Dancing with Dragons

by Lorenda Christensen

  Why hadn’t Richard just talked to me about any of this? In Budapest, when he’d first started avoiding me, I’d tried to ask him what was bothering me. He’d simply patted my hand absentmindedly and told me not to wait up for him. Was it any surprise I’d assumed he was having an affair?

  And at the hospital, he’d dodged my questions—and then me—rather than just tell me what the situation was with Relobu. Maybe I wouldn’t have been able to do anything at all to help him, but a simple “heads up, my boss is kinda pissed at me right now” would have gone a long way toward helping me navigate the situation I was in right now. I didn’t appreciate being “protected” by being left out of the loop on practically everything.

  But it didn’t mean I was willing to abandon him altogether. Especially when by luck of the draw my fate had been intertwined with his. Digging through Savitri’s paperwork may get Daniel the proof that he needed for his story, but maybe it would also help me when it came time to plead my innocence to a rightfully angry North American dragon lord.

  I sighed. “I’ll give you two weeks. And then I take my chances with Relobu.”

  “Fair enough. Let’s go buy some clothes.”

  I closed the car door as Daniel gestured for our driver to resume the trip. The car puttered along for another twenty minutes before sliding into an open parking space along a busy street. We got out, and immediately ducked into a small store offering “western” styles. For a moment I was confused. Living near cattle country in Tulsa caused my idea of western to be similar to Jim and Jovan’s cowboy getups on the plane. But the term here simply meant non-ethnic outfits. The store was full of familiar clothing items from basic jeans to spaghetti-strapped sun dresses.

  We’d barely made it across the threshold before Daniel found a chair and slid into it.

  “Just get what you need. We don’t have a lot of time to shop for casual clothes, so this will be the only store you’ll see that carries American styles. I’d like to get you to Savitri’s as soon as possible, so we need to get all of your things today. I’m more concerned with the work clothes you’ll need when you get the job.”

  So he takes me shopping, and then doesn’t want me to shop? I was half tempted to gather up half the store’s wares and try them on one at a time just for spite. And then I remembered the chicken scene and did what he asked, grabbing two packs of women’s socks, three pairs of jeans, and an assortment of tops. The store’s underwear selection was a little on the drab and boring side for me, but I obligingly snagged enough sets to get me through a week without laundry. After two days in the same set of clothes, I was more than happy with the plain cotton variety, as long as it was clean.

  From the moment I entered the store, a shop employee had been glued to my side. At first, I assumed it was because my wrinkled clothing and general air of grittiness made me a good suspect for shoplifting. But I’d come to realize she was there to push me to buy more, and assist with retrieving my sizes. Unfortunately she seemed a little uncomfortable speaking to a foreigner, so my initial delight at having my own personal shopping assistant faded to a more general feeling of acceptance.

  I followed her back to a small fitting room to make sure I’d properly converted my U.S. sizes to European, and when I was finished she helped me carry my items to the checkout counter. After a little explaining, and Daniel’s assurance that we would certainly pay for the items first, the girl agreed to allow me to cut the tags from one of the outfits and wear it from the store.

  The rest were carefully cataloged by a smiling young man, who wrote each item on my bill before folding them neatly and placing them in a large plastic shopping bag. When he was finished, the bag was sealed shut with a plastic cable tie, and the bill was added up using an ancient cash register. The total seemed outrageous, so I made a mental note to educate myself on the rupees-to-dollars exchange rate.

  Daniel, however, didn’t seem fazed by the amount, and after handing over a massive wad of cash, my bags were bundled into our arms and we were out the door. While I slipped back into the rear seat of the car, Daniel took my purchases and stored them in the trunk of the taxi before sliding in next to me.

  He directed the driver to a lot only a few blocks away, handed him some cash, and told him to take an hour for lunch. We stepped out of the car and onto the sidewalk.

  I had never seen so many people in my life. The crowds were so thick that I was forced to walk a step behind Daniel in order to maintain my place on the narrow pathway. An old man, hobbling with a stick he used as a cane, held out a hand in silent plea as we approached. Without even breaking stride, Daniel dropped a few coins into his palm as we scooted past.

  I looked around at the city streets. Bangalore had been one of the few major cities spared from substantial damage during the war and the humans’ brief attempt at pushing the dragons back to the Congo where they’d come from. Still, the streets were well-worn and crumbling, partially from the massive crush of people and partially, I assumed, as the result of the earthquake Jim and Jovan were there to cover. It was easy to tell which parts had been affected by the earthquakes, because the breaks in the concrete were cleaner and more jagged than the dust-filled crevices caused by age.

  Daniel had told me that the city had been fortunate that the majority of the earthquake’s damage had been centered slightly south of Bangalore’s city center. Still, the morning’s paper had contained pictures of buildings that had been completely flattened by the disaster, including several multi-story apartments typical in the heavily populated capitol of Karnataka. Though local authorities had taken swift action to aid those who had lost their homes or loved ones, it was clear that the damage cleanup hadn’t even begun, as rescue workers were still trying to locate any remaining survivors.

  We’d walked about a block when Daniel stepped onto a stairwell leading to the lower floor of a large shopping center. Here, the walls were filled with colorful stacks of material, some with light reflecting from various jeweled embroidery work sewn onto their surfaces, and others with intricate lace designs along the seams.

  Daniel held open the door so I could step through. “Lady Savitri holds a fondness for Indian traditional wear, especially for women. She requires it to be worn by the ladies at all times while in the office. So when you report for the interview, you’ll need to be wearing a sari.”

  Usually I’d be irritated to be told what I could and could not wear, especially when the rules so flagrantly upheld a double standard, and I still wasn’t happy about playing dragon bait, but I did have to admit I wouldn’t mind wearing some of these fabrics.

  “She’s a stickler for tradition, huh?” I stepped further into the store and ran a finger along one of the stacks of silk. The fabric was sturdy but soft, and my hands itched to unfold one of the garments to get a look at the entire pattern.

  “In some respects, yes.” Daniel chuckled. “In fact, it’s common knowledge that she employs a British butler. She makes him dress in a formal suit and tails. I’ve seen some pictures. They guy wears an impressively bushy mustache, so in the tuxedo he looks just like Rich Uncle Pennybags from Monopoly.”

  I shook my head. I guess it was nice to know even dragons indulged in the occasional harmless-yet-eccentric behavior. Better a compulsion for snazzy dressers than a taste for human flesh, I supposed.

  When we’d walked in—I was beginning to learn this was the norm—a shopkeeper hustled to my side and began extolling the virtues of what they had to offer. Between his accent and my unfamiliarity with Indian clothing, my head was soon spilling with all the options available for purchase.

  I could get used to the attention. Back in Tulsa, even with my relatively healthy salary from CreaTV, I couldn’t afford to frequent the high-end stores that hired enough salespeople for one-on-one service. But here, especially now that I was dressed in something not resembling a crinkled paper sack, I no longer felt like a criminal on the verge of a shoplifting citation. With all the sumptuous fabrics on display, this shop felt m
ore like a bridal suite than a department store, and it was actually kind of nice to be treated like a queen. I’d barely touched one of the saris before the man removed it from the stack and unfolded it with flare. The material, at least five yards’ worth, now stretched in a long ribbon along a counter built just for that purpose.

  “I’m not sure how this works.” I’d seen women dressed in saris before, but I’d never had the opportunity to try one myself. The cloth was a gorgeous pale blue, with elaborate navy embroidery along one side. At one end, sewn loosely to the rest of the fabric, was about three feet of cloth in the same navy as the embroidery.

  The salesman beckoned a woman from behind the counter. She rummaged around for a moment, then approached with something in her hand. “Try choli?” She held out a small blouse, similar in style to her own, and pointed to the fitting room built in to the far wall. I nodded and gathered a bundle of the skirt in my hand to avoid stepping on it, and followed.

  “Thank you. I’m Carol.”

  “Vijayalakshmi.” She chuckled when she saw my face. “Lakshmi will do.”

  I grinned. “Thank you. Very nice to meet you, Lakshmi.”

  In an absurdly short amount of time, she had me strapped into a basic cropped shirt called a choli and a thin cotton skirt that I understood to serve as a slip. With a series of deft flicks of her wrist and a good amount of folding, I soon had the majority of the sari wrapped around my waist. The most decorative side of the cloth was left free to hang over my shoulder—a pallu, Lakshmi called it—like a long scarf. In the front, she’d created neat folds to form an accordion-like ruffle effect from waist to feet.

  I studied my appearance in the mirror mounted just outside my dressing room. The skirt portion started at my navel and stopped maybe a half-inch above the floor, covering my legs entirely.

  The choli material ended just under my breasts, leaving about four inches of skin showing from my ribs to my waist. My blouse was a sleeveless version while Lakshmi, wearing a sari herself, stood beside me in a choli with tight three inch sleeves.

  Still, it was a surprisingly modest outfit, while at the same time it was very clear that there was a woman’s body under all that material. A large swath of cloth ran directly across my chest, leaving no amount of cleavage visible. But the folds at my hips accentuated the curve of my waist, giving the illusion of a distinctly voluptuous form. Even with my hair sticking up in product-less abandon, I didn’t look half bad.

  Sensing a sale, Lakshmi hurried to hand me a length of red cloth with gold embroidery, and I hurried back to the small changing room, feeling like a Barbie doll opening her closet for the very first time to find rows upon rows of fabulous outfits. I loved red. But before, when I still wore my long, natural auburn locks, red had been the one color that I’d been forced to avoid. But now, with my hair gone and what little was left dyed a dark brown, I wanted to see if I could pull it off.

  My earlier cotton slip was exchanged for another in the same color as the sari, and then I was able to begin wrapping and arranging the sari fabric around my hips. It was a soft and decadent silk, and with Lakshmi’s help the skirt was soon hanging in graceful waves to the floor. The top portion of fabric lay neatly against my chest with strategic folds to mimic the rippled effect of the skirt. A brooch in the shape of a peacock’s feather secured the cloth to my shoulder, ensuring everything stayed in place.

  Gathering the skirt in one hand and padding out to the communal mirror, I admired the completed outfit. I felt like a princess, and for the first time in a while, I wanted to giggle like a schoolgirl. It was gorgeous. I was gorgeous.

  “You should always wear red. It’s my favorite color.” I looked up to see a reflection of Daniel standing just behind me. Our eyes met in the mirror, and I flashed back to the runway in Budapest. There, his eyes had held the same mixture of heat.

  I swallowed. “I think I’ll pass on this. Can I take the blue one instead?” I broke eye contact with Daniel, and stepped toward the shelves for the folded cloth. At any other time, I’d have killed to find an outfit that looked that great on me. But when Daniel looked at me like that?

  My head stopped working, and I couldn’t afford to go there.

  I turned to Lakshmi. “The blue one is fine.” But my fingers couldn’t help but pause against the crimson material as I took one last look at myself in the mirror. The deep red of the cloth, combined with the exotic style of the dress made me feel incredibly daring and provocative.

  Daniel gave me a look that made me shiver. A look that said, I know what you’re thinking, and I like it. A lot.

  But he didn’t speak. Instead, he turned back to the counter where the man who’d been displaying the fabrics was waiting. “Do you have a tailor on staff?”

  The man nodded, and while Daniel explained our time constraints to the shopkeeper, Lakshmi pulled out a cloth measuring tape and wrapped it around my upper arm. She did the same around my ribcage, explaining that the short navy cloth attached to the pale blue fabric was the material reserved for the choli. It would be separated from the main bolt of material and sewn specifically to my measurements in whatever style I chose.

  Lakshmi smiled as she handed me a design book filled with the available choli styles. “He is your new husband? A fine choice.”

  “Oh, no. We’re not—” I stopped myself. Daniel had explained that the Indian culture was largely more conservative than the one I was raised in. I didn’t want to offend the woman by telling her the man I was allowing to buy me clothing was not my husband, so I gave her a small smile and nodded.

  I chose a blouse style for the navy choli, and with her help I picked out three more bolts of fabric that went well with my coloring. Even though I wouldn’t need it for the office, Lakshmi managed to also talk me in to a shalwar kameez, which I now knew was the name of the clothing Daniel’s neighbor had been wearing, only mine was decorated with bold strokes of green and gold. Daniel managed to get the shopkeeper to agree that one choli would be delivered to the apartment early tomorrow morning in time for my interview, and the rest we’d pick up as soon as they were ready.

  At the shopkeeper’s urging, I took the bolts of fabric with me, leaving only the short portions of choli material behind for sewing.

  With gratuitous input from Lakshmi—she seemed to be having as much fun as I was—we chose a variety of styles for the remaining blouses from wired catalogs she’d given me, along with a good selection of the cotton skirts required to be worn under the wrapped fabric.

  It was well past noon when we were finished, and I was quick to agree when Daniel suggested we take a break for lunch before embarking on the adventure of shoe shopping. I could tell this wasn’t his favorite of pastimes, but he was surprisingly gracious in the face of my enjoyment, especially when I caught sight of a store dedicated primarily to fancy women’s shoes. Nothing got me more excited than the promise of new shoes after a successful shopping excursion.

  The food was spicy but good, and two hours later I was shocked when we had to rearrange the items in the trunk of our taxi to make room for the last of my purchases. “Good grief. I just cost you a fortune!”

  He gave me an answering grin. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll charge most of it to the newspaper when we get back to Relobu’s territory. Provided I deliver on this project, they’ll be delighted to pay. Besides, I felt bad that you were forced to leave all your stuff in Budapest.”

  I studied Daniel’s face, looking for a sign that he was joking. Most men I knew wouldn’t have remembered—or cared—about the new clothes I’d left behind. One of my ex-boyfriends had called me shallow for my love of fashion, while at the same time he spent more money than he made fixing up an old car he’d bought from an auto shop. We’d broken up when he started asking me for money to help him pay rent because he’d blown it all on a new muffler.

  But Daniel seemed perfectly serious. He may be rough, and direct, and even more than slightly mercenary, but he’d never once been judgmental about another
person’s interests.

  “I appreciate it.”

  “It was a pleasure. Truly.”

  Chapter Eleven

  It was Monday afternoon, and I had a meeting with a dragon. I’d worried about it all morning, and now my stomach was a bundled mass of nerves. If my purse were human, it would have died of strangulation before we’d left the flat. For some stupid reason, I thought making the decision to go through with Daniel’s plan would take care of the terror I felt every time I thought about coming face to face with another power-hungry dragon lord.

  Daniel watched me flex my hand as I tried to loosen the muscles that were cramping from the constant tension. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. The position has been open for months, and you’re a shoo-in for the job.”

  I managed a weak laugh. “I appreciate the pep talk, but you’re forgetting that I don’t want the job. It’s not like I have a great track record with dragons, you know.” I bit my lip nervously as Lady Savitri’s place of business grew larger as we approached.

  The building was an imposing sight, standing easily several hundred feet taller than anything on the surrounding landscape. The structure had obviously been put together specifically for dragons, because every few floors there were flat landing platforms jutting from the side of the building in almost every direction.

  Why did all dragons insist on living and working in enormous castles? I mean, I understood that they were big, and buildings built with dragons in mind had to be larger than the human-sized office space, but I would never understand why the architecture had to scream “I’m big, scary and dangerous!”