
“You have reset your seven days,” the djinni boomed, making the stone of the cave reverberate around them as the Fourthlander magic spread outward and washed down the mountainside in a rush. The dragon twisted upon himself like a cornered snake, staring at the djinni, but Thunderbird continued to nonchalantly pluck at his pomegranate.
“Seven days of what?” the dragon muttered, uncurling from where he had fled against the wall. He sounded as if he were sulking.
“It’s none of your business,” Kaashifah growled at the same time Thunderbird said, “The wench cannot stop insulting him. He will bring her back her pendant if she stops insulting him, but the brain-dead simpleton cannot do it.” At ‘Aqrab, he said, “Continue. Ignore the wench.”
“We are not here to entertain you,” Kaashifah shrieked. “Dragon. Remove the wolf, and I will remove the bird.”
Thunderbird blinked and glanced out the door. “What bird?”
“Leave the wolf and I will leave your hoard,” the djinni snapped back.
The dragon began to bristle. “I do not want to be involved in this. There are those to the north that will help you. Get out. All of you.”
“Did I ask you to speak, lizard?” Thunderbird demanded.
“This is my cave!” The dragon’s roar made the stone vibrate. Flaring his wings, the dragon lowered his head and started to stalk towards the Thunderbird, who sighed nonchalantly got back to his feet. The air in the room began to sizzle as the two magi stared each other down, and Kaashifah began backing away and throwing up shields.
“The Ballad of the Unicorn’s Horn,” the djinni cried, stepping between
the two First-Landers, “Begins with a virgin.”
Both the dragon and the Thunderbird hesitated, then slowly, their gazes broke from each other and flickered to the djinni. “A virgin?” the dragon muttered.
“A buxom virgin,” the djinni agreed.
The dragon twitched. “…buxom.”
“Very. A unicorn girl. But very sheltered.” The djinni grinned. “She quests to discover why her mother tells her all men have horns.”
“…horns…” The dragon’s lips twitched slightly before he twisted to scowl at Thunderbird again.
“It’s quite funny,” Thunderbird said. He settled back to the floor and stretched out on the blanket, propped up by an elbow. As he idly started picking at grapes, it was quite apparent that he wasn’t going anywhere.
Again, the dragon’s hackles started to raise.
“Magic horns,” the djinni interrupted.
The dragon snorted and turned back to glare at the Fourthlander. For a long moment, he only scowled. But there was an undercurrent of curiosity to the dragon’s sniff of disdain. “I suppose I could stay and listen to you caterwaul, djinni. It’s not like I’m going to leave my home to an avian fop who missed his twelve-o-clock appointment with his beautician.”
Thunderbird frowned, mid-grape. “I did?”
“The virgin,” the djinni continued, “had never before felt the touch of a man.”
“Oh come on!” Kaashifah screamed. “I have heard this before.”
“Silence, cockroach,” the dragon said, at the same time the Thunderbird glanced at her and said around a mouthful of dates, “You should find new meaning in this one, wench.”
Fuming, Kaashifah slumped down on the floor, as far away from the djinni as she could get, and tried to figure out how she was going to entice the dragon to remove her curse.
Chapter 17: A Handful of Snow
Herr Drescher landed the helicopter and Jacquot came running out the back door of the compound, head low. Imelda pulled her pistol from her belt, checked the chamber, and flung her door wide.
Jacquot came to a wary halt when he saw the gun.
Imelda didn’t pause. She strode up, lifted the gun, and, as Jacquot stumbled backwards, nonchalantly dropped it into his startled hands. “Take that to the armory to get it cleaned,” she said, as she went by.
“Herr Drescher was grounded, Inquisitrice,” Jacquot called behind her, still rooted in place on the helo pad.
“I un-grounded him,” Imelda said, without stopping. “What news on the dragons?”
For a long moment, Jacquot didn’t follow her, and Imelda could almost feel the barrel of her gun, aimed at her back. Then she heard his footsteps crunching on the snow as he hurried to catch up. “They found nothing,” Jacquot said, jogging up behind her. “I’m sorry, ma mie, it’s looking like your hunch with the dragons is proving futile. What were you doing with the German? You were gone most of the day.” He eyed the brown paper sack she carried under her arms.
“We went out drinking,” Imelda said. “Had some beers, saw a movie. Since you were out on business…” She handed him the brown paper sack. As she walked, Jacquot warily looked into the sack at the nice Bordeaux that she had picked up when the German had landed them in the parking-lot of a Brown Jug on the way back. “My favorite,” Jacquot said, sounding surprised. “You…um…used a helicopter to go drinking, ma mie?”
She gave him a frown. “I’m an Inquisidora. They are for my use. Why? Are you uninterested? Do you want me to give Drescher the wine? He insists he hasn’t had enough.”
To his credit, Drescher stumbled off the tarmac and hit the side of the compound wall with a thud that shook the foyer, then slid down into the bench, reeking of alcohol. He waved at them with a big grin as they walked by.
Jacquot’s face twisted in disgust. “Drescher should not be flying a helicopter in his condition, ma mie. If the American authorities had caught him… You should have called me. I would have come to get you.”
Imelda, who had been fighting that weird, split-duality of her dream-vision all day, was rapidly finding her thoughts building into another headache. “Are you insane? He flies much better drunk.” She sighed. “I am in need of my medication, a hot bath, and a hot meal. I’ll want my gun cleaned by tomorrow afternoon. Drescher convinced me to go down to the range for some practice and the slide started sticking.”
Jacquot frowned at her. “I thought you went out for beer and a movie.”
“That, too.” Taking off her outer coat inside the front door, she hung it on a peg and headed toward her room.
Behind her, Jacquot had hesitated in the doorway. “Are we going to leave the fool out on the bench? He seems to have…fallen asleep.”
Imelda laughed and waved a dismissive hand as she walked. “He’s got Nordic blood. It’s barely below freezing. He’ll be fine. Is Zenaida around here?”
“She’s downstairs,” Jacquot said, after giving the German one last, dubious look through the foyer window and hurrying after her.
Imelda fought a flutter of fury in her gut. Feeling that strange half-step-behind sensation, she said, “Tell her I have some news that’s developed on the djinni front regarding the wolf. I got its name, and I figured out how the damn thing evaded the exterminations in the fourth century.”
Jacquot hesitated, his eyes widening. “You did? How?”
Inwardly, Imelda narrowed her eyes. Zenaida must have been telling Jacquot much more than she’d been leaking to the rest of the Order. After all, angels couldn’t have survived mass exterminations in the fourth century, because angels belonged to God. As far as she knew, no one else had made the connection between angels and Furies, and to even do so was, according to Church doctrine, pagan blasphemy.
…yet Jacquot had accepted it without even blinking. A good thing to note.
“I’m off to shower and get a bite to eat. Tell La Inquisidora she can catch me in the cafeteria in half an hour, before Vespers. After that, I will want to talk to you about proving there’s dragons up north. The technician found nothing at all?”
“Nothing, ma mie,” Jacquot said, mournfully. “We’ve wasted many weeks on drones and satellite.”
Imelda made a dismissive wave of her hand. “We’ll find something. But for now, I’m afraid that Drescher’s skills of persuasion have gotten the best of me. I needed a break, and I’m not in my best head. Can’t believe the idiot Americans let us onto the range. I could barely hit the paper, though Drescher’s aim seemed to have improve with drink, much like his flying.”
“I’ve heard that,” Jacquot said with a grimace toward the foyer. “Are you sure he will be all right out there? He might try to get back into the helicopter…”
Imelda dangled a set of keys between them and then stuffed them back into her pocket, grinning. “Already thought of it, my good man.” Then she hesitated, seemingly considering. “Have you heard from Padre Vega recently? He said he was going to come down and borrow a few books from the library, but I haven’t seen him. Hmmm. I suppose I should have used the opportunity to stop by his place today, but he wasn’t answering his phone. Certainly would have been a better use of my time than drinking Drescher under the table. For a German, the man can’t hold his liquor worth a damn.”
There was that startled flicker in Jacquot’s eyes, and Imelda knew. The three mugs at her Padre’s house. Jacquot had been there. Jacquot had taken Zenaida to her Padre. Jacquot, who had been invited into Padre Vega’s living room to share coffee with her a hundred times, had led Zenaida to him. Realizing that, a carnal surge of hatred made her have to clench her fists, lest she reach for his throat. Had Zenaida disguised herself with a Second Lander illusion? A vision of Imelda, or someone familiar to him? Had they lulled him into talking about the pendant, let him incriminate himself with talk of Jefferson and Fates before they finally dropped the charade and led him to the rack?
So strong was the welling of fury that she didn’t even hear the excuse Jacquot gave. He had helped her. He had
probably been on the same damn run that had brought her Padre to the compound. But how long ago? What if he had already been killed? Imelda had to fight the impulse to reach out, grab the wiry Frenchman by the front of his vest, and throw him against the wall. Or at least grab him. She doubted she had the strength to throw a child right now, much less a hale and physically powerful man like Jacquot, but she was angry enough to try.
Instead, she forced a grunt. “Yes, well, I’ll have to get someone to fly me out there tomorrow. I’ll be in the shower. Make sure that gun gets cleaned, and that Zenaida knows I’ve had a breakthrough with the wolf.”
“I could just…relay…the information, ma mie,” Jacquot offered.
Imelda laughed. “I wish you could, Jacquot, seeing how I’d rather not waste my breath on the vile woman, but I’ve finally got something big—something we’ve been missing all this time—and I want to see if the stupid concha has any ideas she’ll give me before she figures out I’m not telling her anything important.”
Jacquot’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly and he said, “I’ll let her know.”
I’m sure you will, Imelda thought. She nodded and unlocked the door to her room.
Seeing the interior, she froze. The light was off in her bathroom.
“Actually, on second thought,” she said, closing the door again, “The liquor is not sitting well on an empty stomach. I think I’ll go straight to the cafeteria, instead. Tell Zenaida to catch me there if she wants to talk to me tonight.”
Jacquot, the snake, looked disappointed as she re-locked her door.
A surprise awaits me inside, then, Imelda thought, with a grimace. She tried not to think about what sort of gift that Zenaida’s thugs had left for her in her absence. With the spell on the medicine foiled—and all of its contents flushed down the sewer—Zenaida would know that Imelda knew that she was trying to kill her… And would plan her next surprise accordingly.
Feeling the increasing pounding in her head, Imelda decided she would deal with it later, once she’d had a chance to chat with Zenaida.
