The Temptation of Dragons (Penny White Book 1)

by Chrys Cymri

  I’d forgotten how small were-foxes were. The coffin was the size of one for a human child. The dark wood was still gleaming, and I calculated that Seren couldn’t have been buried more than a few years ago. Even if Lloegyr’s technology couldn’t test her remains for poison, there should be enough for a coroner in England to do so. Then I remembered the gryphon standing stiff and tall on my left shoulder, and I felt ashamed for making such calculations at a time like this.

  Bishop Aeron flew a few feet into the air, soil dropping from her claws into the now empty hole. Then she carefully lowered the coffin onto the ground. As the elves wheeled over a cart, she walked around the mound of earth to stop at my left. She said Morey’s Welsh name. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’

  ‘No. Black will look after me.’

  ‘I will,’ I promised his bishop.

  I realised the reason for the brown carpet as I stepped back through the thin place to earth. Mud dropped from my shoes as I smiled apologetically at Peter. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Used to it,’ he said easily. ‘It rains more in that part of Lloegyr than it does here.’

  ‘Is that possible?’ Rain was lashing against the windows.

  He laughed. Then he glanced at Morey. ‘Can I get you anything? A cup of tea?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Taryn is in the kitchen,’ Peter continued. ‘Maybe you’d like some time with her?’

  ‘As long as she doesn’t ask any stupid questions.’

  ‘I think she knows better than that,’ Peter said gently as he held out his arm. Morey walked across, and I sank down into the couch as they left the room. Never mind the gryphon, I wouldn’t have minded a cup of tea, or even something stronger.

  Peter returned, and touched a finger to his lips. He dropped down a flap on the cabinet, revealing several bottles. The welcome sound of liquid flowing into glass followed, and I gratefully accepted the brandy. ‘Only a small one,’ he told me. ‘But I thought you might need it.’

  ‘It’s not every day I witness an exhumation,’ I agreed. ‘Morey might have preferred a brandy as well.’

  ‘Which is why I didn’t offer him one.’ Peter dropped down into the other end of the couch. ‘Taryn’ll be good for him. Let’s give them some time together. How’s the parish?’

  I rustled up some humourous anecdotes. After around twenty minutes, Peter glanced at the clock on the mantlepiece and rose to his feet. ‘I’d better let you go.’ Then he hesitated. ‘I know, this is bad timing, but I was wondering. The Odeon’s showing the first Star Wars film next Tuesday.’

  ‘Not The Phantom Menace?’ I groaned. ‘I can’t stand Jar Jar Binks.’

  ‘No, no, the original first one. A New Hope. I was wondering--we could go see it together.’

  I stood as well. I was reminded how close we were in height. I could look into his eyes without straining my neck. Was this meant to be a date? Should I ask whether it were a date? Fifteen years of marriage had left me out of practice with what, a dragon would have termed, human mating rituals.

  Thinking of dragons reminded me of Raven. Which reminded me how he had stood by while a gang of dragons had tossed me from wing to wing. ‘Certainly. Why not. I’ll look forward to it.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  I told myself, as I settled in the hairdresser’s chair, that of course the timing of my haircut and the evening out with Peter were sheer coincidence. The fact that I’d brought the apppointment forward a week was only because it was more convenient this week than next. Of course it was.

  ‘And how are you?’ my hairdresser chirped. Around us other patrons were having hair primped and coiled. ‘The usual?’

  I tore my eyes away from the wonderful mixture of purples and blues being dyed into the hair of the woman next to me. ‘The usual,’ I confirmed, wishing I had the courage to go multi-coloured.

  ‘Work okay?’

  ‘It’s half term, so no school work this week.’ I laughed. ‘Believe it or not, I’m actually working on my Christmas services.’

  ‘Oh, I love Christmas,’ the young woman said dreamily. ‘Me and Simon, we’ve got it all planned out. Christmas Eve with his parents, Christmas morning with mine, then in the afternoon it’s drink and telly! Friends on Boxing Day. What about you? You getting away for Christmas?’

  I blinked in confusion. Claire had been my hairdresser for four years. ‘Not really. I have to work on Christmas Day.’

  The scissors halted for a moment. ‘You have to work on Christmas Day? That’s so unfair!’

  ‘Well, people like to come to a service on Christmas morning.’

  'Really?’ she asked, her voice rising in surprise. ‘Why would anyone want to do that?'

  I bit back my first response. ‘To celebrate Jesus’ birth. You know, the reason for the season.’

  The scissors had resumed their journey across my skull. ‘Oh, you mean that story? They come to church just to hear about the donkey and the shepherds and the wise men?’

  ‘And the birth of Jesus,’ I said gently. The scissors were very close to my ear. ‘Do you know what the story means?’

  ‘It’s why we give presents, isn’t it? Because God loves and wants us to be happy. Right? It’s a great story for the kiddies. Do the right thing and you get presents.’

  I wondered at which point she had come to confuse God with Santa Claus. Pity Morey wasn’t here with me. Outrage might have lifted him out of his black mood. Worry about the unhappy gryphon sapped away any energy for correcting Claire’s misunderstanding of the Christmas story. So I asked, weakly, ‘And what are your holiday plans for next year? Going anywhere exciting?’

  My ears were intact but burning when I finally left. Two women had started a loud conversation about the limitations of the priest who looked after the parish adjoining my own, and I tried to wipe the phrases ‘odious man’ and ‘as useful as a chocolate teapot’ from my memory. And I tried not to wonder what might be said about me in the shops of his village.

  I paid a visit to a church member who worked in the local card shop, bought some groceries, and headed home. The house was all too quiet when I let myself in. James was gone again, and Morey was nowhere to be seen. ‘At least you’re still here,’ I told Clyde as I walked into the office.

  The snail pup raced up and down the tank until I relented and brought him out. I wasted time pondering some emails, updating Facebook with my hairdresser’s views on Christmas, and making a half-hearted attempt at starting Sunday’s sermon. Could I really find anything anything new to say about the Good Samaritan?

  In the continued absence of Morey, I allowed Clyde to join me in the kitchen while I cooked a quick pasta dinner. ‘No crawling on the counter tops,’ I told him, tapping them for emphasis. He kept to the floor and windows, leaving faint slime trails across tiles and glass. His interest in the garden birds was both predictable and disturbing.

  Then it was time to change. I returned Clyde to his tank and faced the dilemma of what to wear. Most of what I owned was designed to reflect the smart casual look of a hard working priest. Should I wear a sweater? Dress up a bit? In the end I pulled on my usual black trousers, but put on a green-blue plaid shirt and zipped up a green fleece.

  The doorbell rang promply at seven. ‘Morey, I’m going out!’ I called up the stairwell. ‘I’ll be back late!’

  No answer. I shrugged and opened the door. ‘Madam,’ said Peter cheerfully, ‘your landspeeder awaits.’

  His good spirits were infectious. I grinned in return. ‘But are you the droid I’m looking for?’

  ‘Too early in the evening to answer that one.’ He turned and offered me his arm. ‘Shall we?’

  We arrived in plenty of time to buy the tickets and to go to the nearby pub for a quick half. ‘I can still remember the first time I saw Star Wars,’ Peter said as he brought the beers back to our table. ‘Put me off Doctor Who for several weeks. Then The City of Death was on and I was back in the fold.’

  ‘You saw Star Wars young. How old
were you, four?’

  ‘Well guessed.’ He sighed. ‘I had to until videotapes were out to see The Talons of Weng-Chiang.’

  ‘With that terrible giant rat.’

  ‘And Leela in a skimpy nightie.’

  ‘It wasn’t that skimpy.’

  ‘To a thirteen year old boy,’ he said solemnly, ‘it was wonderfully skimpy. By the way, like the hair cut.’

  ‘My hairdresser’s better with scissors than theology,’ I grumbled. At Peter’s look, I told him of the Christmas conversation. ‘But I shouldn’t be too hard on her. Surely lots of people put more emphasis on Santa Claus than Jesus at Christmas.’

  He picked up a beer mat and began to shred it. ‘Church. I mean, it’s not like it was, is it? How many do you get on a Sunday?’

  ‘Around twenty-five.’ I kept my voice light, not wishing to sound confrontational. ‘You aren’t a church goer, are you?’

  ‘I’ve got nothing against the church.’ Peter shrugged. ‘I go when I visit my folks, and it’s okay. I don’t mind it. But there’s always so much to do on a weekend.’

  I smiled sadly. ‘Yes, I know. I don’t think people have turned against God, or against the church. It’s just that there are things they’d rather do on a Sunday morning, than turn up in a cold building to sing ancient hymns. When I was still at university, I didn’t go to church every Sunday either.’

  ‘Did you always want to be a vicar?’

  ‘No. I was going to be an accountant.’ I sighed. ‘Regular working hours, much better salary, no one coming to my house to ask for money to buy food or train tickets.’

  ‘You mean, really asking for money for drink or drugs.’ The beer mat had been successfully demolished. Peter swept the remains to one side and started on another. ‘What made you do it? Become a vicar?’

  ‘God.’ I quirked a smile. ‘I know that sounds obvious, but I just felt it was what I was supposed to do, and that he’d keep prodding me until I gave in.’

  ‘Do you ever regret it?’

  ‘Oh, there are times when I wonder whether I’m just watching over the death of a long-lived institution. Have I hitched my cart to a dying horse?’ I took a deep breath. ‘But, no, I don’t regret it. You’re given such privileged access to people’s lives at some of their most important moments. I can’t imagine myself doing anything else.’

  ‘That’s how I feel about being a copper,’ Peter said quietly. ‘Like I can make a difference when people need someone most. I can’t imagine doing anything else either.’

  And we lifted our glasses and clinked them together in a silent toast.

  <><><><><><>

  As often as I’d watched Star Wars on my television, there was a special magic to seeing the film again on a big screen. The packed audience booed, cheered, and sometimes shouted out the lines along with the actors. As the end titles rolled we all spilled out the theatre, a great happy throng.

  ‘Often imitated,’ Peter said as we dropped our empty popcorn containers into a bin. ‘Never bettered.’

  I had automatically pulled out my iPhone and turned it on. ‘Not even by Lucas himself.’

  ‘Time for one more drink?’

  The iPhone burped, and I frowned as I read a text. ‘Actually, do you mind taking me to the train station? It’s my brother, James. He’s come back from Nenehampton, and he arrived around ten minutes ago.’

  ‘Sure. It’d be great to meet your brother.’ Peter waited while I sent a quick text back. ‘How old is he?’

  ‘James? He’s twenty-two.’

  ‘So just a few years younger than you.’

  I laughed at the compliment. ‘More than that. Let’s just say he came as a bit of a surprise to our parents.’

  Only as he lengthened his strides, ensuring that he arrived at the door before me, did I realise. ‘You’ve been opening doors for me all evening,’ I accused him.

  ‘Of course.’ He looked slightly affronted. ‘I’m a gentleman.’

  ‘It doesn’t kill a woman to open her own doors.’

  Peter shook his head. ‘A true gentleman happily opens doors for any lady.’

  I floundered beween annoyance and pleasure. Raven’s words came back to me. ‘Don’t you want equality in your relationships?’

  Thinking about Raven led me to the last time I’d seen him. I waited until we were in the car, then asked, ‘Can I arrange to carry a dagger legally?’

  ‘Why on earth would you want to do that?’

  I picked my words carefully. ‘You know those old legends about magical creatures being afraid of iron? Seems to be true. I’d like to carry something larger than my Swiss Army knife.’

  ‘Well, don’t. A knife in the hands of an amateur is a bad idea. You’re more likely to hurt yourself with it than use it well as a weapon.’

  I gritted my teeth at his tone, but we were nearly at the train station. I wasn’t going to argue in front of my brother.

  Fortunately, the rain had held off, so James was only cold and annoyed rather than cold and wet and annoyed. ‘Where’ve you been?’ he asked as I collected him from the small shelter at the platform.

  ‘Out,’ I said. ‘I do have a life, you know.’

  ‘Since when?’ Then, as Peter slid from his car to hold out a hand in greeting, James looked back at me. Even in the poorly lit carpark, I could see the suspicion in his eyes. ‘Sis?’

  ‘You must be James.’ Peter grasped the reluctantly offered hand. ‘Peter Jarvis. I’ve met your sister through her work.’

  ‘James knows about Lloegyr,’ I told him as I lowered myself into the passenger seat. ‘In fact, he’s doing some IT work over there.’

  ‘Really?’ Peter turned his head to glance back at James. ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Communications. With computers. Working on better networking.’

  ‘Interesting.’ Peter aimed his Volvo out of the car park and onto the winding country road. ‘Are you getting paid over there?’

  ‘It’s a real job,’ James said defensively.

  ‘What I meant to ask is, do you need help converting the currency? There’s a goldsmiths we use in Birmingham. She gives a good price for gold and silver coin. Do you want me to introduce you to her?’

  ‘That would help.’ James still sounded guarded. ‘What’ve you two been doing tonight?’

  ‘Seeing Star Wars,’ I answered. ‘At the Odeon.’

  ‘What, so, like, have you two been on a date?’

  To my relief, Peter chuckled. ‘I don’t think that’s been decided yet. Why, would that be a problem?’

  ‘Depends.’

  ‘On what?’ I prompted.

  ‘Is he another Doctor Who nut?’

  Peter took a deep breath, then recited, ‘Hartnell, Troughton, Pertwee, Baker, Davison, Baker, McCoy, McGann, Eccleston, Tennant, Smith, Capaldi.’

  ‘You left out John Hurt,’ I said.

  ‘The War Doctor. He doesn’t count.’ Peter grinned. ‘Besides, it messes up the numbering.’

  ‘But the numbering was already messed up,’ I pointed out, ‘when the Tenth Doctor used up a regeneration to remain as himself.’

  ‘But he was still the same Doctor. Used up a regeneration but not a number.’

  ‘Great,’ James groaned from the back. ‘There’s two of you.’

  Peter parked in the vicarage drive. James grabbed his bag and exited the car. I turned to Peter. ‘Thanks. It was a fun evening.’

  ‘Let’s do it again some time.’ He was about to add something more, when our attention was drawn to James waving from the storm porch. ‘Doesn’t he have a key to your house?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said wearily, ‘but it’s probably at the bottom of his bag. I’d better go.’

  We exchanged an awkward hand shake. Then I was out of the car and hurrying through a drizzle to the porch. ‘Keys,’ I reminded James as I fished mine from my pocket. Peter flashed the car lights and backed the Volvo from the drive.

  The door opened to the high-pitched sound of alarmed snail shark. �
�Danger! Stop! Perygl! Perygl! Stop! Aros!’

  James and I stared at each other for a moment. Then we heard the sound of glass shattering. We both headed for the kitchen, bumping into each other, and then James dropped back to allow me to go first.

  The kitchen was a disaster area. Smashed bottles of whisky and wine were spread across the floor, brown and red liquid mingling in puddles across the tiles. Morey was flying from drinks cabinet to kitchen counter, wings beating hard to lift the bottle of brandy grasped in beak and forelegs. He perched the bottle on the edge, landed behind, then threw his body against it. The brandy spun from the edge and, incredibly, only bounced on the floor.

  Morey looked up at us. ‘Some are harder than others,’ he panted. ‘The port took three goes.’

  ‘I know you can’t open bottles,’ I said, horrified, ‘but you can’t drink from a shattered bottle. You might have swallowed glass.’

  ‘You don’t understand. I haven’t had anything to drink.’ He peered over the edge to study his handiwork. ‘I did this so I wouldn’t have anything to drink.’

  James started to say something. At my look he shut up. I tread carefully across the mixture of glass and alcohol. Morey watched as I approached. The gleam in his eyes, the angle of his head, the way his wings dragged over his back, all told me that something was pushing him near to breaking point. ‘Morey? What’s happened?’

  ‘It was a rat.’ He was breathing heavily, but not from exertion. ‘Just flying past. Heard it from her rat king. Thought I already knew. Said how sorry she was. How sorry she was!’

  I dared to take a few steps closer. The gryphon was still three feet away, swaying on his feet. ‘Sorry for what?’

  Morey stared at me for moment. Then he shouted, ‘She was poisoned!’

  Silence. Clyde had stopped squealing. James had pressed a hand over his mouth. I said, gently, ‘The results from Seren came back positive.’

  ‘She was poisoned!’ Morey shuddered violently. ‘Because of me. Because she was with me. It’s all my fault. If only I’d left her alone, she’d still be alive!’