Life With A Fire-Breathing Girlfriend

by Bryan Fields

  Miriam raised an eyebrow. “That might explain you, but not her. She’s still been through profound physical changes. Care to try again?”

  Rose laughed. “I think it’s more likely that you had some mistaken first impressions. As I recall, you were asking me all kinds of questions when we met and not really paying attention to what I looked like.”

  “Well, that’s true enough, I suppose.” Miriam still didn’t look convinced, but she dropped it while we drove to Larkspur. Just my luck to have observant friends with hard science backgrounds…

  Once we arrived and met up with the rest of the group, I got a few more comments about how much weight I’d lost. Everyone else accepted the liposuction story, and I got several compliments on deciding to go through with it. Thankfully, no one asked for a referral to my doctor.

  One of the side effects of hitting the Renaissance Festival in costume is that the mundane attendees usually think we’re part of the show. A number of folks asked us for directions, show times, and if we would pose for pictures. We just went with it—it’s just part of the whole costume experience. And, to be honest, we did look like we should be on the cover of a romance novel.

  I love going to RenFest, but in truth you can often get the same hand-crafted items you find there for a lot less by buying them from folks in the SCA or their suppliers. There are a few exceptions, of course, and one of those was the item I was shopping for. I wanted to find a combat-ready weapon that would go with my kilt. I know nothing about selecting something like that, but Rose had been evaluating weapons for quality and hoard-worthiness for centuries.

  We found a nice, hefty broadsword at the first weapon shop we tried, but for moral reasons the smith refused to make anything with a functional edge. He made weapons in order to preserve the art, but as a Buddhist, he abhorred violence. I decided not to ask why he chose to become a living oxymoron and we moved on.

  The next place we found had no such qualms; in fact, they had a sign proclaiming their weapons as being “Fully functional and ready for use after the Inevitable Zombie Apocalypse.” I tried a nice two-hander on a set of rolled-straw targets and liked the feel of it, but Rose pointed out a wicked looking Lochaber axe. The length and heft were right, and I really got into the savage Celt look it imparted. While I was paying for it, Rose spotted a wolf-headed torc made of twisted gold wire and worked out a deal with the smith’s wife. I didn’t ask what she paid for it, but it looked damn nice on me.

  Rose got quiet and huddled close to me as we got seats for the jousting show. I could feel she was nervous, excited, and slightly nauseated at the idea of jousting. I leaned over and whispered, “Should we leave?”

  “No. I’ll be fine.” She gave me a weak smile. “It’s just…without flight, we die. Lance charges rarely end well for us.”

  Aha. “Don’t worry; they’re only going to hurt one another.” I suppose two Humans jousting would be the stuff of Draconic nightmares. Still, we left early and headed off to grab some lunch.

  We got several more photo requests on our way to the food vendors, which I had expected. I hadn’t expected the folks we came with to be among those taking pictures. It worked out to our advantage, because while we were posing, a crier came through advertising an eating contest. Rose flashed a grin at me and headed off to sign up.

  The goal was to eat as many roasted turkey legs as possible in ten minutes. Everyone had a dozen turkey legs on a platter in front of them, and an extra dozen ready to be doled out one at a time if anyone got that far. There were ten contestants, and Rose was the only woman entered. I looked around for an odds maker, but such modern activities were not approved of.

  Just before the designated start time, Their Majesties and the strolling Court arrived to view the contest. They got settled and the judge read the official rules—no throwing up, bones have to be fully cleaned to count, things like that. The judge asked if anyone had any questions; Rose’s hand shot up. At the judge’s nod, Rose bowed towards the Crown and curtsied.

  “If it pleases Her Majesty, may I ask the honor of bearing Her Majesty’s favor in this contest?” The spectators laughed at that, since the other contestants all seemed to be of the trucker/construction worker/aspiring sumo persuasion. I don’t think any of them massed less than twice what Rose did.

  Perhaps the image of (relatively) tiny little Rose going up against all those behemoths tickled the Queen’s fancy. Regardless, the Queen laughed and waved for Rose to approach. Rose knelt at her feet and the Queen held out a silk handkerchief. Rose took it, bowed, and tucked the favor into her belt.

  The judge set up a large hourglass, called for the contestants to get ready, and turned the hourglass over. “Begin!”

  Most of the eaters took a few bites and started chewing. The guy next to Rose peeled half the meat off his first leg and started chowing down while peeling off the rest. If Rose hadn’t been entered, he probably would have stood a good chance to win. Rose’s approach was to stick the leg into her mouth like a corn dog and strip the meat off as she pulled the bone out. For some reason, that trick was a real crowd pleaser.

  By the halfway point, Rose was on her seventh leg. The guy next to her was on his fifth and starting to slow down. He paused to keep from disqualifying himself and caught sight of the pile of bones in front of Rose. He stared at her for a moment, swore under his breath, and dove back in.

  Rose blew the guy a kiss, eliciting another burst of laughter and applause from the crowd. She touched her forehead and bowed to the Queen, then kicked into high gear. She got to the last leg on her plate and waved for the backup platter.

  When the judge called time, three of the contestants had either disqualified themselves or hadn’t finished the full ten minutes. The big guy had finished eight, which would have set a record any other day. Rose had downed fourteen and was working on number fifteen. She took a bow, then grabbed the judge and asked if she could get the uneaten turkey legs wrapped to go.

  Her Majesty called Rose forward and rewarded her with a ceramic medallion bearing a crown over two crossed turkey legs. She also received a Royal Certificate of Treasury, entitling her to fifty dollars worth of goods from any vendor in the Realm. After the official photo was taken, all the club members who had come that day gathered around for another photo with the King and Queen. It was a great picture, capturing a grand, happy moment for my friends and my love.

  It was also the last photo we would have of Sharon.

  Chapter Seven

  Taken Too Soon

  I woke up to the phone ringing and a great deal of hissy-growly cursing from Rose. The red numbers on the clock said it was just after 5:00 a.m. I grabbed the phone and took a deep breath before answering. “This is David. What is it?”

  “Is this David Fraser?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Fraser, my name is Ellen Morris. I’m a victim advocate with the Tulsa Police Department. My apologies for calling you at this hour but I’m afraid I have some rather bad news for you.”

  I sat up and turned the light on. “That’s all right. What’s happened?”

  She took a deep breath and said, “I’m very sorry to have to tell you that Sharon Datona is dead.”

  Sharon—dead? I felt a shard of ice rip through my chest and my throat tried to clamp closed. I swallowed hard. “I understand. Is there anything you can tell me about…what happened?”

  “I can tell you that the Denver police are investigating her death is as a homicide. That’s all the information I have right now.”

  “I see.” Rose sat up and hugged me, leaning her head on my shoulder. I took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “How is Manya doing?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Fraser, but I’m only working with Sharon’s family. I don’t have any information on the roommate.”

  The shard of ice in my chest twisted and burst into white-hot flame. “Manya Patel is Sharon’s family. They were married two years ago. You might not like her lifestyle, lady, but don’t you dare disrespect it.”r />
  Morris made a snotty, self-important hrumph-ing noise. “As no designated beneficiary agreement exists, Miss Datona’s parents will be making all decisions about her funeral arrangements. They have made it clear her services are going to be in Oklahoma, and will be limited to family members only. They did say you and Miss Patel are more than welcome to organize a memorial for her friends in Denver.”

  “We don’t need their permission to do that.” I bit back the rest of what I wanted to say. “Is there anything else?”

  “Not at the moment, but I’ll let you know if that changes. Goodbye, Mr. Fraser. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  I hung the phone up instead of throwing it across the room. Don’t kill the messenger, right? I hugged Rose and whispered, “Sharon is dead. Someone murdered her last night.”

  “Oh, no! Is Manya all right?”

  “I don’t know, but I think this is going to be a really long day.” I got up and checked both my email and text messages; both were clear. I sent Manya a text telling her I was awake and had just heard the news. My phone rang two minutes later.

  “David, it’s Miriam. Manya is down in the morgue saying goodbye. She wanted to know if you had a phone number for a lawyer named Alice something-or-other. Do you know who she means?”

  “Alice Hannigan. Yes and yes. What does she need?”

  “Manya asked if you would call this lawyer and take ownership of something. She said you would know what she was talking about.”

  Oh, shit–Sharon’s parents are after the embryos. “I know. Tell her I’m on it. I’ll call back once I have an update.” As softly as I could, I asked, “Do we know what happened?”

  Miriam’s voice caught and she had to take several deep breaths. “Manya was out at the store when someone called Sharon from a pay phone. She left a note that she was going out to pick up a rescue rabbit. The police found her behind a dumpster at a gas station. There was a dead rabbit in a box next to her.” Miriam paused for a deep, calming breath. When she spoke again, her voice was antiseptic and clinical. “She was killed by multiple slashing injuries. It was brutal. Personal. Whoever killed her was someone she knew, possibly someone we know. She would never have gone out to meet someone she didn’t know and trust.”

  “God damn…” I ran my fingers through my hair. “You’re right, but I can’t think of anyone who could do this. I could see Randall accidently shooting someone, but not cold blooded murder.”

  “I gave the police Randall’s name already,” Miriam said. “It could also be someone Sharon works with who we don’t know. Still…”

  I nodded. “Still. Do they have any leads?”

  “Not yet. Not that they’ve mentioned. But there’s something else we just found out. Sharon’s parents are trying to take her body. They also told Manya they want Sharon’s half of the house.” She started crying, mumbling an apology around her sobs.

  “Tell her not to worry about the house. We’ll find a way.” I checked the clock and sighed. “I need to get hold of our lawyer. Hang in there. I’ll call you back as soon as I can.” I hung up and dialed Alice Hannigan’s office number. I left a message with her answering service and she called back five minutes later. I briefed her and asked, “What do we need to do to keep the embryos safe?”

  Much legalese later, we had an action plan and I had an extensive to-do list. Rose made me breakfast, I called in to work, and we hit the road. We were there when the lab opened and I spent a couple of hours filling out forms and faxing things back and forth, but by lunchtime, our embryos were protected. If Manya wanted to use them, they would be waiting for her, and nothing could be done to them without my approval.

  We met up at Manya and Sharon’s house and helped Miriam with sorting out Sharon’s things. Manya was on Skype with her parents in Mumbai, alternately crying and talking harsh, angry Hindi. She paused and waved me over to her side of the computer screen. She introduced me to her parents, Rajesh and Ananya. She took my hand. “David is the father of the children we were going to have. David, they’re all I have left of her. May I carry Sharon’s children?”

  I kissed the tips of my fingers and pressed them to the bindi in the middle of her forehead. “You’re Sharon’s wife. The embryos are yours to use. If you want to stay here or go back to stay with your parents, whatever you need to do, it’s fine with me.”

  Rajesh said, “We would like Manya to come home with us. It will be better for the child. With Sharon gone, we do not wish to see our daughter’s child raised in this ‘Oaky-huma’. I thank you for understanding, but to be sure, does your lady agree?”

  “Well, sir, I’ve lived in Oaky-huma myself and I don’t recommend it either. As for my lady, I’ll ask.” I waved Rose over and introduced her. “Rose, Manya wants to carry one of the embryos. Her parents want her to come back to India to have the baby. Is that all right with you?”

  Rose looked at Manya and back at Rajesh before launching into a torrent of high-speed Hindi. When she finished, she turned back to me. “I said ‘yes’. I also wanted to make sure we could visit.”

  “Well, I’d much rather visit India than Oaky-huma,” I said. “We’ll take care of it. Is there anything else we can do?”

  “Find a place for a memorial,” Manya said. “Miriam has been having problems.” She picked up one of the rabbits and stroked the thick patch of soft fur behind its ears. “We’ve talked about what to do. We just need to find a place. I’d like to try for Wednesday night if we can.”

  “I think I know just the place. I’ll make some calls and let you know.” We exchanged hugs then I went out into the back yard with a phone book and started making calls. An hour later, I had a four-hour block reserved at the Somewhat Off-Center Theatre off of 15th Street in lower downtown. Miriam and Manya thought the theatre was an ideal location. Now that we had a date, time, and place, I took the list of names they emailed to me and started making calls.

  The next three days turned into a blur of phone calls and crying friends interspersed with interviews and news reports. By the third day, the police still had no suspects, or at least none that they were willing to talk about. That didn’t make putting together a memorial service very easy, but we got it done.

  * * * *

  Far too soon, the appointed day arrived. An hour before the service, I turned onto 15th Street and found a parking spot wide open and waiting for me. I pulled in with a whisper of thinks and a promise of a libation of rum to Squat, the Divine Metermaid and Goddess of Parking Spaces. Don’t laugh—you do not want to feel the Boot of Squat.

  Rose stepped out of the car and sniffed. “Books…I smell books!”

  “You can smell books?”

  “Of course. I’m a book wyrm.” She giggled and poked me in the ribs.

  Oh, ouch. I should have seen that coming a mile away. I did my best to ignore it and move on. “It’s a coffee house and bookstore. The service will be in the theatre next door.” I held the front door open for her. “Welcome to Muddy Waters of the Platte. Are you hungry?” Silly question, I know.

  The food at Muddy’s was always excellent, but the menu was problematic at best. The only constant was the coffee; everything else depended on who was working the kitchen. Djemma was on today, which meant Discordian cuisine and no menu at all. She served us grilled BLTs on sourdough and a Moroccan lamb and lentil stew, heavy on the cumin and cilantro. We climbed the ladder to the second floor and found a spot in the stacks.

  When we finished eating, I sent our plates back down the dumbwaiter, along with five bucks to get some classic rock added to the play list. When I got back to our spot, Rose already had a good-sized pile of books picked out. “Is this too many? Is it inappropriate?”

  “I don’t think Sharon would mind, but we should put them in the car before the service. Are you ready?”

  “Yes. I am sad, not angry. I will tell Manya I’m very sorry. When the time comes, I will cry.”

  “Just watch the people around us and you’ll be fine. I just wish there
was something we could do for Manya.” She had been coping until Sharon’s parents got a restraining order keeping her away from the funeral in Tulsa. She hadn’t been planning on going, but the gesture was salt rubbed into an open wound. I put the thought out of my mind before I got angry again.

  As the hour wound down, we went outside to stash the books and meet up with my mother and Audrey. Manya’s parents, fresh off a twenty-hour plane trip from Mumbai, were greeting people at the door and handing out packages of wildflower seeds for us to take home. We hugged and made plans to go out to eat together after the service.

  Inside, pictures of Sharon cycled on a projector screen up on the stage. An altar with more flowers and several photographs of Sharon sat right in front of the stage. An ice sculpture of a rabbit dominated the center of the altar. The rabbit had one foot off the ground and was looking over its shoulder. You could almost see the ears twitching. A banner on the front of the altar read, ‘My love will run with you forever’. I did all the crying I had held back for the last three days.

  There was no formal eulogy; Manya talked about how she and Sharon had met and told several of her favorite memories. Several more friends followed, supplying a mix of laughter and tears. Manya concluded the memorial with a slide show of Sharon in happier times; at parties, playing with her pet rabbits, and their wedding, all set to a happy, up-tempo march.

  Everyone in the theatre started clapping along, except Rose. She was holding her hands a foot apart, fingers spread as though holding something. No one noticed, though, because the ice sculpture started moving.

  It looked around, sending cracks and fissures through the ice. The rabbit gave one good shake and the sculpture shattered, leaving a glowing gold rabbit surrounded by swirls of gold light. It stood up on its hind legs, sniffed, and leaped into the air, racing around the room and leaving a trail of light behind it.

  It stopped in front of Manya and leaned forward, touching its forehead to hers. Manya reached up to touch it, but the rabbit looked over its shoulder, exactly as the sculpture had been posed. It turned and hopped away, fading from sight as it did.