A Dash of Dragon

by Heidi Lang

  And then Lailu remembered Mr. Boss. She leaped to her feet. It had to be close to midnight by now. If she was late. . . . She clutched the handle of the chef’s knife at her hip. “I’ve got to run.”

  “Everything all right?” Hannah asked, eyes wide.

  “Er, maybe?” Lailu couldn’t lie, not to Hannah. But she didn’t want to get into the truth, either. “I’ll see you at home. Oh, and can you bring Greg’s Cooling and Containment cart with you?”

  Out on the stairs she practically knocked Greg down in her haste. “Hey, hey!” He caught her by the waist before she fell. “What’s going on?”

  “I have to go.” It was like the walls were moving in, sucking all the air out as they crept closer, closer. “I really have to go.” She pulled away.

  “Go? Go where? What about Hannah?”

  Lailu stopped. “Greg,” she began, swallowing hard. He’d loaned her his Cooling and Containment cart, and he’d taken Hannah in. She remembered the way he cut her free from the net, how he walked all the way to Mystic Cooking to bring her the rest of her batyrdactyls, and as she looked up at her greatest rival, her chest felt strangely tight. “Thank you.” And Lailu really meant it. “For . . . for everything.”

  Greg stepped in close, way too close. “I want to help you,” he said softly, his brown eyes so intense she couldn’t look away. One of his hands hovered by her face, almost but not quite touching her; she could feel the heat from it like it was a brand.

  She didn’t understand what he was trying to tell her, didn’t want to understand, so instead she backed away. “Hannah’s going to head back to my place with your cart. I can’t wait for her, though, I have to go. I have to go now.” And she turned and fled down the stairs and out through the kitchen.

  20

  THE CROW’S NEST

  Lailu had never been there, but she still knew the Crow’s Nest when she saw it. A three-story establishment, it towered over the taverns perched sadly on either side, its wooden sign swinging gently in the breeze with what Lailu knew to be a crow painted on the front. In the low light, however, it looked more like a black splotch of ink, the name of the joint scrawled in red above it.

  Lailu pulled on the splintery door handle and slipped inside. Sound slapped her in the face and smoke burned her eyes as she wove her way through the thick crowd, focusing on the bar toward the back. She dodged one man’s elbow and another’s flying mug of beer, then jumped as a rough hand fell on her shoulder.

  “Sure took your sweet time,” the Butcher said, his gaunt face a mess of shadows and sharp angles in the dim lighting. “And here we were thinking you had decided not to come, even after my gentle . . . reminder.”

  Lailu shrank away, but he just tightened his grip. “Let go of me,” she growled, hoping she sounded braver than she felt.

  “Or you’ll do what? Spit in my food?” His sneer widened, showing off his yellow teeth. “This way, chef. Don’t want to keep Mr. Boss waiting any longer, or who knows where someone’ll find you.” Giving her shoulder one last bone-crunching squeeze, he let her go.

  Lailu shuddered, but followed the Butcher through the crowd. Someone bumped into him, and he turned, grabbed the guy, and threw him into the mass of people. There was a loud outburst that was quickly silenced, the Butcher’s profile enough to send them all slinking quietly back into the shadows. Cowards, Lailu thought bitterly. Then she realized she wasn’t any braver. Here she was, like a dog on a leash, and all because she was scared of the Butcher too.

  Even the bartender, a beefy man with a missing ear and ferocious eyes, shrank from the Butcher. With a curt nod to the man, Havoc slid behind the bar, Lailu following as far back as she dared. She felt the bartender watching as she climbed the rickety wooden stairs half hidden behind the shelves full of drink.

  Mr. Boss’s office was on the third floor. Lailu stopped at the top of the stairs as Havoc McHackney knocked three times. He waited a moment, then knocked three times again before pushing the door open and walking in. Lailu wasted a few seconds dreaming of running back down the stairs, through the tavern, and out into the fresh, clean air. But then what? Mr. Boss wouldn’t just let her go. And Master Slipshod . . . Lailu no longer believed he could protect her. She wasn’t even sure he’d try.

  She took a deep breath. “Into the spider’s lair,” she whispered. Then she squared her shoulders and walked inside, blinking against the haze that immediately surrounded her, trying not to cough. It was worse than downstairs, as if all the smoke had drifted up here to form one thick cloud.

  “And there she is, the woman of the hour.” Mr. Boss’s oily voice wrapped around her, his small frame practically swallowed by his velvet armchair. Glasses covered the wooden table in front of him, most of them empty. Clearly, he and his cronies had been here for a while.

  Ryon slumped in a chair off to the side, next to a dark-skinned man Lailu had never seen before. As the Butcher settled into his seat to the right of Mr. Boss, Ryon gave her a halfhearted wink, his face drawn and tired.

  Another man and woman sat beside the Butcher. Lailu had never seen the man before. Chubby and wild-haired, he slowly and deliberately shuffled a stack of cards like they were made of glass. And then Lailu’s eyes fell on the woman, and she gasped.

  Narrow face, sharp cheekbones, red hair pulled into a severe bun, and large green eyes. Starling Volan. Lailu had gone almost two years without seeing the scientist, and now she seemed to be everywhere.

  Starling studied Lailu. She wore another one of her famous tailored suits, her wide mouth quirked slightly to the left. What was she doing here with Mr. Boss?

  “Introduce yourself, Starling,” Mr. Boss said loudly, and Lailu realized she was staring openmouthed at the scientist. “Lailu here would obviously love to make your acquaintance.”

  A couple of people laughed, but not Starling. She merely inclined her head in Lailu’s direction. “I remember you. The chef, yes?” Her face softened into the barest hint of a smile. “You came to see my new stoves. You, with your eyes full of cooking.”

  Lailu found herself smiling back, a small knot in her chest loosening. Starling Volan, the Starling Volan, remembered her. She wasn’t sure how Starling was mixed up with Mr. Boss, but it was probably a mistake of some sort. A business deal she had unadvisedly made. Lailu could relate to that.

  “No Slipshod?” Mr. Boss straightened, clenching his silver-topped cane. He moved carefully, like his whole body hurt.

  Good, Lailu thought vindictively, but she shook her head. “I thought you asked for me.”

  “True, very true. But I’m surprised Sullivan let you come alone. Not very . . . mentorlike, considering he’s the one who roped you into all of this.”

  Lailu tried not to let those words get to her. “He’s a great chef,” she said stiffly. And he was. But she was beginning to think that this didn’t make him a good mentor.

  “So tell me, what did you hear? What was our good pal Elister up to, with his fancy exclusive dinner party?” Mr. Boss’s lips gave a small, bitter twitch.

  “Uh . . .” Lailu stared down at her feet, terrified at the prospect of reporting on Elister, especially since he already knew she’d been spying on him. Would he find out about this? She remembered the look in his cold eyes and knew if he did, she’d get no more chances from him. Still, she had her restaurant to protect, not to mention herself. She needed to tell Mr. Boss something, so she launched into a description of her food and how well it had been received. “Some of them even asked for seconds—”

  “I don’t care about the blasted food!” Mr. Boss slammed his cane into the ground with a sharp crack like the world was shattering.

  Lailu winced, edging backward.

  “All I care about is what that, that . . .” He took a deep breath, and in a more normal tone of voice, he continued, “I just want to know what Elister is up to. Who did he invite?”

  Lailu hesitated. The Butcher put his hand on his meat cleaver and narrowed his eyes, and she knew she couldn’t
avoid the question any longer. Reluctantly, she described the people who had been there. When she got to the elf, Mr. Boss’s face darkened.

  “He had long black hair and gray-blue eyes?” he snapped.

  “Yes.”

  “It must have been Fahr.” Mr. Boss’s nostrils flared. “So, did Fahr enjoy his dinner with the big man?”

  “I don’t think he was especially enjoying it.” Lailu couldn’t look away from Mr. Boss’s dead fish eyes. They were red-rimmed, almost like he’d been crying. Or rubbing at them really hard. Maybe he was sick. “I mean, he barely touched the food,” she added. “Can you believe it?”

  “What did they talk about?” Mr. Boss demanded.

  “Not much. The elf mentioned . . . He said he had some sort of problem.”

  Mr. Boss froze. “What kind of problem?”

  “He didn’t say, but most people at the table seemed to think it had something to do with . . .” Lailu bit her lip, sneaking a peek at Starling. “With the scientists,” she finished nervously.

  Mr. Boss glanced sidelong at Starling Volan too. “Was anything else said about the scientists?” he asked.

  “Well, a lot of people are very impressed with them,” Lailu said carefully “Even Elister. He’s backing them now.”

  Mr. Boss’s eyes narrowed. The chubby man with the sideburns stopped shuffling cards, and Lailu swore the whole room was holding its breath. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly very dry. Clearly that was not information she should have shared.

  “He’s backing them, is he?” Mr. Boss asked quietly. “All of them? Or present company excluded?”

  Lailu could feel Starling staring at her. It was somehow worse than facing a basilisk fish, and she wondered if she was slowly turning to stone beneath the weight of that gaze. “Er,” she tried. “Well . . .” She thought about the door behind her, and every fiber in her body longed to run to it, to yank it open and slam it shut behind her.

  Starling finally spoke up. “Don’t be absurd, Victor, you know my people do nothing without my consent. Of course Elister is backing me, and my people through me.”

  “Is he, now?” Mr. Boss ran his thumb up and down the silver top of his cane, the muscles in his jaw twitching. “Since when?”

  “It hardly matters. We do not have an exclusive arrangement. I go where business calls.”

  “You . . .” Mr. Boss stopped, took a deep breath, and finally seemed to remember Lailu still standing there. “You, go away,” he told her.

  Lailu blinked. “W-what?”

  “Go. Get out. Leave.” He waved his hands at her like she was some sort of pest. “Starling and I have things to discuss. Urgent things.”

  Starling shifted uncomfortably.

  Lailu backed toward the door, hardly daring to believe he was letting her go so easily. She remembered the way he’d tricked her on her opening day, and she didn’t breathe until she’d shut the door behind her, blocking them all out.

  Lailu sagged with relief. Well, that went well, she thought. At least she wasn’t dead. Yet.

  She started for the stairs, then stopped. She longed to burrow under her blankets, safe inside Mystic Cooking, but there was also Elister. If he did find out she reported on him . . . She shivered. He couldn’t know. He could never know. But if he did . . . If she had some information for him in return, maybe he’d let her live.

  Lailu took a deep breath and crouched, putting her ear against the door.

  “—concoction isn’t working.” Lailu recognized Mr. Boss’s voice, loud and angry. “My time still appears to be running out. I’d hate for your time to run out as well.”

  “You would be wise, Victor, not to resort to threats.” Starling’s voice was so cold that Lailu shivered. “I am working hard, as always, but having my supplies disrupted—”

  From downstairs came a loud burst of noise as if a door had suddenly opened, and Lailu missed the next few sentences.

  “—behind my back,” Mr. Boss was saying. Lailu pressed closer to the door, then froze as the floor creaked softly under her.

  “Alchemy is expensive. Surely a businessman such as yourself understands this better than anyone.” Starling’s accent became thicker in irritation. “Elister has money, and he is interested in advancing our sciences. Why should we not work with him as well?”

  “Are you giving him the elixir, too, then?”

  “No, only you, as agreed. Elister would never approve of our . . . methods.”

  Elixir? With a sick, squirming feeling, Lailu remembered the jar of purple liquid Brennon had given her, and his words. Mr. Boss is bankrupting himself to buy this junk from the scientists.

  After that whole mess with Hannah she’d forgotten all about it, and now Brennon was dead or worse, and she hadn’t even tried to help him. He’d been so desperate, and all she’d done was stuff that jar away in her cabinet. She hadn’t even told Master Slipshod about it.

  Someone tapped her on the shoulder.

  Lailu jumped backward, smacking into the wall behind her. Wren’s eyes widened in horror and she put a hand over her mouth as both girls froze and listened.

  Footsteps stomped to the door. Wren waved her hand at Lailu, who scrambled back and down the first few stairs like a crab as Wren moved closer to the door and lifted her hand, like she was about to knock. The door flew open in her face and the Butcher shoved his own greasy head out. “What do you want?” he growled.

  “I, uh, I was sent to see if, if you n-needed anything e-else,” Wren stammered.

  The Butcher looked her up and down. “I don’t believe you.” He grabbed Wren by the front of her dress. Lailu tensed, prepared to leap up the stairs.

  “Havoc, leave the girl alone,” Mr. Boss snapped. “She’s Starling’s whelp.”

  The Butcher reluctantly let Wren go. Lailu sank back down on the stairs, more confused than ever. She looked up in time to see Wren disappear into the room, the door shutting firmly behind her. When several moments crawled by and nothing happened, Lailu picked herself up, then straightened her clothing as she walked slowly down the stairs.

  Starling and Wren were clearly up to something. Something big. But what? Wren was just a kid. What could she possibly be involved in? And what was in that elixir?

  21

  BLOOD AND LIES

  Lailu had a long, sleepless night followed by a hectic morning, but as she flipped the sign in the window over to CLOSED, she felt a deep satisfaction. Even without Master Slipshod around, she’d managed to feed her lunch customers and had food prepped for dinner. Hannah had been a huge help, just like she promised, and for the first time Lailu began to think they might just be okay.

  As Hannah headed upstairs to nap, Lailu wiped down tables, humming softly under her breath.

  Wham!

  The front door burst open so fast the bell didn’t even have a chance to ring.

  “M-Master Slipshod!” Lailu gasped as her mentor staggered in. He looked terrible, his wild hair even wilder, his usually smooth chin covered in the beginnings of a beard that crept down his neck, disappearing into his stained and wrinkled shirt.

  Lailu wasn’t sure what to feel. Relief that he was finally back? Anger that he’d abandoned her at such a crucial time? “Where have you—”

  “Gone, all gone.” Master Slipshod stumbled around like he was in a dream. “He’s really gone, Pigtails.”

  “Who is?”

  “Brennon. I tried to find him, I tried to look . . . gone! I can’t believe it, Victor has gone berserk, totally erratic!” He grabbed Lailu’s shoulders. “We can’t work for a man like that! Do you have any idea what he’ll make us do? What he’ll do to us?”

  Knock-knock-knock.

  Master Slipshod’s fingers tightened until Lailu’s shoulders creaked. She winced, pulling away.

  “Don’t—” he began, but too late: she was already opening the door.

  A boy in a crisp black-and-silver tunic with formfitting black breeches stood on the doorstep, his arms wrapped around a small
metal box. He held it out. “Message for you.”

  Lailu eyed it suspiciously. She remembered the last box they’d received on their doorstep. “From who?”

  “From Lord Elister.” The boy’s tone implied that it was obvious, which it probably was. After all, he wore Elister’s house colors. Lailu’s sleep-deprived brain just couldn’t seem to keep up. “Lord Elister says to expect a visit from him shortly,” he added, thrusting the box at her.

  “Shortly? How shortly?”

  “He didn’t specify.” Giving a small, formal bow, the boy turned on his heel and marched smartly away.

  Lailu shut the door before drifting toward a table, her fingers searching for the clasp on the box. She tried not to think what a visit from Elister could mean. Did he want a report on Mr. Boss already? Or . . . had he heard about her report to Mr. Boss?

  “What is it?” Master Slipshod asked. He was crouched nearby, out of sight of the door.

  “Are you . . . hiding?” This was the man who’d once hunted dragons, who’d served the king, who’d trained the head chef at the academy? Her stomach twisted in disappointment.

  “I’m . . . Never mind what I’m doing. What’s in the box?”

  Lailu sat in a chair and flipped the lid open. Her heart stuttered.

  Gold. A small pile of actual living, breathing gold. Well, maybe not breathing, Lailu admitted, but there was something very much alive about the shiny pile of coins, the way the light reflected off all those glossy edges and the crown engraved into each one.

  Master Slipshod slammed the lid closed and slid the box away from her. “I’ll just put this in the safe with the rest of the money,” he gasped, his hands trembling.

  “P-probably a good idea.” Lailu couldn’t wrap her mind around all that money. Apparently there was something to this catering thing, especially when you were catering for part of the royal staff. “Will it be enough?”

  Master Slipshod paused in the kitchen entrance. “To cover our loan?” He looked down at the box sadly. “No. Not enough. But it . . . it could be enough for . . . for a backup plan.”