by Lia Davis
Wandering was not exile. Some of the larger dragonflights in Ascavar, such as the rigid warriors of the Stoneflight and Ironflight to the northwest, did not formally permit their people to leave for the human world. Kadirai who chose to leave those lands did it without sanction. Pahlin’s people, the dragons of the Stormflight, were permitted to leave their homeland when they turned forty-nine. Some chose to explore other parts of their home world, though most chose to enter the human world through the Gate, a portal that granted passage between the two worlds. They were given seven years to Wander, living life in another world. Most returned, telling stories of the wondrous technology and the sheer bustle of the human world. If they chose to return, they would be welcomed home without question, returning to whatever station they held before leaving. Pahlin’s mother assumed he would return well within the time limit, just like his brothers had done. Tired of his lot and captivated by the allure of the mysterious human world, Pahlin wasn’t sure he would return at all, let alone two years early like Agdin had.
But when Pahlin had imagined the human world, he’d pictured something far more enjoyable than getting used as a punching bag. He had only been here a few months, and already he had begun to wonder if his family hadn’t been right.
Back home he had been a skilled fighter, at least in his dragon form. He’d also managed to best all but his eldest sister in human form on the occasions when they’d fought. But his performance tonight had been nothing short of embarrassing. His body hurt all over. The skin over his knuckles on both hands was split and oozing blood. His jaw ached, and it would likely be worse in the morning. His dragon nature helped him to heal quickly, but not so quickly that he was looking forward to waking up.
The healer finally left the other cot and approached Pahlin. “Let’s see you, then,” she said. Though she spoke English, her voice carried the familiar clip of his native tongue. She smelled familiar; as he’d suspected, she wasn’t a dragon, but was definitely magic-touched. He was curious about her other form, but it was poor manners to ask someone he had barely met about something so personal. It was a sign of trust when the Edra revealed their other nature. As she examined him, she didn’t seem particularly impressed with him, though he was stripped to the waist.
Her hands were warm as she gripped each side of his face, tilting it either way. Her pale gray eyes searched him. “Any dizziness?”
“No.”
“Nausea?” she asked as she pried up one eyelid and shone the flashlight into it.
He winced at the bright light.
“Nau…” His English was good, but not flawless.
She shone the light into his other eye, then released his face. “Rovezhedh,” she interrupted. “Are you sick to your stomach?”
The feeling in the pit of his stomach wasn’t from the blows to his face. It was the sinking sense that he’d made a mistake. “No,” he said.
She continued her examination, prodding him gently. He bit back a yelp when her hands traced down his side and found the bruised ribs from Telak’s blows. “I have a jar of thelveran from Ascavar if you would like it,” she said. “But it’s expensive. One-fifty for enough to heal this overnight.”
“One hundred and fifty?” The ointment numbed pain to the point of being undetectable and aided healing.
“Yes.”
“That’s more than I earned,” he murmured.
She shrugged and stepped back, folding her arms over her chest. “Sorry. My advice? Don’t get hit so much next time. Besides, you’re Kadirai. The worst will heal in a day or two.” The way she said Kadirai made it sound like an accusation.
His cheeks flushed at her admonishment. “Okay.”
After offering him two small blue tablets and a cup of water to wash them down, Pahlin followed the dark hallway around to the front of the Pinnacle. There was a small lobby walled in dark glass. Two large men guarded the front door to ensure that no unwelcome guests—or curious humans—entered. His friend Ariv was already waiting there with Pahlin’s street clothes folded neatly under one arm.
Ariv was Kadirai like him, but had been here in the human world for over two years. Like Pahlin, Ariv came from the massive Stormflight city of Arvelor. Their shared homeland and dialect had been a source of instant kinship when they first met. As soon as Pahlin had come through the Gate, he was greeted by the Gatekeepers, the sentinels who protected the passage. The Gatekeepers monitored all traffic coming through the Gates and policed the surrounding area. Somehow, he’d expected a festive occasion that matched his own excitement, but he’d emerged from the blinding light of the portal and found himself at the end of an unwavering sword.
After the Gatekeepers assessed his papers to determine that he was who he claimed, he’d been subjected to several days of lessons on the rules. He was given a thorough lecture on the important human laws, which weren’t all that different from home. Beyond the obvious—don’t steal, don’t kill—there were further rules that governed visiting Kadirai.
Above all, he was to keep the secret—takara vhan. He was not permitted to transform into his true form and go wheeling about the skies over human cities, nor call down lightning on an unsuspecting human simply because he could. Once Pahlin agreed to their terms, which outlined the dire consequences if he chose to disobey, he was put in contact with Ariv, who’d helped him plant roots in this world.
If not for his size, Ariv would blend in among a crowd of human men. His dark hair was cropped short, and he wore normal human clothes. Ariv had helped Pahlin with clothing, but everything still felt ill-fitted and strange, as if he was wearing a masquerade costume to hide who he really was. It still surprised Pahlin when he walked amongst the humans that no one stopped and asked why he was there.
The other man held out the folded bundle of clothing. “Are you all right?” he asked, lapsing into their native tongue. His English was good, but they both preferred the comfort of the Kadirai dialect when together.
“Yes,” Pahlin said. “My pride is more wounded than I am.”
Ariv shrugged. “It happens. I didn’t want to say anything, but I expected you would lose your first match,” he said. At Pahlin’s shocked expression, he put up his hands defensively. “Sorry. You will get more accustomed to it, or you will find another way to earn your keep. Did you sign up to fight again?”
Pahlin shook his head. “I’ll give myself a few days to heal,” he said. “Then I suppose I’ll try again.”
Ariv nodded. “What do you say we go get a drink? I know a place nearby.”
“Our kind?”
He shook his head. “Human-owned, although some of us go there. The drinks are cheap, and you don’t have to worry about every shak-ersath who comes along trying to pick a fight with you.”
Their kind were notoriously aggressive, especially when the spirits flowed. Back home, it was not unusual for fights to break out over simple disagreements. It was even encouraged, as long as they went outside and didn’t destroy anyone’s property in the process. Even Pahlin’s mother had often encouraged him and his siblings to take out their frustrations in physical brawls, saying that she would rather them settle things and not annoy everyone else by festering in their displeasure for months. Here, things were very different. Pahlin didn’t want another fight, and he didn’t want to spend more time under the scrutinizing stares of the people who’d just witnessed his failure. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 2
The Back Porch was having a slow night, but even if it had been packed for a Dollar Draft night, Violet Ray would have noticed the two hotties strolling through the front door of her bar. She could have picked those faces out of a Super Bowl crowd. They were big boys, tall and broad-shouldered like Swedish-imported hockey players. And they were both handsome, with cheekbones and jaws carved from granite, and skin painted with the perfect sun-kissed copper shade. One had a well-groomed goatee, while his companion was clean-shaven. In the neon light of the Jägermeister sign by the door, she could see a dark welt on the
clean-shaven one’s jaw. They were quite a pair, though by their body language she’d guess they weren’t a couple. A girl could certainly hope.
Two women in the booth closest to the door gaped as the men passed.
“Same here, girls,” Violet muttered.
Running a bar was damn hard work. She was here from early afternoon until at least three in the morning most nights. She’d dealt with more than a few drunk and disorderlies, and she could match her older sister, a nurse for ten years, point for point in horrifying puke stories. And there was no end to the patrons—male and female—who thought she was just the cutest little bartender and couldn’t believe she owned the place, which turned ugly when she had to kick someone out. But it had its perks, and cute clientele were on that list.
It was a Tuesday night, which was usually fairly slow. She was working the bar while her employee Mike checked on tables and assisted her if drink orders got backed up. If things stayed like this, she’d leave the bar in Mike’s hands and go back to her office to work on the books. Well, maybe after seeing what these two wanted. She wasn’t cruising for a boyfriend, but being on a budget didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy window shopping.
The two hotties approached the bar. The one with the goatee scanned the room, while his friend with the bruised jaw tentatively pulled up a stool. Gingerly, he leaned over and rested his elbows on the polished wood surface. He fiddled with a coaster, and the subtle motion accentuated the sinuous movement of muscle beneath skin. Damn. The boy had some forearms on him.
Violet glanced back at the register, then gave herself a beat. After cashing out a tab for the guy waiting at the end of the bar, she sauntered back to where the bruised cutie was sitting. His dark hair was a little messy, though in a way that made her want to ruffle it.
His green eyes flitted up as she approached. They made a pit stop at her cleavage before snapping back to her face. She didn’t mind the detour. She’d learned from her first bartending job that tits got tips. Her sister Amy said it was trashy, but her sister had never pulled down three hundred bucks in tips either. And if Amy—who had a penchant for flashing people at bars when she got tanked—ever wanted to really get into it, Violet had mentally rehearsed an epic speech about how she was actually outwitting the patriarchy by profiting from their carnal weakness.
“Good evening,” the man said. His diction was strangely precise. His speech was accented, but she would have to hear more to figure out its origin. Being this close to the Atlanta airport, with half a dozen hotels in walking distance, she got patrons from all over the world looking for a little local flavor, whether of the alcoholic or romantic sort.
“Hey there,” she said. “What can I pour ya?”
He tilted his head. “A drink?” he said. Coming from a local, she would have thought he was trying to make her laugh, but there was no hint of sarcasm or humor in his tone. He glanced over his shoulder at his goateed friend, who was distracted and checking out a woman across the room. “Um…”
“What do you like?” Violet asked gently. “I’ve got all these on draft,” she said, gesturing to her carefully written chalkboard mounted on the brick wall behind her. “I also have some microbrews if you’re a connoisseur. Some really nice IPAs.” His eyes widened. She recognized that look. He didn’t know what she was taking about. She’d gotten that wide-eyed look from plenty of international travelers. Leaning forward, she smiled at him and asked, “What do you usually drink?”
“Um,” the man hesitated. He glanced over his shoulder at his friend again, then turned back to Violet. “What do you like?”
She laughed. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
“No,” he said, smiling sheepishly. A dark red wedge split his upper lip, like he’d gotten punched in the face. He winced, then wiggled his jaw slightly as if he was testing to see if the bruise was still there. “You can tell?”
“Yeah,” she said. “How about I pour you something, and you tell me if you like it?”
The man’s friend finally joined them, pushing up close on the next stool. “Sorry,” he said. “Can we get two beers?”
“Preference?”
“Heffer …”
“Hefeweizen?” she supplied. She wasn’t one to fall all over herself for a good-looking guy, but she was more than a little annoyed that his friend had interrupted her little dance.
The goateed man nodded. “That’s the one.” He leaned over to his friend. “You’ll like it.”
“You want to start a tab?”
“Cash, please,” the man with the goatee said politely.
She nodded and took two chilled glasses from the cooler, then deftly filled them to the brim. The foamy head barely topped the edge of the glasses. She set one in front of each man, then said, “It’s eight even.” The goateed man took a twenty from his wallet and handed it over. As she made change at her register, she called down the bar. “If you like mixed drinks, I have two dollar wells tonight.” The bruised cutie’s eyebrows perked. She gestured up to the liquor shelves and held her hand at the second shelf from the bottom. “Anything here or below,” she said. She returned with change and handed it over.
The goateed man slid a dollar over the bar. His friend frowned, and he spoke rapidly in a language she didn’t recognize. When they had finished their discussion, she said, “I’m Violet. Yell if you need something else.”
He turned to his friend and spoke quietly. After a moment, they clinked glasses, and both men took a long drink. Violet watched with a barely concealed smile as the clean-shaven one winced. People said beer was an acquired taste, and he clearly hadn’t acquired it. What was his deal? He looked youngish, but he definitely didn’t look like he was twenty-one and trying his first beer. He had to be twenty-five, at least. Maybe he just wasn’t much of a drinker. “Excuse me!” a voice drawled. She turned to see a heavy-set man leaning across the bar waving a bill at her.
Violet resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Waving money was one of her pet peeves. “Just a minute,” she said brusquely. She took a minute to wipe up a non-existent spill on the bar, then sauntered over to the man to take his order.
A few minutes later, she’d sent the guy on his way with a row of Fireball shots for the booth full of middle-aged men in the corner. He left her a dollar tip on a twenty-five dollar round. Cheapskate. Her mysterious cuties were still talking animatedly, and she noticed the one with the goatee was getting close to finishing his beer. She wandered over.
Her attentiveness wasn’t entirely because they were attractive. She wanted to place their accents. While she was no linguistic expert, she could pick out a few of the more common ones, and this one wasn’t ringing any bells.
“You want another?” she said as she approached. The clean-shaven one had only drunk about half of his beer. He winced, then forced a smile. “Or something else?”
“What are those?” the one with the goatee asked, gesturing toward the customer with the Fireball shots.
“That? That’s Fireball,” she said.
“Fireball,” the clean-shaven one said slowly. “Is it good?”
“If you like to not feel your face,” she said. His hand drifted to his jaw. “You want to try it?”
“Sure,” the goateed one said. “How much?”
“This one’s on the house,” she said. She pulled out three shot glasses and lined them up, then poured a generous shot of the cinnamon whiskey into each. Before pushing them across the bar, she said, “I don’t drink with strangers. I’m Violet. And you are?”
“I’m Eric,” the one with the goatee said. “And this is my friend Paul.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said. “Where are you from? I’ve been trying to place your accent.”
Paul’s eyes widened slightly. “Not from here.”
“Yeah, I got that,” she said playfully.
“Eastern Europe,” Eric said quickly. There was a weird expression on Paul’s face, almost like relief. His constant deference to Eric was strange, but
it could have just been a language thing. If he didn’t speak great English, then he might be relying heavily on his friend to help out. Still, it was weird that he didn’t name a specific country. Maybe they thought she was too dumb to recognize it. Whatever. They were cute and maybe the Fireball would loosen them up to give good tips. She wasn’t going to pry.
“All right,” she said. She pushed the shots over, then raised hers. Both men followed her gesture. She leaned over to clink her glass with Eric. After a pause, Paul smiled shyly as he touched his glass to hers. “Drink up.” She touched the glass to the bar, then threw back the whiskey in one pull. It burned like its namesake, but she managed it fine. Paul’s eyes went wide. He swallowed, then coughed violently. She took the glass from him and said, “You like that better than the beer?”
“I am not sure either one is good,” he said, laughing.
Eric tapped Paul’s shoulder and whispered in his ear. He leaned over, drank half of what remained of Paul’s beer, then strutted across the room to the table with the two women who had checked him out when they first walked in.
“Um,” Paul murmured. “How much do I owe you?”
“It’s on the house, sweetie,” she said. He tilted his head in confusion. “That means I pay for it. Not you.”
“That is very generous,” he said. “Thank you.” Lord, he was pretty and polite, too.
She smiled at him. Were her cheeks actually getting hot? Shit. “You gonna join your friend? I think you’re supposed to be his wingman.”
“Wings?” he stammered, his green eyes going wide. “What?”
“It means you help him out when he’s trying to meet women,” she explained.
“I believe his odds are much better if I don’t go over there. He can call for help,” Paul said.
