by Ruby Sirois
I stop just before the narrow alley opens up into Stortorget’s broad expanse, watching her disappear into the red house.
* * *
“We’re not open for dinner yet,” she calls as I duck, narrowly missing the bell hung on the door with my forehead.
“I’m only here for the tour.”
Emelie turns around, ready with a reply. Her eyes widen, her lips just barely parting in surprise. I’m struck again by her magnetic beauty, her aura a wisp of bright candle flame in a sea of darkness.
She takes me in: custom-tailored charcoal suit, crisp white shirt open at my throat to reveal a generous slice of my chest, the large gold signet ring emblazoned with my sigil on my left hand. She smoothes down her flower-printed top nervously.
I like that I have an effect on her.
“What are you doing here?”
I raise an eyebrow at her. She flushes.
“I mean—sorry, it is nice to see you. You look—I just didn’t expect…” her voice trails off.
“You didn’t think I just lurk in my dank cave, day in and day out, did you?”
Emelie laughs in spite of herself.
“Well,” she says. “I did, kind of.”
I watch with interest as her cheeks grow pinker, making the light splash of freckles across her soft face glow. It’s very appealing.
“Sorry to disappoint.” I hold her eyes, which don’t look all that disappointed. “I was curious to see how you’ve settled in. I heard you just opened for business this week.”
“You really want a tour?”
I nod.
“I was just thinking about going up and making an experimental batch of mead. But I can show you around instead if you want.”
“I don’t want to get in the way of your work, but I’d like that if you have time.”
I’m very familiar with this house. I don’t need a tour, even if I’m interested in seeing how my häxa has put her own mark on it. What I’m most interested in is her.
“Oh, it’s no—”
A low growl from behind her cuts off her words. It’s Emelie’s familiar—Whimsy?
His tufted ears are back, his long black tail fluffed out in a huge spiky brush, green-gold eyes slitted.
“It’s you,” he hisses. “Get out, sneaky dragon. We don’t want you here. Nothing here for you to collect! So get out!”
“Whimsy!” Emelie says, embarrassed. “I’m so sorry, Ragnarr. Whimsy, stop!”
The big black Maine Coon doesn’t stop growling. I crouch down on my heels, leaning my elbows on my knees. He flattens himself lower, body tensing.
Avoiding meeting the belligerent cat’s eyes directly, I hold out a hand.
A glimmer.
A live sprat appears, still flopping and glistening wet with Baltic seawater. Its silvery sides catch the light.
Whiskers point reluctantly forward. Pink tongue swipes black nose.
“If you want it, come and get it.”
I glance up at Emelie, who watches, bemused. Out of the corner of my awareness Whimsy eyes me, then the sprat. Back to me. Ears back, he darts forward lightning-quick, snatches it from my hand. Even so, it feels like a victory.
“I fthtill don’ truss you,” he lisps, mouth full of sprat, trotting away haughtily.
“Fair enough.”
I shrug. He’ll come around.
Surprised, Emelie gives me a little smile.
“That was nice of you.”
“I like cats, always have. We get each other. Usually they like me back.”
“He means well. My coven wasn’t—well, let’s say they weren’t happy about me summoning a dragon, and I think he took that to heart. He’s a good familiar though—protective, focused. Even if he’s a mouthy brat to those who can understand him.”
“I’ve noticed.”
Cromfch. Cromfch. Smicksmicksmack. Crrromfch.
Feline noises of gustatory delight, dampened by the shelter of a tabletop in the far corner. And just maybe, the barest whisper of a purr.
I repress a smile.
A few steps behind, I follow Emelie as she shows me around. I don’t miss an opportunity to admire the roundness of her delicious ass, the way her waist dips in as sharply as an hourglass, the thick, sensuous curves of her thighs. My favorite is following her up the stairs. She doesn’t catch me, but I wouldn’t be ashamed if she did.
In fact, I hope she does.
The ground floor and the two floors above it, as they were with the café, are dedicated to the kitchen and customer seating. She proudly points out features of the new decorative theme.
“It looks much better now,” I say. “The décor is very cozy in a mystical, old-fashioned sort of way. The chunky quartz centerpieces are especially nice.”
“Really?” Emelie says. “I’m surprised that—well, I wouldn’t have thought someone like you’d notice that kind of thing.”
“I notice lots of things.”
My eyes drop to her curves for just a moment before returning to her face.
She’s instantly flustered. It pleases me, and I quirk a smile at her just to egg her on.
“So… um, you’ve been here before when it was the café?”
“Ja,” I say. “Once or twice.”
Upstairs, the fourth and fifth floors are where the fermenting rooms, bottling and kegging equipment, brewing kitchen, and storage are located. Everything is neatly labeled and organized. Even the squadron of buckets going blub-blub-blub each have a hand-written label with the name, date, and some other strange numbers—the meaning of which I can’t even begin to guess.
“You know where everything is,” I say. It’s not a question.
“I hate being unorganized,” she says. “It drives me crazy not being able to find something when I need it.”
“I admire that. A very draconic trait.”
“Is it?”
“What kind of dragon doesn’t know what’s in his hoard?”
She grins at me. “A very slovenly one, I suppose.” Her tone is teasing.
“Indeed.”
Emelie tries to stop smiling but can’t quite do it. The corner of her mouth keeps popping up.
“You find that amusing?”
“You just sound like me. My mom leaves things all over and can never find anything. Every single day she goes looking for her keys and who knows what else. Every single day! Drives me absolutely insane.” She rolls her eyes. “I think my organizational skills began as a type of teenage rebellion. So… lamest rebellion ever, but still.”
“How many different flavors do you have cooking up here?”
“Fermenting.”
“Fermenting, then.”
“Right now…” she squints her eyes, focusing on the far distance as she counts in her head. “I think twenty-five. Although…”
She whispers something to herself, fingers twitching.
“Nej. It’s twenty-seven.”
“You’re sure?”
Emelie nods.
“I’m impressed.” I mean it, too. “I never imagined there was a such thing as a witch with draconic traits.”
“Doesn’t seem like you hold witches in very high regard.”
Well, she’s not wrong. It’s quite the understatement—but it’s an unwise thing to admit to her right now. I don’t want to ruin this moment, and despite myself I am distressed at the idea of being the cause of a häxjävel’s eyes—no, her eyes—filling with pain.
I change the subject.
“Will I be allowed to taste anything?”
It’s the distraction I needed. Emelie’s eyes light up.
“Have you had mead before?”
“I’m pretty sure my father invented it.” A corner of my mouth twitches.
“What? Thor? He did not. Did he?”
She studies my face, unsure.
A beat.
“Nej, he didn’t,” I say, taking mercy on her. “He likes it a lot, though. I’m pretty sure it was a guy named Kvasir who invented it
, if you believe the stories. Also a relative of mine, a few times removed, I think.”
She still can’t decide whether to believe me. I give her an innocent look. Emelie shakes her head with a crooked little smile.
“Well, then,” she says with a shrug, “I guess you’ve had the traditional kind already. Something more… oh! I have just the thing.”
Emelie opens a walk-in fridge, rummages around. I admire the view while she scavenges. She catches me looking when she turns around, blushes. I hold her gaze. A knowing smile.
She bites her lip, caught off-balance, her white teeth indenting the coral flesh.
I am enjoying teasing her, because it’s almost too easy: every little thought and emotion clearly broadcasts itself on her beautiful face.
I wonder if the same applies in bed.
Avoiding my eyes as if she’d heard the thought, Emelie fetches two small glasses and a corkscrew from a neatly arranged shelf. She brings it all over to a small work table in the next room and invites me to sit.
“This is our house specialty, a type of mead known as a melomel.”
Emelie twists the corkscrew in place, pulls it out expertly with a pleasing little pop.
“That is, a mead made with fruit. Our regulars can’t get enough of it.”
She gives me a shy smile as she pours, hands me a sample.
“You might not believe what it’s called.”
“It’s not called melomel?”
It has the depth of color and clarity of faceted garnets, and I admire it before taking an appreciative sniff. Complex and inviting, with a rich floral undertone of honey.
I take a sip, and red summer berries explode across my tongue. Flavors of late summer forests rich with ripe fruit, ending on a smooth, lingering note of vanilla and baking spice.
Absolutely delicious.
I wonder idly if she tastes the same. I lick a drop off my upper lip, imagining.
“Jodå. It’s a triple berry melomel—blueberry, wild strawberry, and raspberry—aged three months on French oak and vanilla bean, and then a year in the bottle. But more specifically, it’s called Dragon’s Blood.”
I give her a lazy smile.
“If you want a taste of me, all you have to do is ask.”
Emelie turns an enchanting shade of pink. She sips daintily at her glass and doesn’t meet my eyes.
I am well aware of the effect I have on human women, but it’s never fascinated nor pleased me like it does when it comes to Emelie. They’ve always just been trinkets to me, to be used then tossed away.
This is unfamiliar territory.
Now—my body responds instantly to Emelie’s self-conscious reaction.
I shift uncomfortably in my chair. It takes effort to keep myself calm, to slow the surge of my blood. I take a deep breath and get just a hint of her wildflower scent.
It doesn’t help.
“Absolutely delicious,” I say, repeating my earlier thought.
Her eyes fly to mine.
“What?”
“The Dragon’s Blood. Well-named. I give it my official dragon seal of approval.”
“Oh.”
Emelie laughs nervously. Her fingertip traces the rim of the glass, drawing a drop of raspberry-colored mead along its edge. I follow the movement with interest.
“I’m glad you like it.”
“I can see why it’s so popular.”
I gently take her finger, bring it to my lips, and lick the drop off its tip. Meet her eyes. Take her fingertip in my mouth, suck the lingering sweetness from it.
“Tastes even better this way.”
She hesitates. She wants to lean into me. Almost does, then pulls her hand away.
“We shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“I haven’t—I haven’t wished for anything.”
Emelie fingers the disc at her throat, its gleam drawing my attention to her décolletage.
“You don’t need to. I’m right here.”
“Stop. You know what I mean.”
“Do I?”
She sighs, exasperated. “I can’t use more of the magic just like that.”
“Who said anything about using up magic?”
“But I thought—”
“You’re not very good with contracts, are you?” I give her an ironic smile. “You have to make a wish to use that up.” I take her chin in my fingers, tilt her face up toward mine. “This has nothing to do with that.”
I trace her full bottom lip with the pad of my thumb. Her lips part, and I lean in—but then I see the touch of hesitation in her eyes. A touch of fear, of sadness. Of some ancient pain.
I know that pain myself all too well. With reluctance, I waver. I release her. She lets out a breath. Was it tinged with regret?
I study her face, come to a decision.
“Let me take you out.”
“Out? Like on a date?”
“Why not?”
“Dragons go on dates?”
I give her a draconic grin. “Dragons do whatever they damn well please.”
8: Ragnarr
“Nejjjj,” Emelie groans. “Viking Bar? Not here. Anywhere but here.”
“Why not?”
“I’m systematically opposed to the touristy mead bars. It’s against my religion.”
“Your religion?”
“Jodå, the religion of not drinking anything disgusting in a super-cringey tourist trap.”
“Oh, I think it’ll be great fun to watch you rant and suffer. Enlightening. Come on, let’s go order their finest Ye Olde Meade and then you can tell me in excruciating detail what’s wrong with it.”
She makes a face, crosses her arms.
“No way.”
“After having sampled your Dragon’s Blood, I already have the deepest respect for your refined sense of taste.”
I surprise even myself with my sincere lack of irony. It’s uncharted ground for me.
Emelie narrows her eyes, trying to decide if I’m teasing her. I’m not—but then I can’t resist.
“After all, you obviously like me.”
I dance out of the way with a laugh as she tries to smack me.
“Come on, lilla häxan. Educate me. Fill my tiny lizard brain with knowledge.”
She laughs, caught off-guard by my bit of self-deprecation.
“Fine.”
Emelie takes a deep breath, steels herself.
“Since you insist. Let’s slum it.”
“Watery. Sub-par honey—probably that fake baker’s kind that’s half corn syrup. Corner-cutting at its worst.”
“And this one?”
I point to the fourth in a mead flight of five presented on a weathered wooden slab. Candles flicker in sconces set into white-painted medieval stone walls, and there is a low, pleasant buzz of conversation from the other parties in the half-empty restaurant. Sure, it’s a tourist trap, but the atmosphere is cozy and romantic. Our artfully rustic wooden table is off in a corner, semi-private.
“I don’t hate it, but the best I can say is that it’s the least offensive of the bunch so far. Not really saying much.”
“I like your sense of diplomacy.” I point to the last one on the end. “And I like that one the best. Tastes like beer.”
“Braggot. Not a true mead, but a mead-beer hybrid. Nice classic choice of hops, though. Citra, Columbus, Centennial. They were probably going for an IPA style. Light body, very sessionable. Good for summer drinking outside at a barbecue.”
“You even know beer? My, my. Is there anything you don’t know?”
“I made lots of things when I was still a homebrewer. Wine, mead, cider, beer, and every kind of hybrid in between. And now it’s my professional industry, so that kind of knowledge is essential. It’s good to be well-rounded.”
She picks up the glass of braggot, takes a thoughtful sip.
“Besides, I like to put a few hopped meads on tap myself from time to time at So Mote It Bee. They’re quite popular, and a good gateway mea
d for the craft beer drinker.”
“Still.” I don’t want to let her downplay her talent. “You can pick up all these flavors that I would never have thought of. Most of them just taste like alcohol to me.”
“That’s because they’re not very good. Try mine, I promise you’ll taste the difference.”
“I’d love to taste yours.”
My eyes drop to her décolletage. I’m half-teasing her, though. I’m enjoying seeing Emelie’s passion and discovering her enthusiasm for her subject. It’s like watching a flower bloom, the way she just opens up under my attention.
I expect her to just blush and drop her eyes like earlier, but she’s emboldened by the slight alcohol buzz.
“I wouldn’t hate that.”
“Oh?”
I cock my head at her.
“Keep it up, Mr. Dragon, and I might just name another mead after you.”
“Now you’ve piqued my interest.”
“Hmm.” Emelie taps a fingertip dramatically against her chin as she thinks.
“Rose hips, Thai bird’s eye chili, chipotle peppers, cinnamon and cardamom, lime juice… and a touch of Kaffir lime peel.”
“Interesting. And what would you call it?”
“Umm… Hips Too Hot To Handle. And it’d be sweet and smoking hot, just like you.”
She gives me a sultry look. It makes my heart skip a beat, and brings my cock to attention all at once.
I bring her soft wrist to my lips.
“Sounds delicious, though with your beautiful shapes, that sounds more like you.”
She leans her head back and smiles, making a lush little noise in the back of her throat. It’s almost inaudible over the laughter of the bar crowd, but I hear it. I inhale the scent of her, wildflower honey and sweet-salt musk.
I’m almost thankful when the waitress approaches and Emelie slides her hand away. I’m not sure I would have had the strength to release it myself.
“How did you enjoy the mead flight?”
