Dervishes Don't Dance: A Paranormal Suspense Novel with a Touch of Romance (Valkyrie Bestiary Book 2)

by Kim McDougall

  End of rant. Back to the regularly scheduled program about brownies.

  We all know the myths of brownies. They’re little helpers that come out at night to clean the house and do other good deeds. Don’t forget to leave milk or other offering or your brownies will take affront and leave your house forever!

  Seems simplistic, even for a fairytale.

  They are not benevolent housekeepers. In fact, if you find one in your home, I suggest you check your silver. Brownies are pack rats and attracted to shiny things.

  In my ward, I come across them almost weekly, squatting in old buildings and making nests out of anything they can find. They can be very territorial too, especially if they think their hoard of treasures (for “treasures,” read “garbage”) is being threatened. Don’t bother bargaining with a brownie for goods or services in the normal way. They have no sense of monetary value. To a brownie, everything belongs to him as soon as he touches it.

  The only true way to get what you want from a brownie is a forfeit. This means a tribute of some sort (which is probably where the stories of leaving milk came from). A forfeit means you must give them something they perceive as valuable to you. As I mentioned, they like baubles, but they also adhere to the old-world forfeit rules. You can pay them with a song, a story or a riddle.

  Since I don’t sing (at least not in any tone you’d want to hear), and stories can take too long, I keep a stash of riddles on hand for bargaining with brownies when I encounter them on a job.

  Help a critter wrangler out. Hit me with your brownie-stumping riddle. Bonus points if I can’t guess it.

  Comments (11)

  Without fists I strike, without fingers I point, without legs I run, what am I?

  justme5869 (November 10, 2080)

  A clock?

  cchedgewitch (November 10, 2080)

  ——

  If a man carried my burden, he would break his back. I am not rich, but leave silver in my track. What am I?

  cchedgewitch (November 11, 2080)

  I got this. Snail.

  Valkyrie367 (November 11, 2080)

  :)

  cchedgewitch (November 11, 2080)

  ——

  Turn me once, what is out will not get in. Turn me again, what is in will not get out. What am I?

  sqirtzburger (November 14, 2080)

  A key?

  Valkyrie367 (November 14, 2080)

  ——

  I have no life, but I can die. What am I?

  DaddysGirl (November 12, 2080)

  A vampire or a zombie?

  Valkyrie367 (November 12, 2080)

  I was going to say a battery, but those work too. Please tell me that zombies aren’t real?

  DaddysGirl (November 12, 2080)

  Not that I know of ;)

  Valkyrie367 (November 12, 2080)

  Chapter

  10

  I studied the body splayed on the cobblestones. He’d landed on his left side, and one arm and leg were bent at bad angles. His nose was broken and a gash across his crumpled forehead oozed blood.

  “Get up,” I snapped.

  The vampire blinked, wiped his face with his unbroken hand and sat up. He jerked his leg back into place. Already, the wound on his head was healing.

  “Could you?” he pointed to his broken arm. “I can’t reach.”

  He wanted me to straighten his broken arm so it could heal. My throat closed and my heart pounded. Memories betrayed me—fangs piercing my throat in the Inbetween, hordes of wojaks, the vampire drones, swarming over the human and fae defenses outside the gate to Underhill.

  But Aunt Dana’s voice was stronger than any memory. “You are weak when you stand in the shadow of your fear. It will be your death.”

  So I would try not to fear him. But neither would I be stupid. I pulled my sword and pointed it at his throat, then I leaned in and yanked his arm straight.

  “Thank you.” He forced his nose back into place with a crack.

  I had a million questions, but only blurted, “You’re opji!”

  He smiled sadly. “Yes, I am. Still, and forever.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped the blood off his face. I waited with muscles tensed, ready to impale him before his fangs could impale me.

  He saw my fear, could probably smell it.

  “Don’t worry, I don’t drink human blood.”

  Huh. I’d never heard of such a thing. He did look somewhat emaciated. The high bones of his cheeks stood out prominently and his eyes bulged a bit as if the surrounding skin had shrunk.

  “What do you eat then?” The question just popped out. It was rude to interrogate other species about their personal habits. The socially conscious part of my mind accepted that. The blogger of amazing creatures did not.

  The opji shrugged. “Pig blood, mostly. Rats when I can’t get that.” He looked at the puddle of blood seeping into the cobblestones from his head wound and bared his fangs. “All this wasted blood will make things difficult for the next little while, so maybe you should run along.”

  He had a faint Irish lilt, which was just…wrong. The vampires in our area were a sect with roots in Poland and Hungary. They spoke with thick Eastern European accents that made me think of the counting vampire from a childhood TV show—a show that no human alive today would even remember.

  Opji were always handsome, in the way that panthers were handsome, and despite his wasted look, this one was no exception. His dark hair seemed to glisten and his pale skin only emphasized the huge eyes. Despite the heat, he wore a long-sleeved silk shirt in a deep cobalt blue and black dress pants. They were now torn and dirty, but this somehow only added to his air of dashing menace.

  He looked weak, but his eyes kept darting to the pulse at my throat. Oh, yes. He was hungry. I couldn’t let a hungry vampire roam the streets of Old Port no matter how polite he was.

  “Jacoby, run to the butcher and get some blood for the vamp.” I didn’t take my eyes off him. “Take my widget to pay for it.” I felt Jacoby’s deft hands in my pack as he fished for the widget. Then he was gone.

  I still held the sword to the opji’s throat. Something was definitely off about this guy.

  “Now you’re going to tell me how an opji ended up living in Montreal.”

  “My name is Emil Lughwaite.” He held out his hand for me to shake, but I only nodded.

  “Kyra Greene.”

  He sighed. “You see. This is why I jump.”

  I relaxed my stance and the blade dipped. This wasn’t a regular opji. I wouldn’t be baring my neck to him any time soon, but I’d give him a moment to prove himself.

  “Every day, every person I meet, I must make them believe me—that I do not drink their blood.”

  “How are you here? Within the ward, I mean.” Montreal Ward had been built to protect against the opji, after years of brutal warfare. Every gate into the city had fae scanners to be sure that no vampires snuck inside. It shouldn’t be possible that he was even here.

  Emil finished wiping blood off his face and tucked the handkerchief in his pocket before leaning back on his elbows—both of which were perfectly functional now. I knew opji healed fast, but I’d never seen their healing power in action.

  Then I realized what was nagging at me. I could sense his heart beating. Opji hearts beat so slowly, the pulses were nearly undetectable. But Emil’s heart thrummed almost as fast as a human’s.

  “I was stolen by a fae as a baby,” he said in a resigned tone, as if he’d told this story before. “I don’t know why. He was a minor noble at the queen’s court. Perhaps he wanted to keep me as a pet. But he died before I learned to speak. His sister, Lady Lughwaite, had always wanted a child but couldn’t conceive. She raised me as her own, hiding me for many years, then finally seeking special dispensation from the queen. I am all
owed to stay inside the ward so long as I drink only animal blood. The alchemists test me every few months.” He gave a quarter smile.

  “So you don’t have anything to do with the opji who tried to break into the ward last spring.”

  “Nothing.” His voice was flat, eyes troubled. “But since then…I have no rest. Everyone—the humans and the fae—they accuse me of colluding with the enemy or worse, stalking them to feed.” He leaned toward me and whispered, “But in truth, they should be afraid. The cravings…they never go away.”

  His eyes had a haunted look. Strangely, this admission made me trust him more, and I sat on the grass beside him, my sword relaxed in my grip.

  The sun had dropped below the apartments, and the courtyard filled with cooler shadow.

  “I once knew a boy who ate rocks,” I said. Emil smiled, seemingly happy just to have my company. “No one knew why. His teeth were all broken but he couldn’t stop.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “After years of intensive therapy, his parents thought he was cured.”

  “You think I can get therapy for my cravings?” The vampire looked skeptical.

  “Then the kid ate a rock that pierced his intestines and he died floating in his own shit.” I stared at the battered vampire. I suspected this wasn’t his first attempted suicide, and it had little to do with the recent backlash against the opji.

  He thought about my little parable and nodded. “This is how the cravings are. They never go away.”

  “So you need to make peace with it.” I’d done the same with my demanding brand of magic. “Throwing yourself off a building is not a solution.”

  “Yes, of course, you’re right.” His focus had shifted. The agreeable words were just a formality as his senses honed in on my sword. His pupils dilated and he breathed in deeply, testing its scent.

  Oh, hells.

  I might have come to terms with my sword’s heritage, but I would never let it be used for suicide. Not ever. Not again. But the look of pure rapture on Emil’s face as he focused on my blade told me he was going to force the issue.

  He pounced. For a half-dead thing, he was fast. Before I could react, he grabbed my sword and held it up in the dying afternoon light.

  “So beautiful.” His tired eyes came alive. “It sings to me.”

  I punched him, aiming for his nose which would hurt my hand less, but he turned at the last moment, and I felt the full brunt of my hit on his cheekbone.

  “Ow! Why’d you do that?” He fell back, flinging his arms high, but not letting go of my sword.

  I reached across him for the blade and immediately regretted it. As I stretched, my neck opened to his line of sight. I felt him suck in a deep breath—a breath of me.

  “Don’t even think it.” I seized my sword and jumped up, pinning him down with the tip of the blade against his chest.

  He smiled. “Yes.” The word came out of him as a long, satisfied hiss. “Release me.”

  I stumbled backward, gripping my sword so tightly, my fingers ached.

  “No.”

  Jacoby saved me when he returned with the bottle of blood.

  I shoved it at Emil. “Drink this and stay off the rooftops.”

  He wrapped long fingers around the bottle.

  “Thank you, Kyra. Perhaps we will see each other again.” His grin was inviting and just a bit cheeky.

  “Not if I can help it.”

  As I left the courtyard, my sword hummed, and I could feel the opji’s eyes on my back.

  Chapter

  11

  That night I dreamed about a funeral that never happened. It was an old dream, one that had haunted my nights for years. My mother lay in a casket looking withered from her long illness. In real life my mother had recovered, but it didn’t take a psychoanalyst to understand that her illness and subsequent retreat to my grandfather’s fort in Asgard had left me feeling orphaned.

  In my dream, I stood alone by her casket atop a grassy knoll overlooking a barren terrain. Mom lay on a bed of white satin. Wind blew red clouds across the sky, but didn’t move a hair on her head. I didn’t cry or scream because I knew no one would hear me.

  I woke to the smell of bacon cooking and cold dread in my gut. There was a cold lump at my hip too. Kur, my ice sprite, had broken out of his cage again and was curled up next to me. With his wings closed, he looked like a tiny sleeping yeti. I ran my fingers through his silky fur and stared out at the morning light.

  I needed to be at Cyril’s funeral, even though Mason hadn’t asked me to attend. I didn’t even know where it was taking place.

  As I listened to Gita berating Willow in the kitchen, I tried to rationalize my need to be there. I wasn’t so egocentric that I thought everything was about me. A funeral is a very private affair, a way to help family grieve. Mason needed to care for his people. But who cared for Mason? I was used to being the boss, used to having others rely on me and defer to my demands. I understood how this could be lonely at times, like sitting at a bar crowded with people and yet with no one you’d call a friend. How much worse was this for Mason as leader of the Guardians?

  He was about to say goodbye to one of his brothers. No one should be alone at a time like that. And I refused to let him push me away again, simply because he’d forgotten how to be in a relationship. I had seen the pain in his eyes and wanted to be there to comfort him. I threw the blankets over my head.

  Oh, gods. I was in love with a man who spent half his life as stone.

  I hopped out of bed, dressed, and found Gabe in the office.

  “Cyril’s funeral is tonight. Are you going?”

  Gabe shook his head curtly. “Dutch says it’s for Guardians only. Some kind of ritual that’s not for civilian eyes.”

  “Can’t you wheedle the address out of him? I’d like to stop by, just to show my support.”

  Gabe frowned. “You want me to ask my potential new boyfriend to leak secrets so you can spy on his boss?”

  “When you put it that way, it just sounds shifty.”

  “It is shifty.” Gabe folded his arms across his chest and tried to look intimidating. It didn’t work. I already knew he was as soft as Jacoby’s new teddy bear.

  “Just ask him. If he tells you, it’s not such a secret is it?”

  I left him mumbling something about female logic.

  After lunch, Gabe returned to the office as I was cleaning out Clarence’s pen. He wasn’t happy about spilling the beans.

  “The funeral will be at Union Church tonight. Or rather tomorrow morning, an hour before sunrise.”

  “What? Why so early?” That was actually late by gargoyle standards. I scooped a fresh load of straw into Clarence’s pen while he slithered around my ankles, head-butting me with his rubbery comb.

  “Look I got your information,” Gabe said. “Don’t ask me for more.” He turned away to tidy his desk, as if I wouldn’t notice that he was only trying to look busy.

  “Did something happen between you and Dutch?”

  Gabe gave me the full weight of his intense eyes. “As a matter of fact, my little fishing expedition led to our break-up. Dutch thinks I’m too clingy.”

  “Oh, Gabe! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause you any problems.”

  “Yeah, well. You couldn’t know how touchy those Guardians are about their secret rituals. I should have left it alone when Dutch first refused to tell me the location. But it irked me, you know? He blows hot and cold. Sometimes he can’t seem to get enough of me, and other times I’m barely an afterthought. So I pushed him.”

  “And he pushed back.”

  Gabe nodded. I knew exactly how he felt. Blowing hot and cold seemed to be the Guardian special.

  “Maybe he’ll change his mind.” I laid my hand on his arm.

  “The only reason he told me was because I said it
was for you. He doesn’t want me there.”

  Now I wasn’t sure I should go either. But the vision of standing alone over my mother’s body wouldn’t leave me.

  I set out for my first pest control job, intent on finishing early so I could get some sleep before crashing the gargoyle funeral.

  *

  Union Church was one of the oldest in my neighborhood. The town of Sayntanne squeezed up against the Gallop Bridge on the west end of the island, and the church wasn’t far from the water’s edge. Its main building fronted a warren of smaller structures that had grown up behind it over the years. The Guardians had taken over the complex as their precinct. Here they gathered to discuss crime in the lower echelons of the city and dole out schedules for their nightly prowls. Some gargoyles waited out the sunlight hours on rooftops within the city proper, but most returned to the church grounds, perhaps feeling there was safety in numbers.

  A cloister paved in broken cement with weeds pushing through the cracks bordered the main yard. Behind that lay the ruins of an old school and a playground that was slowly sinking into the earth. No lights shone in the abandoned buildings.

  Where were they? This was the Guardians’ home and they wouldn’t bury their dead too far away. The church graveyard was the obvious choice, but it was out in the open, easily viewed from the street, and I had checked it on my way in. No Guardians gathered there. Now I skirted through the shadows of the cloister, pausing to listen for voices. I wasn’t exactly sneaking around, but I didn’t want to run into any guards who might escort me off the property before I reached the funeral.

  An old rectory filled the space at the far end of the cloisters. I peered in the windows. They were filmed with dirt, but I didn’t sense movement inside.