How to Date Your Dragon

by Molly Harper

  “Is that how a typical anthropologist would handle a cultural study?” Bael asked. Both Jillian and Zed turned toward where Bael was standing in the door. Irritation flared in Bael’s belly. Apparently, they’d forgotten he was there.

  Jillian turned ever so slightly toward him, which eased the indignant burn in his gut. “Well, the interesting thing about paranormal anthropology is that we’ve had to create our own methods. Your cultures are like no other cultures on earth, so accommodations have to be made.”

  “And you know I’ll be accompanying you on the first couple of visits, right?” Zed asked.

  “Yes, just out of curiosity, are you offering that because you went to be helpful and smooth my way, or because you want to monitor what I’m doing?” she asked, sliding on a sensible pair of reading glasses that made Bael’s mouth go dry.

  Zed snickered. “A little of both.”

  “Well, you’re honest. I’ll give you that.”

  “Do you want to get started right now?” he asked.

  Jillian nodded and pulled out a mini recorder from her horrible bag. “Sure, do you mind if I ask you a couple questions on the record?”

  Zed’s grin was a white slice against the dark of his beard. “I’d expect nothing less.”

  He glanced up at Bael. “You want to shut the door? I’d hate to get background noise from the office on her recording. Having the phone ringing in the background would be a real distraction.”

  Bael frowned. “Uh, sure.”

  Bael couldn’t help but think that he saw Zed smirking a bit as he shut the door, closing Jillian in Zed’s office. Bael was pretty sure he was going to find a way to punch Zed in the gut later, just on principle.

  4

  Jillian

  Jillian’s second full day in Mystic Bayou was no less exhausting than the first.

  After a very thorough, hours-long interview, Jillian was so numbed by the amount of information Zed had given her on the town’s history, politics, economics and traditions, all she could do was ask for a ride back to her rental house and press a cold beer bottle to her temple.

  The beer was another gift from Zed’s beloved maman. Seriously, if Jillian ever met Mrs. Berend, she might kiss her on the mouth. According to Zed, the whole family was pretty free with their affections, so she’d probably be okay with it.

  Jillian laid out on the porch swing, watching Miss Lottie’s spirit lights come to life one by one, and used a dictation app to try to organize her thoughts on what she’d learned that day. She kept telling herself that she would be inside before the sunset, but it was just so pleasant out here, with the heat fading out of the day and the smell of honeysuckle blending with the citronella candles she’d lit. The candles, combined with the haint blue paint and the geraniums, seemed to be keeping the bugs at bay.

  According to Zed, and the messy sheaf of disorganized newspaper clippings and notes he’d handed her, the first supernatural settlers filtered into a place the locals called le Lieu Mystique early in the 1800s, just after New Orleans started taking off. Shifters, witches, sea creatures, and magique of all types were drawn to the little Cajun settlement because of a convergence of energy in the waters just beyond the outlying homesteads.

  There was no explanation for the mystical vortex, no ley lines, no electromagnetic anomalies, no historical melees. The rift in the fabric of what kept their world separate from the dimension beyond simply was. And it attracted magie creatures like wasps to an open Coke can.

  At first, the magique tried to pass as human, but there were only so many lies they could tell and stories they could make up when strange creatures were seen running through the swamp in the moonlight. It stretched the locals’ tolerance of weirdness to the limit, and considering some of the Cajun traditions, that was saying something.

  Eventually, a Berend, the shifter amongst them who was most likely to be able to defend himself from any attacks from the human settlers, met with the town fathers and revealed himself as a man who could shift into an enormous brown bear.

  Jillian stopped her voice app and pulled out the mini-recorder, checking her notes for the time stamp when Zed told the town’s origin story. She’d particularly enjoyed that bit. She found the right spot and Zed’s gruff, warm voice poured out of the recorder.

  “So my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-granddaddy dropped his drawers, changed his skin, and there he is, a big ol’ bear, standing right in front of them, trying to shake their hands with his paw. Because my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-granddaddy was a bit of a smartass. One of the town fathers soiled his breeches while the others screamed about hoodoo and witchcraft and all another manner of nonsense. Finally, the one elder who still had some sense in his head, handed around glasses of homemade brew and told everybody to shut their faces. Then my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-granddaddy turned back into human and they all had some beers.”

  Jillian’s voice sounded on the recording. “You don’t always have to say it like that, you know. You can just say ‘granddaddy.’ I’ll know who you mean.”

  “Yeah, I do,” Zed had insisted. “More fun that way.”

  Listening to the recording, Jillian distinctly remembered the grin on Zed’s face when he’d said this. Zed might have been a bear shifter, but he was also an enormous troll.

  “Anyway, he assured the humans that their new neighbors had no intention of hurting them. That they only wanted to live quietly in a place where they felt comfortable and happy. And if the humans were willing to live in peace with them and keep their secrets, then the magique would share all of their knowledge and magic. The town fathers probably didn’t feel like they had much of choice, given the number of fangs and claws on our side, but they agreed. There were some people who kicked up a fuss, of course, and those people either moved out of town or got too aggressive with the wrong magie and were never heard from again.”

  “There’s always going to be that one guy,” Jillian had observed.

  “Yep. My great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandaddy became the unofficial leader of the magique, and eventually the Berends took over leadership of the town. We’re lucky that the people trust us to do what’s right for them, I think we’ve done a fair job of it so far. Over the years, the humans calmed their asses down, especially when they saw how fae folk helped the crops grow, or how the healers kept their children well, and the weather witches kept the hurricanes away. And soon enough, their daughters started marrying our sons and our sons married their daughters. The line between their culture and magie culture faded and it just became ‘our culture.’ It’s like a big gumbo, everybody gets to know each other in the pot. We have Mardi Gras and Samhain and blood moon howls. And the Friday fish fries, can’t forget those. Technically, my family’s German and I’ve had more andouille in my lifetime than I’ve ever had schnitzel. Everybody gets along, more or less, but we’re a town just like any other little town. We have our squabbles, but I think that’s just people, no matter how human or inhuman you are.”

  “And where do the Boones come into this?” she’d asked. “Were they the only magie family that had any money? Or do they just really like putting their names on businesses?”

  “The Boones didn’t come to town until later. About a hundred years after my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-granddaddy-”

  “Zed,” Jillian sighed.

  Zed had cackled loudly on the recording, and she could hear him open up a jar of honey-flavored lollipops he kept on his desk. He’d handed her one as a peace offering and took another for himself. “After we got everything settled down, the Boones, whose real family name was Bogen.”

  “Bogen?”

  “Yeah, isn’t that the scariest monster-sounding name you’ve ever heard?” Zed had exclaimed. “Anyway, they changed it to Boone when they passed through Ellis Island, and rolled into town in a fancy wagon. And the wagons kept coming for weeks, covered up like they were carting around Sigurd’s left nut. They were the
most secretive people that ever came to town. For one thing, my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandaddy-”

  On the recording, Jillian sighed.

  Zed continued as if he hadn’t heard her, “Thought it was strange that they changed their name so easily when they came to the States, as proud as they were. It made everybody wonder what they had to hide. Then they all lived separately instead of grouping together, like most families did. They threw up storefronts all over town, but none of them helped each other build or start up their new businesses. They were cold and competitive people, and they didn’t make a lot of friends. And they seemed okay with that. But they did have a gift for making money, and the few times over the years the town needed it, the Boones were right there.”

  “And does their talent for making money play into their magie nature, or is that just a happy coincidence?”

  Zed had squinted at her, grinning. “You haven’t figured out his shifter form, have you?”

  Jillian had pursed her lips in response.

  “Really? Why don’t you just ask him?”

  “Because it’s rude!” she’d cried. “And Bael already has some sort of grudge against me! And you’ll notice I didn’t ask you what he is directly. I just hinted for clues.”

  “And you don’t want to admit that you can’t figure it out.”

  “The man gives no outward signs,” she sighed. “You’re clearly a bear shifter.”

  “What do you mean, clearly?” Zed exclaimed, obviously insulted.

  “You mentioned hibernation three times this morning. And your name is Berend.”

  Zed grumbled, “Still feels like profiling.”

  Jillian’s tone was far too intentionally guileless when she asked, “So what are the Boones?”

  Zed had grinned at her while he countered, “I thought it was rude to ask.”

  Jillian huffed. “It is rude to ask. But I thought you might tell me out of respect for the tentative friendship we’ve built between us.”

  Zed crossed his massive arms over his equally large chest. “No, you not knowing is more fun. I think I like this game. It makes the little vein on your forehead stand out.”

  Jillian had growled. “Fine. Enjoy my discomfort. So if the Boones have all of the money, why don’t they run things around here?"

  “Oh, they had no interest in running the town. They don’t devote their time to taking care of people, but they enjoy watching money make other money. They definitely enjoy having the town beholden to ‘em.”

  “But you and Bael seem to be pretty close friends,” Jillian had said.

  “Oh, sure, I love the big dumbass, but you’ll soon see for yourself he’s not exactly cut from the same cloth as his family. He’s the only one that seems to care about other people and the fact that they exist. So, years ago, my family got together with the Boones and agreed to split leadership of the town. The Boones made sure the town could keep the lights on, so speak. The Berends took care everything else.”

  “Interesting,” Jillian noted.

  “Yes, my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-granddaddy would have been proud.”

  “Is there another more mature city official I can talk to?” Jillian had asked.

  “Yeah, but they’re not nearly as entertainin’ as I am.”

  On the porch swing, Jillian shook her head. She knew she was supposed to stay impartial, but she was quickly becoming fond of Zed. Yes, he was attractive in a rough-hewn way that was intimidating as hell. But he was also a kind man, one who seemed to see her as some sort of cute younger sister he was supposed to tease and torment.

  Jillian checked the time on her phone and noted in a rare moment of cell phone-to-tower serendipity, she had more than one bar. She quickly dialed Sonja’s number and prayed the connection lasted.

  Sonja Fong was an office administrator, performing daily organizational miracles for the higher ups at the League office. Jillian knew they were destined for close friendship from the first day Jillian started with the League. Sonja had crossed the League’s plush hardwood-paneled lobby to warmly welcome Jillian to her internship and then informed Jillian very quietly that she’d spilled part of her morning latte on her blouse. Jillian, embarrassed by her first-day gaffe, whipped a stain wipe out of her shoulder bag and dabbed the spot away. Sonja’s dark eyebrows rose and she tugged open Jillian’s shoulder bag, revealing a carefully organized – and labeled – array of pens, notebooks, lip balms, hand sanitizers and wipes, each in their own compartment. She closed the bag and said, “I’m going to like you, Jillian Ramsay.”

  They’d become roommates shortly after that. Jillian needed someone to take up the other half of her lease. Sonja needed to live with someone who wasn’t certifiably crazy, as opposed to her last roommate who had set her closet on fire because Sonja forgot to take the cup out of the Keurig machine one morning. Which seemed like an overreaction.

  While Jillian worked hard to maintain the façade of a poised professional, Sonja was effortlessly attractive, elegant and always in control—even when dealing with a crazy roommate. Jillian frequently envied the way Sonja, the daughter of a Chinese diplomat and a Russian physicist, managed to navigate her way through the politically treacherous waters of the League office. Attending some of the most vicious upper crust boarding schools available in the States, she knew enough not to involve herself in the interoffice blood feuds or get caught up in promotion squabbles. She did her job. She got her stuff done. She learned everything about everybody. And she looked freaking fabulous doing it.

  After the day that she’d had, Jillian was grateful this wasn’t a video call, because she didn’t need to be faced with Sonja’s unruffled perfection.

  “Sweetie,” Sonja sighed as she picked up the phone. “Are you okay? What time did you finally make it there? Did you get any sleep? Are you staying in a decent hotel? Do they have a Starbucks there? Do I need to have the National Guard airlift peanut butter cups and vodka to you?”

  “No, no it’s definitely rural but it’s not…terrible,” Jillian said, her voice rising an octave on the final syllable.

  “You hesitated.”

  Jillian chuckled. “I’m aware.”

  “Seriously, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. I promise. The conditions here are not ideal, but it could be a lot worse,” Jillian said, trying to avoid the octave waffling this time.

  “Where are you staying?”

  Jillian could hear Sonja moving around their kitchen at home, making herself dinner, and smiled. Sonja never did one thing at a time. She considered it an indulgent waste of precious hours. Jillian once caught her plucking her eyebrows in the reflection of their toaster, while cleaning out the crumb tray.

  “A charming and comfortable little rental house,” Jillian told her.

  “On the edge of a swamp,” Sonja added.

  “It is swamp-adjacent, yes,” Jillian admitted. “But still, I’m more comfortable than I would be in a tent in the jungle, so that’s something.”

  “Are you upset that you’re missing out on the study in Chile? I know you really prepped for it.”

  “Eh, the sex-crazed dolphins will still be there in a year,” Jillian sighed. “This study takes priority. It will help more people. Though I am pretty curious about how the hell I got here in the first place.”

  Sonja took a long time to respond. “You’re going to be pissed.”

  Jillian sat up on the swing. “All I know is that Dr. Montes got injured while interviewing a unicorn. Why would I get pissed about that?”

  “Yes, Dr. Montes was injured while interviewing Thistlewaite, the oldest known unicorn in the world. In fact, he took a lot of trouble to arrange a special trip to Wales and hire a unicorn translator, who was willing to travel to a glen in the middle of nowhere,” Sonja said over the clatter of a whisk in a saucepan. “Which we all thought was weird because he was supposed to be getting ready for this massive study in Louisiana, right? In fact, it seems particularly out of c
haracter for a guy who holds all the other anthropologists to such strict professional standards about logistical and mental preparation. I mean, he literally wrote a book on it. But he kept saying it would all be worth it once he got his hands on Thistlewaite. We all thought he meant in in a figurative sense.”

  Very slowly, Jillian said, “Sonja, honey, talk to me like I’m a layman who never spent time around supernatural creatures and has suffered a significant head injury.”

  If wincing had a sound, Jillian was pretty sure it would sound like the uncomfortable humming on Sonja’s end of the line. “Dr. Montes’s is apparently into something called ‘pony play.’”

  Jillian asked in a hopeful tone, “As in playing with My Little Pony?”

  “As in he enjoys caring for and training a person dressed as a pony, during special naked happy fun time.”

  Jillian nodded, but could not produce an audible response.

  Sonja asked, “You OK, hon?”

  Jillian squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m trying so hard not to judge. And to figure out how this could possibly connect to Dr. Montes’s injury, and yet I don’t want to picture it.”

  “Well, according to what I could puzzle together from snooping through his email—”

  “Yeah, you’ve received several interoffice memos stating you’re not supposed to do that,” Jillian noted.

  “Well, people around here need to make their passwords more complicated if they don’t want me reading their emails. I mean, honestly, the digits for their birth date and their dog’s breed? Amateur hour,” Sonja scoffed. “Anyway, Dr. Montes’s emails made it pretty clear that his pony partner had recently opened the barn door and headed into someone else’s corral.”

  “I beg you to stop with the horse metaphors.”

  Sonja continued as if Jillian hadn’t spoken. “Dr. Montes got dumped by his pony partner, leaving him in deep personal turmoil. And apparently, the temptation of being near a real live unicorn with his beautiful iridescent white coat and ivory horn spiraled with gold, so soon after losing his equine paramour was just too much of a temptation.”