Live and Let Fly

by Karina Fabian

  Attendants in formal dress pushed the double doors as we approached. That's service. I breezed through first.

  Sound and smoke hit me like a hammer. The mix of European and Asian as well as American clientele meant the scents of cheap cigarettes and expensive cigars tickled at my nostrils, making me sneeze. The pollutinous haze didn't manage to unite the room, which seemed divided between light and dark. In the shadowed area, a long bar lined the back wall, its mirror tinted to reflect faces but not a lot of light. Small tables dotted the floor, while larger booths lined the walls. People chose here to drink and talk—and pretend they were hiding behind palm trees, apparently. I did not imagine Grace would be hanging out there waiting for me.

  A row of columns resembling tubes of lava separated this area from the brightly lit ballroom. Larger tables surrounded a crowded dance floor under a disco ball and colored lights that flashed at a dizzying rate. People of all shapes, sizes, and modes of dress moved their bodies to the pop rock stylings of—

  Rhoda Dakota?

  My brain popped the clutch. Charlie's must have, too, because for a few seconds, we just stood there, doing our synchronized mouth-breather imitations.

  Charlie whispered, "Bloody hell! What's she—?"

  I grabbed his arm, warningly. "Nigel, if you don’t like the music, you don’t have to stay."

  Mouth still open, he glared at me. Then, his mind shifted out of neutral. "No. It's fine. But I'm hanging out at the bar. Find me when you're done."

  "Fair enough. Just, don’t do anything stupid."

  He laughed rudely. "I think that's my line." He stormed off before I could reply.

  I breathed a sigh of relief and sneezed. How come I was fine in a sulfurous volcano, but a little burning weed set my sinuses protesting? I snagged a napkin off the tray of a passing cocktail waitress, blew my nose, and set the dirty tissue on another passing tray. Smooth, I know, but it gave me time to think. I couldn’t walk up to Grace without an excuse.

  I scanned the tables and saw a familiar face. Kirsti waved at me. I decided to start there.

  Kirsti's table sat in the area between the columns, where there was at least enough light to see each other. I glanced around at the folks at other tables having actual conversations. Must be the "No Snogging" zone.

  Kirsti gave me a quick, affectionate hug—she had nice perfume—and introduced me to her friend, Aliciya Taylor. Platinum-haired Aliciya could have modeled for Vogue; she even wore a dress that covered marginally more than Kirsti's bikini. She held up one-limp wristed hand. I understood that signal well enough, and I gallantly bent over her hand and kissed it, trying not to look at her cleavage in the process. I pulled up a chair between them, facing the dance floor. "So what are two lovely ladies like you doing sitting alone in the twilight zone when Rhoda Dakota is singing ‘Get On The Floor’?"

  "Waiting for you!" they both declared and pulled me onto the floor.

  I like dancing. Took me back to my pre-George days. Dragon dancing, of course, is aerial and aggressive, but I adapted fast. I spun and twisted, wove my way around and through my partners and generally enjoyed the free movement of my body. I bumped into a lady and grabbed her hand and spun her once before sending her laughing back to her companion. The whole time, I scanned the tables for Grace. It bothered me that I didn't recognize her right off, but then again, I'd rather her disguise be that good.

  I finally found her when I saw "Randy Stapleton" emerge from the Dark Side with a couple of drinks in his hands and set one in front of a lovely blonde. She wore a turquoise sequined dress that sparkled in the disco lights, sleeveless with a jewel neckline. She'd covered her arms with velvet fingerloop gloves. She had her nails French-tipped. She tucked one golden curl behind her ear, revealing a well-blushed cheek and a dangly clip-on earring. She smiled and laughed at something Rak said, and I had a hard time not staring.

  Wow. Grace looked good.

  Kirsti turned her head to where I was looking. "Oh, isn't that the diver lady?"

  "I think so. Cleans up good, huh?"

  She reached out and smacked me. "I thought you were devoted to someone! Besides, she's like, thirty-five or something?"

  I grabbed her hand and pulled her in for a spin and dip John Travolta would have envied.

  It went with the disco ball. "Oh, at least," I said wryly. In truth, Grace was closer to two hundred and thirty-five, thanks to her siren blood. "She sure can dive, though."

  "Oh, you should have seen her today. She did a triple summersault! I haven't seen anything like it outside the Olympics! She's amazing."

  And there was my opening. "Let's go tell her!"

  "You don’t think she knows?"

  "Don't you like to be complimented when you do something good? Besides, the song's done, anyway." I took her arm in mine, snagged Aliciya by the elbow and started them toward Grace's table. Two tables into the maze, Kirsti decided it was her idea and took the lead.

  What was that again about my people skills?

  Grace looked us over with curiosity but otherwise didn't react. "Randy," however, grinned at me like—well, I wasn't sure what his grin was like, but I got the feeling he wanted to jump on the table and do a touchdown dance on my behalf.

  Kirsti introduced the three of us before gushing about Grace's performance that afternoon, while I stood beside her grinning and nodding at the right spots.

  "How kind of you!" Grace replied in a Florida accent that perfectly mimicked our friend Roxanne's. "Please. Join us. I'm Rosie Tapping, and this Randy Stapleton."

  He rose to press his lips to both their hands. "Ladies, I envy your friend."

  "Don't," I said.

  Kirsti laughed, flashing her diamond-studded mouthpiece. "That's right. He's 'devoted' to someone. Don't you love how he phrases that?"

  Rhoda had returned to the stage, so conversation stopped for polite applause and impolite whistles. She announced she would perform, for the first time in concert, the theme song for her upcoming movie, Live and Let Fly.

  I groaned. "I hate this song."

  Kirsti asked, "How can you hate it? No one's ever heard it before."

  Oops. Couldn't very well say I've been hearing her practice and complain about it for two months. "Internet," I lied. "Read the lyrics. Dismal stuff."

  Fortunately, I wasn't the only "Rhoda fan" at the table. Aliciya nodded. "Well, you have a point there, but the music makes the real difference."

  "Maybe."

  There's another world/across the Gap/Magic and love on tap.

  "And maybe not. 'Magic and love on tap'?" I grimaced.

  Aliciya leaned toward me conspiratorially. "Rumor is the producer's nephew wrote the lyrics, and Rhoda's agent fussed until they agreed to pay Rhoda a bonus to sing it."

  "Get out!" Figured that was better than admitting it was true.

  The cocktail waitress came, and we ordered a round of margaritas, promising a big tip if she could get them to us before the next verse.

  You've got a gun and a license to kill/what love and magic can't do, you will When intrigue spans water, land, and sky/Live and Let Fly The drinks arrived before the second verse. We heard one line and all took a large gulp.

  "At least there are only two verses—that I've seen online, anyway," I said.

  Grace scanned the room, clearly bored with the conversation. She tapped her glass thoughtfully, two rhythms over and over. D. I. D. I. D. I....

  Kirsti sipped and shrugged. "Sounds fine to me. I can't really understand the words."

  "That's the point, I think." Did? Then the code would be D I D D I D...

  "I don't think you can dance to it."

  Randy said, "Oh sure, you can. And I'm sure they've hired a dozen naked ladies to do it!"

  "Underwater," I added while my mind ran "didi" through my mental dictionary. Problem with knowing so many languages is picking out one word among them all.

  "With fake fairy wings!" Grace topped, earning her a toast from the rest of us.

  "Wh
at's she doing here, anyway?" I asked. "My itinerary said it was some Native American singer."

  "We were discussing that," Grace said. "We think it must have been a combination typo and someone who mistranslated. 'Rhoda Dakota' becomes 'Rhonda the Dakota,' and since Dakota is a Native American tribe... I'm going to see if I can get an interview with her later."

  The music changed—something with a Latin beat. Rhoda began to sing in Spanish.

  Elvish! Elves are notoriously long-winded, but they do have a couple of very short words, like di. Dance.

  "Dancing time!" I declared; then stood and held my hand to Grace. "Ms. Tapping?"

  With a small shrug, she rose and followed me to the floor, pulling at her gloves to get them into place.

  Out on the floor. My right hand on her waist. Her left hand on my shoulder. My left hand palm up. Hers palm down over mine.

  And a mini memory card between them.

  I started to lead her through the steps. She moved with uncharacteristic stiffness, and her arms were tense. Her face was composed in a bad imitation of someone enjoying herself, and I felt my own smile tighten in return. I wished she'd relax. She was making me nervous, and that was out of character.

  "You look lovely," I told her.

  She rolled her eyes and kept her accent as she replied. "My employers insisted. This dress is most uncomfortable."

  "It's great, though. I like the skirt. Very Ginger Rogers. Makes me wish I had spats." I gave a small push against her hand as I released it, and she twirled out of my arms, her skirt swirling and distracting anyone who might be looking our way as I put my hand in my pocket.

  I'd be sure to do that same move a couple more times, anyway, alternating hands, just to make it look like a style.

  "So have you been enjoying your stay?" she asked blandly as she stepped back to my arms.

  "Well, we did have a little misadventure in the jungle," I said, and spun a modified, humorous retelling of our getting equipped like something from Tomb Raider; then running out of the jungle like ninnies when we heard an animal.

  "What was it, do you think?"

  "No idea," I lied. "Demon sheep? Isn't that the only big animal on this island?"

  "Well, do be more careful," she chided, but she was smiling a real smile now, and her hand rested warm and easy on my shoulder.

  When the song ended, she let go of me quickly and headed back to the table. I didn't mind. With eternity to live, one thing dragons cherish above everything else is a good memory.

  I'd just danced as a human with my best friend. That was about as precious a treasure as I'd ever get.

  I could have grabbed Charlie and left then, but that would have looked suspicious if anyone were watching us, so I returned to the table, where "Randy" was impressing them with his credentials as a freelance reporter and explaining their current assignment as part of a team doing a full special Bhandar Baru issue for Island Getaway. I took the opportunity not only to bring up Kirsti's anthropology experience (making her blush), but also the interesting things I'd learned while talking to Ket.

  "Rosie" exclaimed her excitement and twisted to reach into her purse for a notebook.

  Suddenly, she stopped and looked up toward a volcano column. "Hell! Is that who I think it is?"

  Trying not to gape at the word that came from my nun's mouth, I looked over to where a tall, stately woman was posing by a column with her arm around a tourist, obviously for the benefit of his camera. The tourist, not an especially tall man anyway, didn't quite come up to her shoulders. She wore an empress dress of criss-crossing black-and-white silks. I can't say it was cut high at the leg because I wasn't even sure the fabric was sewn and not simply artistically draped. A string of alternating opals and pearls wound around one bare arm and a second from ankle to thigh. Her claw-length nails were French-tipped, as were the toes that peeked out of her high-heeled black strapped sandals. Her shoulder-length black hair held a pattern of single-pearl clips.

  "Quite a motif she's got going," I ventured.

  "That's Helen Li!" Kirsti supplied. "Her father owns the hotel. We met her at the party last week. Poor thing. She has gigantism, you know." Kirsti whispered that last, and her friend tossed a golden curl over one shoulder and said, "Duh!"

  "Worst interview I've ever done," Grace replied, with a hint of exasperation in her voice.

  "I got absolutely nothing from her. No sense of who or what she is. Randy, do be a dear and see what you can learn from her? Perhaps she'll respond better to a man."

  The girls' eyes widened as, well, did mine; and when they turned toward each other to share smirks, I hastened to do the same. I made the "cat claw" symbol down low where Rosie wouldn't see it, and the three of us stifled snickers. Randy, meanwhile, made some dramatic statement about the perils of interviewing beautiful, rich, powerful women and all but skipped to where Helen was playing a good hostess, scanning the crowd for sad or lonely faces or "must see" people. We watched as he snagged two glasses of champagne off a passing tray and presented one to her.

  "She'd better be careful with that," Rosie muttered. "She looks half dead already."

  "Me-ow!" I said, but this time, I'd gotten the message. Half-dead, magically invisible, powerful nonetheless. A prime suspect for our murderess, all right.

  But what was Hel, daughter of Loki, Norse demigoddess of death, doing mingling with Mundanes on a tropical island?

  Randy had turned on the charm, and Helen seemed to be responding nicely, so Rosie dismissed the matter and turned to Kirsti, resting her chin on her woven fingers. "Now, Kirsti, tell me everything you know about Bhandarbaruans."

  Kirsti smiled, clearly honored, but cast a glance at her friend. Aliciya set her hand on my arm.

  "Don't worry about me. You talk native cultures all night if you want. I'm sure Drake here will keep me amused."

  Then it was back onto the dance floor until a day of running through the jungle in bad shoes conspired with an evening of dancing to remind me the flesh was definitely weaker than the spirit.

  "I give up!" I told her as Rhoda launched into the extended dance version of “Get on the Floor.” "I need to get off the floor before I fall on the floor. I'm done for the night."

  Aliciya pouted. "Oh, I hope not. There's still so much night left. Come on, let's get you a drink." She snuggled in under my shoulder with her arm around my waist. I was so tired, I didn't mind leaning on her as she led me to the bar.

  The darkness felt marginally cooler and easier on the eyes after the body heat and visual kaleidoscope of the dance floor. I slouched into my bar chair and rested my feet on her foot rail. I leaned my head over the back and enjoyed the stretch.

  "Better," I sighed. She started to order us some margaritas. I stopped her and ordered an iced coffee. "If I have anything alcoholic now, I'll be asleep before I hit my bed," I told her.

  "Can't have that," she murmured. "So, do you have plans for Festival? I hear it's a fascinating ceremony." She dragged the word "fascinating" out in a way I probably should have recognized but didn't. Hey, I was tired.

  I shrugged. "My friend Nigel's not much for parties. We'll probably just hang around the hotel."

  "Doing what? The power's going to be off, you know. For the whole weekend, we're going to live like the primitives."

  "Kirsti should like that," I murmured. Yeah, I was tired, and my legs felt like lead. If I'd been a dragon, I would have flexed my claws to work out some of the kinks; instead, I pointed and flexed my toes to keep them from stiffening up.

  The bartender gave us our drinks, and we clicked glasses. The cold coffee felt wonderful going down my throat. I took three big swallows before I realized I was being careless. After all, what's the cliché in these cases? I rolled my next sip around my tongue, testing for any trace of drugs. Aliciya watched me, a shy smile on her lips, fingers twisting her hair. I grinned back.

  She leaned forward and started rubbing my knee. That felt good.

  I purred. Dragon brain, dragon reaction.
I shut my eyes and relaxed.

  "Hey, you, don’t fall asleep here. I've got to ask you something."

  Oops. I sat up and leaned on my elbows. I looked straight into her eyes, so she'd know I was paying attention. "What's that?"

  "Well, Kirsti's sweet, so she sort of takes things at face value, but I want to know. You're not married?"

  Huh? "No."

  "Engaged?" She leaned a little closer.

  I shook my head.

  "So, just how...devoted...are you?" She licked her lips.

  That's when I realized she wanted to drag me behind the potted plant!

  Oh, oh.

  Dragon brain plus human body equals vocal cord short circuit. All that came out of my mouth as she leaned closer was, "Uhhhh..."

  Suddenly, a hand clamped on my bicep, and Charlie's face appeared beside my shoulder.

  "Back off, sister. He's mine."

  She jerked away as if burned. "What?"

  Then she did a burn. She glared at me. " What?"

  "Oh, don't blame him," Charlie said. "He's pretty to look at, and he loves to dance, but he's never been too swift on picking up signals, if you know what I mean."

  "What?" I demanded, displaying my ignorance and proving Charlie's point.

  She stared at us, torn between venting her wrath and avoiding a scene. Finally, she stood.

  "Well. I hope you're very happy together."

  She spun on her heel and left.

  "What just happened?" I asked.

  Charlie moaned and rolled his eyes. "Are we going to have to do this every time we go out?" he demanded. His voice was a little too loud and had a funny lilt. I wondered how much he'd had to drink while I was on the dance floor.

  "But what'd I do? One minute we were dancing and the next—"

  Back toward the dance floor, my sensitive hearing picked up Aliciya's hiss to Kirsti,

  "You never said he was gay!"