Live and Let Fly

by Karina Fabian

  Amateur Informant barely took time to finish his drink before bolting out the door. He didn't even glance at my six-foot-at-the-shoulder, scarlet-and-black scaled and winged self nursing a beer. I was trying to decide if that meant he was scared, stupid, or had seen it all, when Jerry, Jr. approached me.

  "Vern! 'Sup."

  "JJ. Your dad know you're in here?"

  "Just don't tell Mama." It was an old joke; Jerry, Jr. had gotten his job as background reporter for the Gazette in part because he had contacts thanks to his old man's former career. JJ

  had actually shined shoes here as a kid until Rosa found out.

  He glanced at the beer I held in my tail. "Can I buy you something better?"

  JJ got a cola for himself and a whiskey for me. I decided to save it for after the cheap beer and raised the bottle in salute. "Thanks. Nice transaction earlier, by the way. Smooth."

  JJ shrugged and sipped his soda.

  "Anything you can share?" Again the silence. "Look, normally, I wouldn't ask, but Charlie Wilmot was hurt, and he's one of mine."

  "Yeah, heard about that. But no, McGrue has me working on something else. What'd you do to her anyway? She came in this morning, started printing up pictures of you so she could burn them."

  That was...new. "Told her we wouldn't give her a pass for the Live and Let Fly set. Told her to let Ron handle it."

  JJ laughed. "Ronnie's a great guy, but he can't investigate his way out of a paper bag.

  Thinks everyone is a nice guy or misunderstood. But that ain't it. I haven't seen her so hot in years."

  "She's got issues." I poured the rest of my beer into my mouth, followed it with the whiskey and ordered another. Human alcohol doesn't affect me: not only do I have eight hundred pounds of well-toned body to absorb it, but my digestion and chemistry are different. Getting me drunk takes the alcoholic equivalent of one hundred forty-some-odd shots of whiskey—or five gallons of ethanol. Trust me: if I want to get drunk, I head to Gas 'N' Grub. Even with gas prices nowadays, it's the cheaper route.

  "You're telling me. Half those pictures were from when you were human. You got under her skin, amigo. Wish I could get to someone like that," he muttered into his drink.

  Someone, eh? That was a relief to hear; not too long ago, he'd had a crush on McGrue.

  "Not worth it. Look for what your parents have, instead."

  "Yeah, well, not gonna find it here. I'm gonna go write my notes and get a shower.

  There's a street dance in Pueblo—better music, more women. Barbeque at Mom's on Sunday.

  Hasta luego."

  I spent the next hour nursing my second beer and buying drinks for other people. That had been the routine for a while now: I set myself up at the end of the bar, folks come to me.

  Some shoot the bull; some have information to sell; some hope for a free drink. Every now and then, someone wants a photo. I picked up gossip about a new Faerimet mine from a dwarf; the latest Despredatores gang activity from a disgruntled school counselor who thought he was just grumbling about a student; some tidbits we could use for our next report to the Bishop on the status of Faerie beings in the Mundane. Nothing to help me, though. I made a little prayer that someone who knew something would come my way.

  I'd almost run out of money and was ready to call it a night, when the doors swung open, and thirty members from Live and Let Fly burst into the room. A few caught sight of me and shouted "Vern!" It’s not actually my real name, but it’s nice everyone knows it here. Mostly extras and the guys who worked the sets—the kind who were out and about instead of in their trailers memorizing lines. Maybe my prayers had been answered.

  I mingled as well as my bulk and tail allowed. If I got much bigger, I'd no longer be able to maneuver a lot of Mundane establishments. As a pleasant change, people gossiped freely and bought me drinks. In fact, after hearing about my capacity for alcohol, they decided to expand my repertoire of alcoholic beverages, trying to see if I could pick out the different flavors. I declined the mudslide—I don't like chocolate. The hurricane was nice, as was the Danish Maria—the caraway seed flavor makes a nice complement to the tomato. In between my analysis and judgment, I listened to folks gripe about production schedules and the problems they had with the new animatronic monster McT-A delivered day before yesterday.

  I started to feel tipsy. Not falling over drunk but around three-and-a-half-gallons loose. I thought back to the drinks I'd had, added the alcoholic content, and came up with a cliché.

  Someone had slipped something into one of my drinks. I tried to remember who'd been handling my drinks and realized I hadn't kept track. When was I going to learn?

  I laughed at myself. It was funny, in a Duke Galen sort of way.

  I wasn't going to pass out, but the conversations were beginning to merge and flow until they were like waves crashing on the shore; I was having to concentrate extra hard to keep track of the individual speakers. So much for getting anything else useful.

  I excused myself and walked carefully back to Cory, the bartender. "How many glasses of mine have you washed?"

  Cory pointed to the rack of glasses rinsed, wiped, and waiting for the dishwasher.

  "Damsels and Knights! Call Grace for me; tell her to come get me. Someone's drugged my drink."

  It was Cory's turn to swear. "You all right?"

  "Yeah. I'll wait outside. Do my gargoyle imitation." I snickered.

  "Sure you don't want to hang out here?"

  I shook my head; the room slid. Whatever it was, it was gaining strength. "Dragons make mean drunks, and I'm pissed." The double meaning of my words caught up with me, and I stifled a laugh. It came out as a snort. Cory jumped back. "Don't worry. I won't flame you. Not unintentionally, anyway." I started out snarling and ended snickering.

  A part of me was thinking this drug was suspiciously well-tuned to dragon physiology.

  Another part of me was thinking, Duuuuude! What a ride.

  "Go wait outside. I'll make the call."

  I left with the best intentions of sitting still and quiet outside the door. The Colt's Hoof's own live statuary. In fact, I was pretty well convinced I was standing still, and the rest of the world was moving around me. Another part of me considered flying over to where Despredatores hung out and reminding them who the real predator in the area was. If School Counselor Jackson's observations were right, that gang was getting uppity again—

  With all this and the need to coordinate four feet, it's no wonder I didn’t notice the police wagon on the curb until Santry called my name.

  "Oh, look," I said. "The heat's come to help me up my street cred."

  "Funny. Get in. I'm taking you to the station."

  "Why should I?" The words popped out of my mouth. They seemed about right.

  Santry took three steps forward, then stopped, and folded his arms. "Vern, get in the van.

  I've had a bad day, and I'm not interested in taking any crap from you."

  Suddenly, I was the one who was tired of taking crap: crap from cowards who attacked me with drugged drinks instead of swords and lances, dukes who thought exiling creatures made a great joke, reporters who burned me in effigy and got all the sympathy, and police chiefs who thought their bad day meant they could lord it over the dragon.

  I pounced.

  I heard a gunshot, dismissed it. I pinned Santry to the concrete. I leered at him. A little bit of drool dripped off my canines and splattered on the sidewalk beside him. "Want to try that again?" I growled low in my throat.

  Santry's face paled, but he just cocked an eyebrow at me. "Please."

  "Better," I purred and minced into the back of the wagon. Santry was all right. Too bad he didn't have a lance and a white charger. Then we could have some real fun.

  I threw up on the way to the station.

  Chapter Three: Gapraker

  I woke up in one of the interrogation rooms with my head pillowed on Grace's lap and no idea how I'd gotten there.

  "Feeling better?"


  "No." Unconsciousness was preferable to the ice-pick in my skull and the roiling seas that replaced my stomach, and— "My shoulder hurts."

  "Well, that would be because Captain Santry shot you. Care to explain?"

  Shot me? You'd think I'd remember something like that. "I was drugged."

  "So we kenned when you staggered in alternately roaring and laughing. Gave a few of the prisoners quite a fright."

  "Oops?" I ventured. I tilted my head to look at her face.

  Grace bit back a grin. "Michael threatened to put you in with some of the less savory ones, and I took the opportunity to make a few suggestions. So it all worked out. Your shoulder should be fine in a day or so."

  I didn't want to nod; I had a nasty hangover. Memories were coming back, slow and blurry. "Why'd Santry arrest us?"

  Grace chuckled, a low mezzo in deference to my headache. "He didn't. Some federal agency is taking over the mugging case, and Duke Galen's named us as the Faerie representatives."

  No wonder he was having a bad day. "I'm not arrested now? Good, because I want to go to the roof and burn off this hangover. And maybe vomit again."

  I strolled out, Grace beside me. I held my head high, reminding myself I was the top of the food chain, even if I did feel like the bottom of a dung beetle's breakfast special. I gave up on dignity when we got to the dumpsters. There went the last of dinner. What a waste of a good road kill. I flapped up to the roof. Between the emptied stomach and several long flames, I was feeling more dragon. An unexpected advantage of breathing fire is it cures my hangovers. (Don't try it at home.) I hadn't known for certain if it would work on whatever had sent me flying last night—or rather, pouncing, snarling, laughing, and vomiting. I wondered if that meant the drug had mixed with the alcohol in my blood. What had my blood alcohol level been? I'd have to ask Santry if they gave me a test.

  I looked down and saw him standing with Grace and some other suit. Did Santry ever go home? I unfurled my wings and swooped down, easy and unthreatening-like, to land in front of them.

  Santry spoke first. "Recovered? Good. Vern, meet Agent Eugene Calloway, Federal Bureau of Investigation."

  Calloway gave me a curt nod, but his eyes sparkled, and he couldn't quite hide a grin.

  Yeah, I know. I'm awesome. It's a gift.

  "Must have been some serious shit you were on last night," he started then excused himself to Grace.

  She smiled. "It's all right, Gene; I understand."

  "I don't. That stuff was engineered for dragons. You happen to get a blood sample from me?" I directed my question to Santry.

  "Matter of fact, Calloway suggested it. And, since we had to pull a bullet out from between your scales, anyway..."

  "Yeah, about that. I, um..." I was bad at apologizing. Comes from being at the top of the food chain. Humans are the only species I know of that would apologize to prey.

  Santry let me off the hook. "That's why I didn't aim for the head."

  He wasn't going to apologize, either. I caught a glance of Grace's exasperated roll of her eyes, but I understood. Knights don't apologize to foes wounded in fair combat.

  "We believe there's more to the mugging of Herald Wilmot than meets the eye,"

  Calloway interjected, "and I think the attack on you last night confirms it. Because of the interdimensional scope, we're taking over administration of this case, and by request of Duke Galen, we're including DragonEye, PI in the investigations."

  Santry kept a neutral, professional face, but I could smell his ire at being cut out of something that had happened on his turf. I'd have felt the same way. Probably, after not finding me at home, Calloway—or someone else in his department—had "requested" the aid of the police department to find me. Naturally, Santry wouldn't pull someone off patrol to play delivery boy. I could almost forgive the guy for his attitude last night.

  Calloway continued, "We've got some local offices. I've already given Sister Grace a card. This could take most of the day as it is, but if you need a couple of hours..."

  I stretched, gave my wings a good flap. Yeah, it was show, but it did feel good to stretch.

  "All I need is a meal."

  We agreed to meet at ten-thirty. We never got me any food, however. I snoozed in the car while Grace swung by our office to change and pick up a fresh vest for me and what few notes we had, and by ten-twenty-five, we were pulling into a little strip mall on the west side of town.

  Opposite the Goodwill stretched a long row of low stucco office buildings. We found number 5—Multidimensional Information Technical Services. MITS handled the Interdimensional Internet, one of the few technologies to be allowed into Faerie, and in my opinion, the most potentially troublesome. But no one asks the dragon. Well, fine, Bishop Aiden did, which is why there are all kinds of strict guidelines concerning what is and is not allowed across the Gap, and anybody who cries about their "First Amendment Rights" gets reminded that Faerie doesn't have a United States of America.

  Interesting place for an FBI meeting. Grace and I exchanged glances and went in.

  A receptionist wearing headphones smiled and held up a finger for us to wait while she tried to explain to someone on the other end that their annex only handled government contracts, not tech support. While she intoned a litany of "uh-huh" and "I really sympathize, but...," she pressed a buzzer on her desk and motioned for us to sit. I'd barely gotten my tail wrapped around my legs when the heavy door to the left of us made a sound like an overweight mosquito and opened. A thirty-something dishwater blonde wearing pinstriped pants, a cotton shirt, and a sweater came out. She introduced herself as Susan Thompson and asked us to follow her. At the door, she swiped her card through the reader, then typed in a code, called out, "Thanks, Heidi,"

  to the girl at the desk, and led us down a standard office-building hall: nice but inexpensive carpet, two-toned walls, water fountain, and bathrooms. Some of the doors had additional locks, but that in itself was not remarkable.

  "I'm so glad Charlie's all right," she said. "He's just a great guy. He'll be joining you along with a few other agents. We got your clearance paperwork from Peebles-on-Tweed yesterday with the official request that you be involved in this case."

  Grace and I traded another glance. Clearance paperwork? I imagined the Duke saying,

  "Of course I trust them, you idiots," and the Seneschal writing it out in flowery phrases the Duke would snort at before affixing his scribble-n-seal. I wondered what clearance that got us but didn't want to bust our rep by asking. I'm sure it was enough to do the job. I'd look it up later.

  Grace's and my only experience with the world of "black ops" was from American cinema, so we expected something impressive and high tech—an elevator ride to a bunker, long banks of computers manned by grim experts all facing a wall-sized screen that displayed live feed from spy satellites... Instead, Susan escorted us into a conference room with a large pill-shaped table surrounded by comfortable chairs and bearing a large box of donuts and a laptop computer. More chairs lined the sides in two rows. Our "high-tech screen display" turned out to be the laptop and a flat-screen TV of about the same quality as our friend Bert's. I hoped it was HD at least. A handful of people sat in the side seats, including one Navy officer—commander stripes. Five people sat at the table: an Air Force lieutenant colonel played a game on his cell phone, and two men in suits were chatting about the Broncos' chance at the Super Bowl, while Charlie was waxing poetic about Heather to an agent whose conservative outfit fought stylistically with his slicked-back hair and trendy five-o'clock shadow. Then again, compared to Charlie's uniform, he looked positively GQ.

  The uniform of a herald of the Duchy of Peebles-on-Tweed consisted of a large, green, blousy shirt that hung to mid-calf over orange-and-green-striped tights and ankle-high boots of tanned leather. The matching belt worn snug on the waist held a dagger. A pouch for message scrolls completed the accessories. His orange tabard bore the livery of the Duchy of Peebles-on-Tweed: an unappetizingly ugly boar's
head with overlarge tusks messily severed from its body and spiked onto a spear. Among all the subdued hues, Charlie stood out like a badly done art nouveau road construction sign. Yet he wore it so naturally, no one even blinked, and certainly no one snickered—not to his face. Heralds wore the uniform of their noblemen with pride—and their daggers within easy reach.

  Conversation stopped when I entered the room, of course. A lot of these guys probably flew in for this super-secret meeting, but even the locals would perk up at the sight of me.

  Although I've lived in Los Lagos for years, I keep a pretty low profile. Unless you attended Little Flowers Parish or frequented Grandma Natura's Restaurant or my usual stores (Los Lagos Thrift Shop, Fae Foods, and the Gas 'N' Grub in Territory), chances are you've probably only seen me in newspapers, the occasional television newscast, or on the Internet. Naturally, I'm far more impressive in the flesh, even in my greatly reduced post-St. George package.

  Susan introduced us as the Faerie agents of Peebles-on-Tweed. Then she pointed to the end of the table and introduced us to Tom Mordash. The forty-something human, large enough to keep me fed for days, bearing a walrus mustache, hefted himself out of his chair. "Sister. Dragon.

  Welcome to the Bureau of Interdimensional Law Enforcement."

  BILE? There's a name that must have been made in committee. Grace landed a subtle kick on my ankle, however, so I held off the snide comments and made nice while Mustache Mordash introduced us to Harvey Heffner of Homeland Security and Stan Rakness of the CIA.