How to Date Your Dragon

by Molly Harper

  Zed shook off his embarrassment by flashing that winsome grin again.

  “’Course not. Sheriff, you are the exception to all the rules,” he said in a condescending, teasing tone. “Dr. Ramsay, this is Sheriff Boone. Sheriff, this is Dr. Jillian Ramsay.”

  “Sheriff, I’m pleased to meet you.” Jillian did not reach out to shake his hand, another etiquette issue. Some species of the supernatural world, like the Irish spriggans, could lose their glamour when touched by humans, so casual physical touch with strangers was taboo. Also, some species, like the rainforest-dwelling nagual were extremely prone to colds and therefore a little germaphobic.

  The Sheriff said nothing. He simply stared at her with those strange eyes of his, as if he was categorizing her every freckle and flaw.

  Zed sighed. “I told you all about her, Boone. Twice. This is the doctor that’s gonna be studyin’ how well we run things in our little town, so she can help other little towns do the same,” Zed said, in a tone that was probably meant to evoke some sort of friendly response.

  Instead, the sheriff growled, “Seems to me that those towns should figure that out for themselves.”

  Jillian scoffed, “Well, that’s an interesting approach to interspecies cooperation.”

  The sheriff crossed his rangy arms over his broad chest. “Never said I planned on any approach.”

  Zed cleared his throat. “Doc, you got those papers for me to sign? I’ll leave you two to your howd’ya do’s.”

  Jillian reached into her enormous canvas shoulder bag, handed him a carefully labeled manila envelope full of reprinted paperwork. Zed opened the sheaf of official documents and beamed at her. “I get to use my official mayor stamp. I love doin’ that.”

  Boone muttered, “To a point that might embarrass any other man.”

  Ignoring the sheriff, Zed strode into his office. Jillian turned her head toward the sheriff. The hair elastic keeping her thick blond mop off of her neck gave up the fight. It snapped and her hair fell around her face like a slightly damp gold curtain. The sheriff’s eyes flashed and not with annoyance at the mayor. There were actual rays of light shining behind his irises. Which she now realized were longer, and narrower than average, like a cat’s. He had to be a shifter of some sort. The mayor also had “double corporeal forms” written all over him, for that matter. But there were far too many varieties to guess just from eye shape or build. From what Jillian understood of shifter etiquette—or any other sort of etiquette, really—it was rude to ask someone, “so what are you?”

  So, she would just have to wait.

  “Sheriff Boone. Do you have a first name? Is there a reason the mayor doesn’t seem to use it?”

  The sheriff cleared his throat. “’Course I do. I’m Bael Boone. And the mayor doesn’t use it, because he likes to needle my ass at every opportunity.”

  “I sure do!” Zed called from the next room.

  “I’m sorry. Did you say Bill Boone?” she asked.

  “Bael.”

  Jillian repeated what she heard, “Bill.”

  “Bael.”

  Jillian shook her head. “I don't understand. It’s not Bill?”

  The sheriff was starting to look annoyed, or, at least, more annoyed. “No. Ba-el.”

  “I could swear that’s what I’m saying.”

  “No, B-A-E-L. Bael.”

  Jillian would admit that, at this point, she was needling him just a little bit. She had an excellent ear for accents, but very little patience or politeness left in her.

  “Sorry about that. I guess it will take me some time to adjust to the accents.”

  Bael sniffed, “Well, it will take us just as long to get used to yours.”

  Jillian watched the sheriff’s angular face carefully. Clearly, he was amongst the people who were “not all that thrilled” with Jillian’s presence in town. And given the Boone family’s apparent stranglehold on the town’s economy, that pricked at Jillian’s distrust.

  No, she was a scientist. She wouldn’t let preconceived notions or her discomfort in having someone attempt to stare through her skew her opinions.

  “Well, I’m here to stay, Sheriff, at least for a while, so you’ll have plenty of opportunity.” She smirked at him.

  Bael jerked his shoulders. “I just don’t see the point in it, is all.”

  Jillian’s brows drew together. “Your town represents one of the few settlements where supernatural creatures from nearly all cultures live and work together in relative peace, and have for generations. The League expects humanity to stumble on ‘the secret’ of the otherworldly any day now. The Loch Ness monster can’t hide from Google maps forever. And when one domino falls, so will another and then another, until everyone knows that it’s all real. Werewolves, fairies, shifters, spirits, mermaids, witches, all of their fairy tale nightmares come true. Don’t you think it would be better if they had information on how other communities overcame their differences instead of running around in a blind panic and well, act out the whole ‘War of the Worlds’ phenomenon all over again.”

  Despite her impassioned speech, Bael was not moved. “I’m just sayin’ that no good has ever come from people havin’ the answers handed to them.”

  Zed rushed back out of his office, the papers flapping sloppily as he moved. “All done ‘cept for the last one, which has to be signed in front of a witness. Sheriff?”

  Bael sighed, “Hold on.”

  The sheriff very carefully reviewed each page…to the point where Jillian became concerned about his reading comprehension.

  Zed seemed endlessly amused by Bael’s insolence. “Bael hates it when I boss him around. He’s hated it ever since we were kids. But I just remind him that his job description includes “other duties as assigned” tacked right there at the end, with an asterisk, and then he has to do it. Because the asterisk says, “‘assigned at the Mayor’s discretion.’”

  Bael’s eyes flashed angry gold again. “Mighty big words from the guy who needed flash cards to remember his swearin’ in speech.”

  Zed’s grin should not have been as proud as it was. “I put the ‘swear’ in ‘swearin’ in.’”

  Jillian cleared her throat. “Sheriff, that’s a pretty standard cooperation agreement between the League and the town of Mystic Bayou. Because of your unique population, you are a perfect case study for assimilation tactics. You guarantee me access to any archives or census information I need and attempt to smooth the way for me with the locals. I agree to be as unobtrusive as possible and show you all of my research before I leave town. Mayor Berend was pretty specific about that.”

  “Maybe where you’re from, people give their name without a care, but I want to know what I’m signin’,” Bael drawled, placidly flipping through the paperwork.

  “He’s got this whole thing about not givin’ his true name,” Zed whispered dramatically. “The whole family’s that way. Their first names are all nicknames. He refuses to tell me and I’m the closest thing he’s got to a best friend!”

  “No, you’re not.” Bael shook his head, blithely reading through the contract.

  Zed grinned. “I’ve been guessin’ for years though. I’m pretty sure his true name is somethin’ like Marion. It’s OK, buddy. Marion can be a boys’ name, too.”

  Jillian looked to Bael, who silently shook his head.

  It took several more minutes, but Bael finally signed the last page of the contract. A quick motion caught Jillian’s eye, and she barely restrained a gasp as Zed sliced his palm open with a wicked sharp claw on his right hand. In a business-like manner, he pressed his mayoral seal onto his palm and then the paper, leaving a livid red crest next to the signature line.

  Jillian shook her head. “Oh, that wasn’t…necessary.”

  Zed frowned at her as he signed his name with a plain old Bic pen.

  “Now, the local ladies’ guild wanted to throw you a proper crawfish boil to welcome you to town,” Zed told her.

  Jillian gulped, audibly. “That’s
very generous of them.”

  Bael rolled his eyes a bit. “Don’t get excited. People around here throw a party every time somebody loses a damn tooth.”

  Zed shot Bael a warning look, the first truly dark expression she’d seen on his face. The predator’s threat sent a cold shiver down her spine. If Jillian had those icy eyes glaring at her that way, she might have added soiled pants to her list of hygiene issues. Bael simply jerked his shoulders.

  In a pointedly pleasant tone, Zed said, “I thought that might be a little overwhelmin’ for you straight out the gate. I figured you’d rather get settled in and get some sleep, get your legs under you, before you have to make your first impressions. We’ll schedule your official welcome sometime this week.”

  “That was very thoughtful of you,” she told him. “Thank you.”

  Zed grinned at her, putting his passive (no-longer-bleeding) hand on her shoulder. “You need anything, you just let me know.”

  Bael growled ever so slightly. Jillian frowned at him, and turned back to Zed. “Directions to my hotel would be appreciated.”

  Zed gave her shoulder a friendly squeeze. “Oh, we’ve got you set up with a real nice place.”

  “I didn’t see a hotel on my way into town. I don’t suppose there’s a Holiday Inn one street over, that I just didn’t see?” she asked.

  Bael scoffed and Zed glared at him, then ratcheted up his smile a few degrees before saying, “Like I said, we’ve got a real nice rental place for you. It’s got a lot of…charm.”

  Jillian found his pause before the word ‘charm’ to be highly suspicious. “Okay, I guess working out of a house will be more pleasant than working out of a hotel. Can you give me directions?”

  Zed was half-way to a nod when he said, “Yes, but I can’t help you get there right now. My maman’s expecting me at her place to fix her freezer. I keep tellin’ her that she’s overwhelming the twice-cursed thing, stuffin’ two whole deer carcasses in there. But then she glares at me and reminds me winter’s always around the corner and we need to think about puttin’ on hibernation weight. And then, I shut up because there’s nothin’ scarier than a Berend woman when she thinks you’re not listenin.”

  Jillian tilted her head and stared at him. “It’s May.”

  Zed shrugged. “Winter’s always just around the corner to Maman. But the Sheriff here can lead the way to your place. He’s one of your nearest neighbors.”

  Jillian shook her head. “I don’t want to be a bother. If you just give me directions, I’m sure I can find it.”

  Zed snorted. “Not likely. The roads ‘round here twist and turn and only half them have the right signs, because the fair folk think it’s funny to switch ‘em around. I can only find my place because I’ve lived here my whole life. But the Sheriff will be happy to give ya the full police escort, won’t ya?”

  Bael only glared at Zed.

  “Other duties as assigned, Bael,” Zed reminded him.

  Bael exhaled deeply and for a second, Jillian swore she could see smoke rings billowing out of his nostrils. “Follow my car.”

  2

  Jillian

  Mayor Berend had not been kidding about the twists and turns. The sheriff had only led her a mile out of town and they’d already gone over two bridges and passed four signs marking a “crick.” She had no idea where she was.

  Now they were farther away from town, she could see that there were a lot more houses than she expected. Not all of them were on stilts, but most of them backed up to the water. The bayou was clearly the center of life here. From the aerial maps she’d glanced at on her layover, she saw that the town’s population centered around an area of the bayou called la Faille. Dr. Montes’s notes stated that the citizens regarded la Faille as an almost sacred site. While there was a wealth of solid land in that area, no building or home was built within ten miles of it.

  From what she could gather, she and the sheriff were heading northwest of la Faille…and out of town, for that matter. She was starting to wonder if he was leading her away so he could kill her and hide her body in the swamp, when he turned on a road called Possum Tail.

  Who was in charge of naming things here?

  There were no houses on Possum Tail, just endless trees bearded with Spanish moss. It would’ve been really pretty, if she wasn’t worried about the whole murder thing.

  The squad car slowed and turned onto a gravel drive that she would’ve passed by entirely if she was on her own. There was no mailbox or marker, just a pause in the greenery. Slowly, a pale house breached the trees like some ancient sea creature.

  Unlike every structure they passed so far, this house was several stories stacked on top of each other like a wobbly, metallic wedding cake. At one point, the house had been painted blue, but weather and runoff from the metal roofing had turned it an uneven pewter gray against the backdrop of lush green.

  A bay window, another feature she hadn’t seen on any of the other houses, extended over the best view of the Bayou. A cupola served as the bridal “topper,” and Jillian thought she spotted a telescope edging over that cupola’s window. Each level had its own wrap-around porch, and someone had taken the time to hang baskets of geraniums from the eaves. And while they were very pretty, she was more grateful for the layer of privacy they would provide. A collection of mismatched rocking and lawn chairs were circled around a wooden platform that extended from the ground floor onto the water. Jillian slid out of her van, gaping up at the sight of her temporary home.

  “What is this place?” she marveled, setting her sunglasses on top of her head.

  Sheriff Boone was already out of his car, a set of house keys in his hand. “Folks around here have called it la maison de fous, the Fool’s House, since I was a boy. My mama told me it was built by a sea captain named Worthen. He fell in love with a sea sprite who’d made her home in the Bayou. He built the house here so he could be close to her. But she never returned his love and he was so heartbroken and distracted that he built his house at all these crazy angles, not paying one bit of attention to how his neighbors’ houses were built.”

  She opened her van’s backdoor and slid a large duffel bag onto her shoulder. “Sounds like one mean mermaid.”

  Without her asking, the sheriff picked up two of her larger boxes of equipment and balanced them in his arms as if they weighed nothing. “Well, the captain had the last laugh. He married a local witch woman who loved him beyond reason, fed him queen’s cake every day and gave him six children. And the house has stood more than hundred years. The town doesn’t have the heart to let it fall down after all this time, so people around town pick up the little repairs whenever they can. We just replaced the stilts before Miss Lottie died.”

  Jillian glanced at the wooden supports that kept the house a good six feet above the waterline. Even though they looked pretty sturdy, the idea of sleeping over water wasn’t exactly comfortable for her. “Miss Lottie?”

  Bael nodded, the last of the sun’s dying light gleaming off of his close-shorn golden hair. “The last of the captain’s great-great-grandchildren. She was the closest thing we had to a doctor. She had her nurse training from a fancy drole school in the city, then her mother was a white witch, so she could heal our kind through either means.”

  Jillian stopped, adjusting the weight of the bag on her tired shoulder. “What’s a drole school?”

  Sighing as if he was very put upon, Bael took the bag and carried it, too. “It’s just the way we refer to the outside world. Drole means funny or bizarre, and not in the nicest way, to be honest. It’s a little bit of an insult. And to us, everything in the outside world is weird, so anything to do with the outside world is drole.”

  Jillian hummed. “So you’re like the Amish, but with more fangs.”

  He nodded. “Yep.”

  “Really expected more of a response to that,” she muttered as she slid the old brass key into the door.

  Compared to the tent she’d expected to spend the next four months
inhabiting, the house was luxurious. Sure, it was rough. The walls were whitewashed. The floorboards, also whitewashed, were worn smooth by years of foot traffic. Cooking and heating seemed to be handled with a large cast iron stove in the middle of the parlor, which was…intimidating. She would probably be spending a lot of time at the pie shop.

  From what she could tell, there was no air-conditioning. The captain-architect had built screened grates into the higher floors, to vent the warmer air as it rose. But the wooden furniture was polished and well-cared for. Miss Lottie had left hanks of fragrant herbs hanging from the summer porch. And someone had recently cleaned the windows. She could see the vinegar soaked newspapers in the kitchen trash. The porch ceiling was painted a soft blue-green called “haint blue,” meant to keep away both evil spirits and insects. Small animals carved from peach wood stood sentinel on the window sills. Several more hung from live oak trees surrounding the house. In some cultures, peach wood was used to ward off negative energy. Miss Lottie clearly wanted to keep her home free of bad vibes and had used a lot of cultural touchstones to do it. Even though she was still a bit skeptical about such things, that was a comfort to Jillian. She needed all the good vibes she could get.

  Jillian had been dropped into a fairy tale cottage. She wasn’t sure whether to take notes and photos or start removing the talismans before she broke one and cursed herself. She was vaguely aware that she had a big dopey grin on her face when she turned and saw the sheriff staring at her with that inscrutable golden gaze of his. She cleared her throat and tried to adopt a more professional expression. “Um, how much French do people speak around here? Will I have a hard time getting around, communicating? I’m pretty fluent in Spanish and a little Portuguese, which was appropriate considering I was on my way to South America. But French has always eluded me.”