by Lia Davis
Inked swirls covered both of Fidhur’s arms from shoulder to wrist. Pahlin didn’t recognize the symbols as the traditional marks of one of the dragonflights. His own tattoos had only been started down his back, with the beginnings of the ornate Stormcaller family crest. He would be permitted to extend it if he returned home.
Another official approached them, signaling for them to face each other. Pahlin raised his fist to his chest in a traditional sign of respect. Fidhur nodded slightly without returning the gesture, then backed up.
“Begin!”
Fidhur didn’t move in, but quietly moved along the perimeter of the arena, watching Pahlin intently. Pahlin moved in, trying to provoke Fidhur into attacking him. He lifted his elbow, exposing his side. Sure enough, the other man took the chance and came in for an easy hit. Pahlin twisted away from the blow and snapped a vicious elbow strike into the side of Fidhur’s head. The other man growled in anger and unleashed a flurry of quick punches to Pahlin’s belly and head. When Pahlin broke away, Fidhur lunged after him. Instinctively, Pahlin pulled up his hands in a protective stance, but the other man went low and hooked his arms around Pahlin’s front leg and yanked upward.
Pahlin stumbled backward. Instead of fighting the fall, he let himself hit the cold stone, rolled onto his side, and lurched forward onto his feet. Fidhur was there to greet him. As Pahlin swung with a wild punch, Fidhur blocked it easily and stopped Pahlin’s arm high overhead.
Instead of going for the easy punch to his jaw, Fidhur slid his hand down to grab the back of Pahlin’s neck and planted his other hand firmly on his belly. Cold shot through Pahlin, as if a blade of pure ice had stabbed into his gut. It knocked the wind out of him as his muscles seized. Fidhur pulled away and drove his knee into Pahlin’s gut.
Stars swam in his vision as the air blew out of him. Cold gripped his body. Ice, he thought dimly. Fidhur was an ice dragon. As Pahlin struggled to catch his breath, Fidhur’s hand fumbled for his side. Sharp pain bloomed in his side as the man’s icy hand squeezed Pahlin’s bruised ribs. A sneer twisted his lip. Pahlin swallowed the pain that tried to bubble over his lips as a shout and snarled instead.
Come on, he thought, reaching for the lightning. One well-placed shock would turn the tide. It was so close he could almost taste it. The earthy, electric smell of lightning filled his nostrils. It was right there.
With Fidhur still squeezing his wounded side, Pahlin drove his fists into the smaller man’s belly. Fidhur grunted, hunching over to take the blows. His hands wrapped around Pahlin’s face, his thumbs pressing over his eyes. The crowd gasped.
Panic washed over Pahlin at the thought of his eyes being damaged, destroying his tenuous grasp on the lightning. He grabbed Fidhur’s wrists, trying to break the man’s hold. Icy cold radiated from Fidhur’s hands, and a stabbing pain seized Pahlin’s head. His vision went gray, turning the other man into a hazy blur. Though he blinked painfully, his eyes wouldn’t focus. A powerful blow to the nose rocked his head back. The ground slipped away, and Pahlin went down hard. His head cracked against the hard stone floor, and the crowd roared.
He was only vaguely aware as someone lifted him and carried him out. In the brief moments between throbbing beats of the massive drum inside his head, he heard a faraway voice. Soft cushion enveloped him. Heat seared his ice-burned cheeks.
Fire burned through him, jolting him back to awareness. Sucking air through his teeth, he sat up halfway to see a white blur hovering over him. “Sorry,” a familiar voice said as it withdrew the scorching touch. He couldn’t make out her face, but he recognized the healer’s voice. “You fought Fidhur, huh?”
“Yes,” he said, lying back down. “I can’t see very well.”
“That’s his thing,” she said. “Did he go for your eyes?”
“Yes,” he said.
The woman sighed and muttered something under her breath. “It’ll pass in a few hours.”
He couldn’t keep doing this. It was easy money, but even if his body could heal, his ego couldn’t take the constant bruising. A pleasant tingle radiated through his belly. He squinted, but he couldn’t make out the details. Judging by the warm sensation on his skin, the healer was rubbing something on his ribs, which were bruised and cracked all over again. Within seconds, the sharp pain receded to a dull ache. It was the thelveran ointment. “I can’t afford that.”
“It’ll be our secret,” she said. “Do you have someone who can take you home?”
Ariv didn’t suggest visiting the bar again, which was just as well. While the numbing oblivion of alcohol would have been welcome, he didn’t want to see Violet again only to tell her he had lost another fight. Instead, Ariv called for a car and helped Pahlin into the back seat when it arrived a few minutes later. Pahlin’s vision had improved enough to see the look of pity on his friend’s face. “Be honest. How bad was it?” he said.
“You actually almost had him,” Ariv said.
“Don’t lie to make me feel better.”
“You did, actually,” he said. “The fellow next to me panicked because he thought he was going to lose his bet.”
Pahlin snorted a laugh, which sent a slow wave of pain through his body, from his protesting stomach, up his spine, and across his bruised face. “Well, I’m happy that someone got money out of it.”
“You’ll get it eventually,” Ariv said. “Fidhur has had much longer to manipulate his affinity. And that trick with the eyes is dirty, even if it’s technically allowed.”
“I’m not sure the Pinnacle is my way to earn a living,” Pahlin said.
“That’s all right,” Ariv said. “It wasn’t for me, either. There are other options.”
The car arrived at Pahlin’s home in Laurel Hills, a small town on the outskirts of Atlanta. An older Kadirai woman named Imani owned a number of homes in the small town of Laurel Hills, which she rented to newly arrived dragons like Pahlin. Not long after their first meeting at the Gate, Ariv had referred him to Imani. His first month of rent was paid in a package of spices and herbs that could only be found at home in Ascavar, part of the requested tribute for his initial passage through the Gate. In exchange for the delivery, she’d written him a contract for the little house.
The houses along the street were mostly new, all similar designs with different paint. After a lifetime of living in the large multi-family complexes of Arvelor, it was strange to have a whole house all to himself. All of the homes on the street were rentals belonging to Imani, and housed other Kadirai and Edra. While it was discouraged, if he transformed into a dragon and ran down the street with his wings skimming their front lawns, none of his neighbors would have been surprised.
After thanking the driver, Ariv helped Pahlin inside. His vision was still hazy, turning the black numbers by the front door into blurry streaks. Once inside, Pahlin dropped his things and flopped onto the couch.
“Do you want me to stay?” Ariv asked.
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m fine,” Pahlin said sharply. It was bad enough to have been so soundly defeated again. He didn’t need Ariv’s pity, no matter how well-intended.
“I’ll call you tomorrow. No fights for a few days, yeah?”
“No,” Pahlin said.
“But you’re having a drink with me tomorrow night,” he said. He paused. “Maybe we should wait till the night after.”
Pahlin nodded, closing his eyes. If he woke up the next morning to a dry, cool breeze drifting in his window overlooking the cityscape of Arvelor, only to find the last two months had been an extraordinarily vivid dream, he wouldn’t have minded at all.
A light weight landed on Pahlin’s chest. The faint friction of fabric on his skin told him Ariv had tossed a blanket over him. The weight shifted over his ankle, leaving one foot sticking out from the too-short covering. “Pahlin, it’s all right. It takes time to get used to being here. Not just the lightning. Everything. But you will find your way. I promise.”
Chapter
4
The woman drunkenly caterwauling her impression of Whitney Houston out in the bar wasn’t doing much for Violet’s concentration. Karaoke night was great for business, as her patrons fueled their screeching performances with her drink specials. But she’d learned that some people really needed a friend who loved them enough to not let them sing in front of other human beings.
With the initial rush under control, Violet had left Bonnie to run the bar while she retreated into her office to update the books and set up her next wholesale order. Though Violet liked – and intentionally cultivated – the pleasantly grungy dive-bar feel of the Back Porch, her office was impeccable. Her stacked filing trays were neatly labeled, and every paper had a place in its color-coded binder.
Next to the handwritten list of liquors she needed to restock was the pink legal pad filled with her notes on Sweet Vine, her new project. Though it was still mostly an idea, she was planning to open another bar. The Back Porch had done well, and she was in serious discussions with a friend of her brother-in-law about opening a more upscale location. After visiting and eating her way through a string of unique fusion restaurants in Portland, Oregon last year, she’d had a vision. She wanted to build a quirky, upscale wine bar with unusual appetizers and a classy but comfortable ambience. Kurt, her brother-in-law’s friend, was in restaurant management, and had been looking at going into business for himself for a while.
Even though Amy thought of her little sister as nothing more than a glorified bartender, Violet had the business skills to make it work. Maybe she hadn’t gone to college, but the Back Porch had been in the black for nearly two years, and Violet had managed to set aside a considerable chunk of money toward her next project. Take that, Mrs. Four Year College and Thinks She’s Better Than Everyone.
While their parents claimed to be proud of Violet’s achievements, her sister measured success in certificates with official seals. Violet didn’t have a college degree or a marriage certificate, so she was a failure. She’d showed up for the last few family events woefully single, leading Amy to ask pointedly, “Where’s Greg?” and drop his name at every opportunity as a reminder of Violet’s inadequacy. It was too bad she couldn’t show up with the hot European cage fighter from the other night. That would shut Amy up in a heartbeat. What was his name?
Paul, she remembered with a smile. Most of her customers didn’t make it into her memory, but the tall cutie-pie with the accent and the bruised jaw had definitely made an impression. She’d sort of hoped she might see him again the next night, but it had been two days since he showed up, and nothing.
Oh well. She had to focus on the bar. Sure, it would be nice to have someone to go home to. Even if she went home with a purse full of tips, she walked into a dark house and slept alone. But her history had shown her that men couldn’t handle her dedication to her job. Maybe one day she’d meet the rare one who wasn’t threatened. Until then, she’d focus on transforming Sweet Vine from a vision into reality.
Boisterous shouts interrupted the final, wailing notes of the karaoke tune. Someone had probably pressured their friend into getting up to sing, eliciting cheers from their drunken comrades. Seconds later, there were more shouts, then the unmistakable sound of glass shattering.
Her stomach lurched. Not a fight, she thought. She set down her notes and tightened her ponytail. After grabbing her phone to make sure she could call the police quickly if she had to, she hurried out of her office. Under the bar was a baseball bat. She’d never smacked anyone with it, but she’d had to threaten it twice. After a quick visual check to reassure herself that the bat was there if she needed it, she walked past the bar and toward the sound of trouble.
John, the karaoke DJ was hovering at his laptop, watching the scene unfolding near the bar. It was oddly quiet with no music playing. A trio of big men were clapping each other on the back as Bonnie hurried around the bar with a dustpan and a broom. Broken glass littered the floor around them. They seemed to be the epicenter of the trouble, although they looked amicable with each other. It was a good thing, because there was no way she was getting in the middle of that fight.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” Violet said loudly. Bonnie looked up, her pretty features creased in worry. The men turned to look at her. They were big, in that same jumbo-sized athlete way that Paul and Eric had been.
One of them had swirling black tattoos down both arms. His dark gray t-shirt strained to contain his chest. He gave her a broad grin, flashing white teeth at her. He was physically attractive, but there was something off-putting about him. And he wasn’t fooling anyone. A guy had to try to buy a shirt that tight, which said as much about his vanity as his level of fitness. “Just having a good time, beautiful,” he said. His speech was faintly accented, reminding her of Paul. “My apologies for the mess.”
Bonnie was still trying to sweep glass into the dustpan, but one of the men was standing in the middle of the pile, making it impossible for her to finish cleaning up. Her sweet, accommodating personality would have her sweeping around his huge boot all night. The blushing beauty thing worked for her, but not for Violet.
“Hey, can you move your foot, please?” Violet said. The man looked down. “Yeah, you. She’s trying to clean that up.”
He looked at her strangely, his brows raised in disbelief. For a second, she thought he was just going to stay planted there like a big, dumb tree. To her relief, he took a big step back.
Violet’s heart thumped as she turned her attention back to the guy with the tattoos. He was clearly their leader. “Can I get you boys a drink?”
“How about a drink for everyone here? We are celebrating,” the tattooed one said. “It’s on me. Shots for everyone!”
The rest of the crowd shouted their approval, and Violet suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. He was playing another page right out of the Douche Supreme playbook. She hoped he had the money to back it up.
“What kind of shots?” she asked.
“Something sweet,” he said. He looked her over. With his eyes roaming over her, it felt like someone touching her, tracing her body without permission. “Like you.”
Vomit. “You got it,” she said, suppressing the urge to shudder.
“And a pitcher of Guinness for us,” the man said. “And keep them coming.”
“No problem,” Violet said, forcing a smile. She watched as the men headed toward the other side of the room, then knelt next to Bonnie. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” she said. Her hands shook as she swept the remnants of glass into the dustpan. “They came in, got a beer, and then chugged it. Then they started chanting something and smashed the freaking glasses on the ground like some Viking shit. I’m sorry. Do you want me to charge them for it?”
Violet shook her head. “Just let it go for now,” she said. “Don’t worry. I’ll stay out here with you. We’ll call Sonny if they get rowdy again.” Sonny was an ex-Marine who now worked as a personal trainer and moonlighted as the muscle at the bar on the weekends. He lived nearby and was happy to come in to bounce a few skulls if he had to. For most guys, just seeing the half-Samoan bodybuilder walk up to the table was enough to neutralize the piss and vinegar in them.
While Bonnie poured the pitcher of Guinness for their high rollers, Violet pulled out a couple of pint glasses and clean shakers. Her go-to when making shots en masse was a basic Kamikaze. Everyone liked them, and they were relatively cheap. As she dumped in the vodka and Triple Sec, she watched the three men bumping their way through the crowd to a table near the karaoke setup. There was a single guy sitting in the booth, his attention fixed on his phone. The man with the tattoos leaned in, said something, and the guy got up without saying another word. Violet scowled.
Bonnie balanced a stack of chilled pint glasses against her arm and carried the pitcher around the bar to the men at the table. Violet watched her carefully as she slipped through the crowd and put the pitcher on the table. Careful, she thought.
As the man with the tattoos sp
oke to her, Bonnie threw her head back and laughed. Sure enough, one of the men looped a thick arm around her waist and pulled her onto the high seat next to him. She tried to ease away, but he pulled her in closer, pushing his face close enough to whisper in her ear. Her smile was strained. One of the other men poured a glass and offered it to her.
Violet left the line of glasses, eyeballed the baseball bat again, and rounded the bar. She walked up to the table where Bonnie was protesting, “You’re sweet, but I gotta get back to work.”
“Just one beer,” the man said. “Come on. Just drink with us.”
Bonnie stopped mid-protest, grabbed the glass, and took a long drink from it.
“Bonnie!” Violet said sharply. “You all right?” She was going to have to teach Bonnie how to shut creeps like this down. Lesson one was that the word no was a complete sentence.
Bonnie’s brown eyes flicked to her and widened from over the edge of the glass. As if she’d just realized what she was doing, she froze with the dark beer lapping against her red-glossed upper lip. Slowly, she put the glass down and frowned at it. “Yeah, I…that was weird.”
“I need you to go finish up those shots at the bar,” Violet said. She took her phone from her pocket and unlocked it with her fingerprint. “I also need you to see if Sonny can come in for a little while to help out. I think we’re going to be a little short-handed.”
Bonnie gave her a knowing look as she took the phone. “You sure?”
“I’m sure,” Violet said.
