Maybe she should do this upstairs with a glass of water from the tap.
And yet, the mirrored surface of the water in the afternoon sunlight and dark depths was perfect for scrying. Her mother had used a black-enameled bowl and floated a few drops of olive oil on the surface when she’d taught Willow how to do it. As scrying was almost useless, it was one of the few magical disciplines Willow was decently proficient at.
She took a deep breath of the dry, desert air, leaned over the edge of the pool, and unfocused her eyes to see into and beyond the water.
Darkness.
Darkness and murk.
A slithery thing, a sad thing, unhappiness and growling between the sea serpents as they passed and within their bodies. Hunger, and yet the eating did not fulfill. Tired. Weak fins. Still hunger. A patch of green growth on the floor. Eat it. Still hungry and unsatisfied.
Another slither wove through the water.
The same hunger gnawed at it.
Angry.
Weak.
A serpent lay on the bottom, breathing slowly, conserving. Don’t move. Don’t swim. Stay on the bottom where the green things grow, where there is some food.
Don’t leave. The others might take it.
Willow reeled backward, gasping.
Arawn was standing beside her. One of his arms was resting around her shoulders, and he’d taken his shirt off. Cologne like green herbs and smoke drifted from his sun-warmed skin.
She grabbed the side of the pool to keep from falling over. “We need to get them some fish right now. And a sea serpent vitamin pill or whatever. They’re not doing well at all.”
“I’ll need a supply list.”
“I can’t make a sea serpent-sized potion in my apartment. The kitchen isn’t big enough. And I don’t know how we’re going to feed it to them, anyway.”
“I know how we can solve the first one. Several of the big restaurants downstairs in the casino aren’t open yet. The commercial kitchens in there are huge.”
“But it’s such an inconvenience.”
“You won’t be bothering anyone. Besides, I will do anything to avoid six tons of dead sea serpent meat rotting on my doorstep, probably just in time for the soft opening in a month. And I can help you give them the pills or potions or whatever you come up with.”
“I shouldn’t inconvenience—”
“I don’t want you doing it alone.”
She wasn’t sure those sea creatures would live another month without quick intervention. “That sounds like it will work. We need to buy some fish right now, though.”
“Make a list. I’ll send it through the suppliers. We might be able to procure some within a few hours.”
“And, I hate to mention it, but would you mind if I went back up to the HR guy and got proof of employment? If you’re sure you want to hire me?”
“We’re sure, and I can make that happen, too. Are you all right?”
Not at all. “Oh, sure. No problem. I just need a note.”
First Potion
WILLOW followed Arawn as they walked through the casino and to a back area, where he showed her into a huge commercial kitchen. Sunlight bounced off the stainless-steel appliances and countertops. Glass canisters filled with white powders or green leaves stood precisely on the racks.
“Someone’s going to get mad,” Willow said.
“No one will care, and I can countermand them if they do.” Arawn pulled a high barstool over to one end of a countertop. They’d stopped at a casino bathroom where he ducked inside to exchange his towel for gym shorts, so he splayed his long, muscular legs while he perched on the stool. “The more important question is, what do you need to make this potion? Do you need to run home and get potion ingredients? What do you need to order, and how soon can it get here?”
“I can start whipping up a nutrient potion with some standard things that naturals stock. Can I even order magical supplies through the casino? Or would there be a problem with the naturals? Some companies might have problems with a requisition submitted from Hecate’s Magickal Pantry or AmaPotion.”
Arawn shook his head. “The Dragon’s Den Casino is wholly owned by Dragons Den, Inc. That’s our den’s multinational that acts as a holding company for most of our hoard, and then dragon families own gold-level shares in the corporation. A lot of us are employed by Dragons Den, too. That way, we don’t have to explain our odd proclivities to anyone, from the total lack of airline tickets on our travel vouchers to including such items as ‘new clothes, old ones shredded upon transformation’ on our reimbursement forms.”
Willow laughed, and it felt good to hear his dry sense of humor again, even if he’d never before joked about his ability to transform into Godzilla.
Actually, not Godzilla, she thought as she poked through the spice shelf. He had the elongated neck and serpentine form of a classical European dragon, a St. George-class drake.
Arawn continued, “This casino is our problem child right now, so people from rather high up in DD, Inc. have been descending upon it for the last month.”
“How higher-up are you?” she asked. There was so much of his life she didn’t know about.
He shrugged. “Enough that you don’t need to worry about commandeering kitchen space if that’s what you need to do your job.”
Willow turned and placed one hand on her hip, having heard the same, bland tone in his voice as when he’d once answered her question with, “In the military strategy field, I am adequate.” Later, she’d found out that not only had he held two fellowships simultaneously, but his brilliant, published papers had secured his department’s funding for the next decade.
She asked, “So, what does that mean?”
He laid his hand palm-down on the steel counter and stared at it.
“Tell me what you are.”
He shrugged. “A dragon. A large one. A rather scary-looking one, I’m told.”
“No, in the corporation.”
Arawn flexed his fingers as if he could dig them into the steel, and Willow noticed for the first time that his fingernails had an unearthly metallic sheen like hematite. “I hold a position of some importance in Dragons Den, Inc.”
“And the title is?”
His lips thinned as he pressed them together.
“Aaron? I mean, Arawn?” The shape of his real name felt different in her mouth, rounder in the middle, older and with the taste of Old Wales. Not Eh-run, but Ah-rawn.
He said, “I am the Senior Vice-President of Security at our various business ventures and for the den, itself.”
“So, what do you do? Are you a general in the Dragon Army?”
His quick glance at her held amusement in his blue eyes and a hint of a smile on his full lips, which was rare for him, but she’d always been able to pull a smile out of him when they were together. “I oversee, manage, and make decisions about security, for the most part. It’s not nearly the career of planning invasions or evaluating battle strategies that I had foreseen.”
“I always thought you would end up in the military at a War College or something.”
He shook his head. “Sadly, the military doesn’t utilize war dragons anymore. It’s a shame. My dragon is slower than an F-22 Raptor, but it’s far more agile and more effective at close-quarters combat. I think I’d have a chance.”
She smiled at him. “I’d bet on you versus an F-22 any day.”
“That’s very kind and completely ill-advised. You can lose your money far more efficiently at any one of the casinos here in Las Vegas.”
“Yeah, I still think you’re the better bet.” She poked through the open shelves and found canisters of sea salt and rock sugar. “I’ve never seen or heard of a dragon who could shoot blue fire before.”
“Yes. That.” His voice had turned dry.
“Is it hot or like ice?”
“Just as with stars, blue dragonfire burns significantly hotter than the more usual yellow-orange variety.” He gestured carelessly toward the back of th
e kitchen. “I could burn through the steel of that walk-in fridge or through the wall to the back alley with one blast. Most dragons would have to work at it for a bit.”
“The blue dragonfire was pretty,” she said.
He chuckled, and she could see him relaxing like he had when they had been alone together. “I’m glad you think so. It’s unusual. There hasn’t been a blue-fire dragon in our den for generations. Some people think it’s a sign of something, but I don’t believe in signs and portents like that.”
“Witches do. What does it mean?”
“No one can agree on that, either, but a lot of blue-fire dragons ended up as kings of the den. It’s considered a royal trait.”
She turned. “And so my next question would be—”
Arawn glanced over at her from the corners of his eyes, his smile turning wry. “Not like that. Our monarchy is decided via magical selection, which is currently going on, by the way.”
“But you’re a prince or something, aren’t you?”
He shook his head. “We don’t have princes. But I’m a duke, the Duke Tiamat. But that’s a hereditary title that means very little these days. Any dragon could end up on the throne.”
“So, where are you in line for the dragon throne?”
“The throne isn’t inherited like the London den’s monarchy is. We haven’t had a primogeniture monarchy for a few generations, now. And that dragon-to-dragonling inheritance was only for a few generations, too. Before that, the throne was won through trial by combat, and that’s when the blue-fire dragons had a distinct advantage. Nearly an unstoppable one, actually. Everyone else is sword fighting, but I’m sporting a nuclear weapon. But sadly, now it’s just picking up a magic scepter and seeing whether it makes nifty sparks.”
She laughed. “Would you have really wanted to fight other dragons for the throne, anyway?”
His blue eyes glinted with evil humor. “Absolutely.”
She laughed again, and Arawn settled back on his bar stool, tugging his shorts down to his knees to be more respectable. “The scepter had a moderate response when I lifted it, however, so I am in the running for the second round. Two of my closest friends are, too.”
He had that overly modest tone again. “Do you want to be the king?”
It was funny, really. They hadn’t been able to have these conversations when they’d been a couple because they’d both been working so hard to hide their supernatural status.
Arawn tilted his head and closed his eyes. “That’s a difficult question.”
“I don’t think it is. Do you want to?”
“Dragons have certain innate, unquenchable desires: the quest for gold for the hoard, to hold territory, and a mate. These are translated into our human lives as ambition and,” he winced, “conquest, in the various meanings of that word.”
“Did you cheat on me?” It meant little now, but she was curious.
He opened his bright blue eyes and stared directly into hers. “Never. I never cheated on you, not a phone number in a bar, not an ill-advised drunk text, nothing.”
She hadn’t thought so, but a part of her had always wondered if he’d just met someone else. “Okay, that’s good to know.”
“Dragons do have the one redeeming quality of loyalty to lovers, friends, and eventually, the dragonmate.”
“How much of you is your dragon?”
He shrugged. “How much of you is your magic?”
Just the stupid, foolish, idiot, screwed-up part. “But do you want to be the king?”
He returned to contemplating his hand. “Yes. I want to conquer the throne and its power, and then I want to take it and keep it in my hoard. I want it so badly that I can think of little else.”
His voice had taken on a growling, gravelly quality that Willow might have been frightened of, had it been directed at her, but watching this side of him with some emotional distance was interesting.
Arawn looked up, blinking. “However, I know that I would find the extensive and constant ceremonial duties to be tedious and mind-numbing. The throne would not suit my personality. This current position is more aligned with my interests and skills, and yet gives me room to grow. At some point, I might like to cross into the naturals’ realm and work on political policy or military strategy, so I think the kingship should go to someone else.” His voice darkened again. “But I still want it.”
“Wow,” Willow said, staring at him and holding onto a jar of sage.
He looked up and raised one pale eyebrow.
“I feel like I learned more about you in the last hour than during the year we were dating.”
He shrugged. “It had to be that way.”
She nodded. “Yeah, it did, unless we’d somehow known we were both supernaturals.”
“And there was no way to know that, short of one of us confessing to the other.”
“Right, and we couldn’t do that.” She set the sage on the countertop and picked up a good-sized jar of bay leaves. “That was pretty impressive, the way you cleaned yourself up out there.”
“Yes, well, dragons are mostly fireproof in our dragon forms and quite resistant to normal dragonfire. Other shifters have problems with mites and fleas when in their shifted forms, but we don’t. My friend Mathonwy Draco picked up a mite infestation when he was in junior high, so he stripped naked in his back yard, transformed, and his father hosed him down with dragonfire. Much easier than a shampoo or a dip. He said it looked like he was shedding popcorn. In our human forms, our skin is similar to human skin.”
The name sounded familiar, but she wasn’t sure where. “Did I ever meet Draco?”
“No,” Arawn said.
“Ah.” Because something about her wasn’t good enough. She stared at the jar of bay leaves in her hand so she wouldn’t have to look up.
“But you would have, eventually, if things had been different.”
There were so many conflicting signals in that one statement that Willow dropped the jar.
The clear jar drifted toward the floor, the stiff leaves jostling inside.
She swiped at it, desperately trying to catch it. She managed to get a fingertip on the jar, spinning it, but it fell.
The glass shattered on the floor, scattering bay leaves.
She gasped, jumping back, and looked up at Arawn, horrified that he had seen her so clumsy and stupid.
He stood. “I’ll get a broom.”
“I’m so sorry,” she told him. Shivers ran up her spine and shook her apart. “I am so, so sorry. I’ll make sure it never happens again. I’m sorry!”
He found a broom hanging on the end of the counter. “It’s fine. It’s one jar of spice.”
“I’ll pay for it! I promise!”
He leaned the broom against the counter and walked around the pile of broken glass and aromatic leaves. “Willow, it’s fine.”
“It’s not! I’m so sorry!”
She buried her face in her hands.
He stood beside her. Through her fingers, she could see Arawn lift his hands and then let them drop back to his sides. “I shouldn’t do this. We’re working together. And we’re not together.”
“I’m sorry,” she sobbed, the horror ricocheting in her head and chest, shooting herself from the inside. Her hands covering her face shook, rubbing her skin. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. I’m so stupid. I’m sorry.”
“Dammit.” Big, warm arms wrapped her shoulders, and a wall of hard muscle pushed against her hands, face, and body. “Don’t get me in trouble for this, okay?”
She shook her head, rolling her forehead against his tee shirt and shoulder.
“Are you okay with this?” he asked.
She nodded as much as she could, but he was holding her firmly.
His arms became a shield, blocking out the crazy.
The trembling ebbed, and her mind emerged from the fog.
“Okay,” he sighed. A mild weight rested on top of her head. His cheek, she knew. “Okay. We’re settling now, right
?”
She nodded again, breathing more slowly against the pressure of his arms.
“You never told me why this happens.”
She shook her head. No, she hadn’t.
His hand stroked her back. “Better now?”
She nodded again, and his arms slowly released her. He ducked his head to inspect her face and straightened. “Stand back. I’ll sweep this up.”
Willow leaned against the counter and worked hard to make her breathing perfectly steady, counting one-two-three in, and the same on the exhale, while Arawn flicked the broom a few times and tipped the debris into a trash can. He asked her, “No problem, right?”
She shook her head because she didn’t quite trust her voice yet. It might sound all stupid and strangled, or if her throat was still clamped closed, it might make her burst into tears again.
“Do you need bay leaves for the potion?” Arawn asked.
She bobbled her head a bit. Yeah, the bay leaves would make it better.
“I’m sure there’s another jar up here. Commercial kitchens like this order spices by the 55-gallon drum.”
Arawn reached into the upper shelves, his long fingers moving over the jars and tilting them back to read the labels. “Basil. Bouquet Garni. Here it is, bay leaves.” He held the small jar out to her. The overhead fluorescent lights reflected blue lines on the glass.
Willow reached out and took the jar with both hands. “Thank you.”
Arawn asked, “What else do you need?”
“Cloves. Honey. Milk.” Willow’s hands were still shaking, so she set the jar on the counter and stuck her fingers under her armpits. “There are other things that we can get from a witching supply store to make it stronger next time, but we should give them something now.”
He found the ingredients she’d mentioned on the shelves and milk in an enormous refrigerator. “Right. Can I do anything else to help?”
She shook her head. “I need to charge the herbs first.”
He perched on the stool again. “I’ve never seen a witch work before.”
“How about your mother?” she asked while washing her hands, oblivious that she was being an idiot. “Oh! I’m sorry.”
Dragons and Mayhem Page 7
