by Ruby Sirois
“By the grace of God, I live to serve the Holy Cause.”
“Very good. Well then, Thoringr, shall I expect to see you again come the harvest as per usual?”
“Do not doubt it.”
Present day
“A häxjävel? You?” Eiríkur almost drops his cut-crystal rocks glass. He wipes at the amber droplets of bourbon splattered across his crisp white shirt. Frowns at the stain.
“Ja.”
“Half your hoard earned on the tortured backs consumed by the Inquisition, and this is who your dragon instincts want you to take as mate? Ha! I enjoy irony as much as anyone, but—well. This is almost too rich.”
I glare at my half-brother.
“She’s the exception to the rule.”
“Is she.”
“I can’t explain why. But I knew it at once, because when Emelie called me—it was just different.”
“And what about her coven? She has one, doesn’t she?”
“I suppose. I haven’t met them, nor do I care to.”
“All the better for them, to be sure.”
“As long as they stay out of my way, they don’t matter to me. Almost eight hundred years and I have never been drawn to a mate—until now. That’s the only thing that matters.”
“I suppose you haven’t told her? If I were a witch I wouldn’t be happy.”
He stands up, fetches club soda and a towel.
“I haven’t, and I won’t. I don’t believe it needs to come up.”
“Oh no? I think it’ll have to come up at some point. It’s too large to hide forever. Anyone who knows where to look—”
“She doesn’t need to know. She won’t be looking. And she won’t find out.”
Eiríkur gives a short laugh, dabbing at the bourbon stain. Reflected light gleams copper from his bright hair.
“You’re a fool, brother.”
10: Emelie
“Oh, fy fan.”
I read and re-read the article, but it just gets worse each time. “We’re sunk.”
Phrases of doom leer out at me: lackluster entrées. Unfocused concept. Distracted, unknowledgeable staff.
At least they thought the mead was good, but it’s not enough to save us from the rest of it.
“Emelie, what are we going to do?” Linnea anxiously chews a thumbnail. “I thought the staff said the columnists were happy. I really thought they’d give us a glowing review. Did they seem unhappy to you when you met them?”
“Nej, but I had a lot of things going on that day so I didn’t stick around. I guess I should have.”
“And look at this—Alexander Skarsgård tweeted about us.”
“I didn’t know he’d been in. Linnea, that’s great!”
“Umm… not really.” She gives me a grim look. “Emelie, you don’t want to know everything he said. For one thing, that Viking Bar is better.”
“What?”
I snatch the phone from her. I have to read the tweet three times to comprehend.
“That’s—it’s just not possible. He had to have been paid off.”
She side-eyes me. “I love So Mote It Bee almost as much as you do, but to insinuate some kind of high-ranking mead-spiracy is a bit much.”
I sigh, digging my fingers through my hair. “I don’t know what to think. It doesn’t make any sense. We have the product and the location, customers should be flooding in. Shouldn’t they? Why aren’t they?”
“You’re busy with production while I’m stuck in the office crunching numbers. Who’s out in the trenches leading the troops? Neither of us have the time nor inclination.”
“I pop out as much as I can.”
“Clearly it’s not enough. Besides, you are production because you keep refusing to let me hire a new assistant for you. Nej, Em, you have enough on your plate.”
“Oh, here we go. I’ve said it a billion times, I like doing things the way I like them. I’ve got a well-oiled system and I don’t need anyone messing it all up again. Took me months to clean up after she-who-must-not-be-named whirlwinded through. So, once more, no thank you.”
Linnea rolls her eyes at me.
“So… what, then?” I ask her.
“We need a top-notch manager,” Linnea says. “Someone we can trust, and someone who won’t steal from the till like the fuck-up did. Someone who knows their shit and can hop in when it’s needed. Someone smart, business-savvy. Who can pick up the slack and run with it.”
“Seems like we need a better staff, too.”
“Well, despite the review I don’t think they’re so bad. Not all of them, anyway. Obviously still unmotivated. Unfocused. We need a manager who will take care of all that so we don’t need to micromanage that part.”
“Micromanage? Ha!”
I have to laugh because it’s the least of our problems.
“I wish,” I say. “Micromanagement is not our strong suit. I know I don’t have the patience for it. Wish I did. Then we wouldn’t be in this situation.”
“You’d think we’d have people knocking down our door to work here if they knew that. Good restaurant staff hate being micromanaged.”
“Well, put up an ad online and hopefully we’ll find someone good.”
She scribbles some notes in her day planner.
“I’ll post one this afternoon.”
The chime of the door bell. A muffled curse.
“Ragnarr!” I smile up at him. “Unexpected surprise, but I’m really glad you’re here. Great timing, we were just leaving. This is my best friend and business partner, Linnea. Lin, this is—this is Ragnarr. The guy I’m, um, seeing.”
He gives Lin a cold stare. I had forgotten about the things he’d said about witches—namely, how he dislikes them.
Shit.
I remember now.
“I wish I could say Emelie’s told me so much about you, but she’s been rather secretive,” says Linnea with a smile. “It’s so nice to meet you at last.” She sticks out her hand to shake.
“You are one of the coven?”
His tone is winter frost. I start to suspect the lengths to which his so-called dislike may be an understatement. An uneasy feeling builds in my stomach.
Lin’s hand hangs awkwardly in midair. Droops.
“I am, ja.”
“Hmm.”
His eyes drop to her hand as if it’s a dead fish, then back up to her face. His expression doesn’t change. She withdraws, disconcerted. I am horrified.
“I just wanted to say thank you,” Lin says, trying to patch the cause of this mysterious gaffe. “I heard that you helped us with So Mote It Bee, although Emelie won’t explain exactly how. Mysterious little witch.”
She gives me an affectionate sideways smile.
“I did it for her. No one else, and not you. Not for any fucking häxjävel.”
If it’s even possible, his tone is even frostier than before.
“I didn’t—” her voice trails off. “Oh. Well. Um, I guess I should be going anyway. I have to go pick up Tove and Stella.”
“Lin—” I say, but she grabs her things and hurries out the door.
I saw the tears in her eyes, though. And despite her tough exterior, I know how sensitive she really is. My heart throbs with empathy.
I round on him.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“Wrong? Nothing is wrong with me.”
He sets his chin, a dangerous glint in his glacier-blue eyes.
“I don’t like witches.”
“I’m a witch!”
“You’re different. Not like the rest of them.” He says this last as if even the words taste bad.
“She’s my coven-sister.”
“That makes no difference to me. I have excellent reasons for how I feel. As you would say—trust issues.”
“But she’s my best friend. It hurts me when she’s hurt. So you hurt me, just now.”
That gives him pause.
“I—” he cuts off what he really meant to say. “I d
on’t like häxjävlar,” he says.
As apologies go, it’s not winning any awards. I put my hands on my hips and glare at him.
“I really hate that term, and I’m not going to put up with it.”
I glare at him. He shuffles his feet, looking sheepish.
“So how far does this dislike really reach? Linnea did nothing but be kind to you. You had no reason to be cruel to her. It’s inexcusable.”
He’s softened under my onslaught. He takes a deep breath, lets it out.
“For your sake, I’m sorry.” Ragnarr takes my hand. “Häxan min, I’m sorry. I am not in the habit of interacting with witches who aren’t you.” He squeezes it gently, sets his shoulders. “It is not an easy thing for me. But for your sake, from now on I will try.”
“You’d better. Because you can’t treat my coven-sisters like that.”
“I don’t know how to talk to häxj—to witches. It’s—well, it’s complicated. It’s difficult for me. But I’m sorry, Emelie. You’re right. Your friend was kind, and I was rude. I promise I won’t repeat the mistake. For you.”
I give him a hard look, but he is sincere. My resolve melts.
“Well, they all warned me,” I say. “That dragons don’t like witches. That dragons are dangerous. But you’re not dangerous. And if they were wrong about you, then… maybe you were wrong about them too?”
Ragnarr’s expression is incredulous. His body tenses.
“I don’t—well, all I can do is promise you that I’ll try, Emelie.”
“That’s all I can ask.”
“It’s been weeks, and we’re desperate, Whimsy. We can’t wait any longer. I have to call on him.”
“I love fish, but I don’t trust him.”
“I hate fish, and I do trust him. What’s your point?”
“You don’t have to sell yourself.”
“Eww, Whimsy. I’m not selling myself. Rude.”
“He gives you fish, you give him fish. Selling yourself.”
“Would you stop comparing things to fish? You’re grossing me out.”
“Meow.”
“Oh, so now it’s meow and not actual words. How convenient.”
“Meow, but louder.”
“How is anyone supposed to have a conversation with you?”
“I don’t want you to call on him again, Emelie. It’s too risky. You don’t see what I see. Haven’t heard what I’ve heard. I—”
“You’re giving me a headache.”
“I’m serious!”
“Now you’re serious?”
“Not that it matters, since you never listen. You should’ve been a cat.”
“I listen. When it’s something worth listening to and not fish and meowing.”
“He’s sneaky. He’s hiding something that he doesn’t want you to know. And he wants to take—”
“Wow, insightful. So what? It’s not like I’m telling him my deepest secrets either.”
“What secrets? You’re just self-conscious and bitter.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“But not him. He has an agenda. Plans. He’s sneaky. I don’t care how many delicious fish he has. Sneaky.”
* * *
Leave it to a cat to use fish as a metaphor. Whimsy’s lucky he’s cute.
“Ragnarr?”
I feel silly, but I clutch the disc a bit harder and say it again. “Ragnarr?”
The metal, warm from contact with my body, tingles against my fingers. It feels almost alive.
“Ragnarr Thoringr? I call upon you. To make another wish.”
Nothing happens. Long moments pass. The thirteen candles I’d lit flicker, and the incense smoke trails sharply to the side, though I don’t feel a draft. I take a breath to say it again—
“You called?”
The dragon appears in my living room, coming into being like a camera panning to focus.
“Ja, I—” my eyes drop to Ragnarr’s body.
His thickly muscled upper body is bare, sparsely dusted with a shimmer of light hair that almost sparkles with reflected light. He’s wearing a loose pair of silk pyjama trousers which hang low—very low—just under the pronounced vee of his oblique muscles.
And nothing else.
A thin line of white-blond hair leading down from his navel disappears down the center. If the pyjamas slipped any lower—
“My eyes are up here.”
His tone is dry, but his mouth twitches in amusement. I blush, and suddenly my everyday at-home outfit of an old t-shirt hanging limply off one shoulder and threadbare sweatpants feels horribly frumpy and ugly.
Why didn’t I put something nicer on? Flustered, I pat at the messy bun pinned haphazardly up on the crown of my head.
“As much as I’m enjoying you calling me just to stare at my body like you’re starving, I was about to go to sleep. But I suppose I could be convinced to stay awake if you had something more… interesting in mind.”
I take a deep breath, collect myself. “I was actually formally calling you, to make a wish.”
“It’s nice to feel needed.” A mocking smile never quite leaves his lips.
I can’t meet his eyes. I hesitate.
“I can take these off if it helps you think.”
Ragnarr hooks his thumbs in the drawstring waistband. One side falls even lower over his left hip. A pale glint of short curls.
“Nej!”
It most certainly does not help me think, and it annoys me that he knows it. He shrugs lightly and tugs them back up. I’m annoyed at myself that this disappoints me.
Dammit, Emelie. Focus.
“I hope I’m not wasting a wish,” I say, “but even with the new location we’re not doing well. We got some bad reviews and it’s really affected business. Sales are not nearly as good as we’d hoped when we moved. Things are looking bad and I don’t know what more we can do going forward as we are.”
“You want me to whack the critics?”
I can’t tell if he’s serious. Gods, I hope he’s not.
“Um… that won’t be necessary. What we really need is someone who can take care of the front of house. A manager.”
“You know there’s a such thing as job postings, right?” Ragnarr says with amusement.
He cocks his head thoughtfully.
“Not that I’m complaining. I’d rather you pay me than some job site.”
His eyes drop to my body. Despite my old clothes and bird’s-nest hair, his look is hot and hungry. My body responds at once. It takes incredible effort to stay centered on the task at hand.
“We put one up weeks ago, but haven’t found the right person yet.”
He looks dubious. I rush to explain.
“I know it sounds silly to use up a wish like this, but we just can’t afford to wait any longer.”
Raising an eyebrow, he shrugs as if it doesn’t matter to him either way.
“So I want someone with excellent credentials. Honest. A natural leader. Resourceful, passionate, believes in what we do. Someone who will be on board from the beginning and has the ability to make So Mote It Bee a perennial success. Someone who will stick with us for the long run, become like a part of the family. Who can jump in where needed, and take care of all the front- and back-of-house matters so that Linnea and I can each just do what we do best without having to worry.”
The dragon snaps his fingers.
“What was that?”
“New job posting, done.”
“That’s not—”
“I know.” A mischievous grin.
“I can never tell if you’re serious.”
“What fun would that be?”
“You really love teasing me, don’t you?”
“You have no idea.”
He steps closer, not touching me, but heat radiates from his half-nude body. He places two fingers under my chin, tilts my head up.
“I could take my time. Warm you up, bit by bit. Until you’re begging me.”
My breath catches in my thr
oat. His blue eyes are blazing.
“What—” my voice is a hoarse whisper. “What do I, um, owe you?”
I don’t know what to expect. I’m pinned by his hot gaze. He is a tiger, ready to pounce. Ready to sink his teeth into me.
My mind and my body war. I know if he asks, I’ll do it. I have no willpower at all.
He picks me up, and my thighs wrap around his lean waist, ankles hooking together behind him. Ragnarr presses me up against the wall, trapping me between cold drywall and hot dragon. I part my lips for him and he devours my mouth like ripe fruit.
I can’t help myself. My hips rock against him, and I feel the hard, hot length of his cock pressing against the crease of my thigh. Close… so close. The silk of his pyjamas is whisper-thin. His hips move against me, matching my rhythm. My panties are soaked through, and I wonder if he feels how wet I am.
Fy fan, I hope he does.
“You don’t know how delicious you are,” Ragnarr says. His voice is a low rumble against my throat.
His fingers dig into the soft flesh of my ass, controlling the angle of my hips as he rocks against me.
“How did I find such a sweet little häxa like you?”
My body is feverish. The wall is hard behind me, but Ragnarr is harder. I’m pinned, and the feeling excites me even more. I want to know what it feels like to have his body on mine, completely bare against my skin. I feel drunk on him, his sweet-spicy scent a drug injected straight into my veins. I want him so badly, I feel like I will die without feeling him inside me.
“Ragnarr…” my voice is faint.
All of my need, expressed in those two syllables. He pulls back, looks down into my face.
“What I want, lilla häxan,” he says, “is…”
11: Emelie
Ragnarr’s penthouse covers the entire top level of a gorgeous 17th-century baroque building right in the most expensive part of Östermalm, in the heart of Stockholm.
The polished black marble floor in the downstairs foyer gleams, mirror-bright, as I cross it. Laurel-crowned Greek gods glare down at me from the moldings along the high ceilings. It could be the set of a glamorous old Hollywood movie where the beautiful blonde heroine sweeps in draped in mink, demanding champagne.
