by Lori Devoti
As she entered, Fafnir wiggled forward, closer to the edge so his legs bent and his feet dangled.
An image completely out of keeping with the one set so solidly in her mind of him stabbing the dead dragon, then licking the blood that oozed forth, like a toddler sampling a lollipop. As it was, that image, combined with how he looked perched inside the egg, just made her shiver more.
One hand on each side of the egg, he leaned forward. “You have a chill? How about something warm to drink?” He smiled. His teeth were smooth and white, normal-looking.
Amma shivered again, then shook her head. “I’m fine. Were you looking for me? The clerk said someone was waiting in the bar…” She glanced around as if someone else might be hiding inside the small open space. Then letting her gaze drift back to the dwarf, she added, “But I don’t think we’ve met.”
He jerked his head toward an empty egg that sat a foot or so from his. “I understand you were looking for the Collector. Why? Do you have something to trade?”
“Are you the Collector?” She knew he wasn’t, but she wanted to hear whatever story he had concocted.
He raised one bushy brow and gestured toward the chair. With a weak smile, she sat.
He resettled himself, staying forward on the cushion, but shifting his legs a bit. “I thought you’d done business with the Collector before.”
Sitting inside the egg made Amma uneasy, as if someone might be sneaking up beside her, or that she could be trapped inside the plastic shell. She edged forward, so her peripheral vision wasn’t blocked by the sides of the chair.
“I have, but it was years ago.”
“You thought he’d changed?” The dwarf’s expression was impossible to read.
“I thought perhaps someone new had taken over the title.” It was a simple answer, unlikely, of course, but it seemed to satisfy the dwarf.
“No, there is only one Collector as far as I know.” He templed his fingers, then patted the pads against each other. “What is it you have for him?”
Amma twisted her lips to the side. She wasn’t sure how much to reveal to Fafnir, still didn’t know his connection to the Collector. “I’d prefer to talk to him about that,” she said.
Fafnir waved one hand. “He’s busy, and not available right now, but I am authorized to make deals for him. I am his son, after all.”
Amma blinked, but made no comment. If this was true, Fafnir could have the power he claimed, but Fafnir searching her out didn’t feel right.
“So, what do you have for the Collector, or perhaps I should find out first what it is you want from him in exchange?”
Amma’s eyes narrowed. Asking what she wanted wasn’t a standard negotiating tactic. Fafnir’s mistake aroused her suspicions anew. The Collector she’d dealt with wouldn’t trust someone so obviously unqualified to make a trade for him.
“His standard deal should be fine,” she parried.
“Standard?” The dwarf frowned, confirming that he was not representing the Collector at all.
So, why was he here? Amma suspected she knew.
She sighed. “I can see you are much too experienced to be taken in by games. As I said, I did business with the Collector a while back. I traded something to him in exchange for some information. Now, I’d really like that object back. Simple as that.”
The dwarf’s eyes glittered. He edged farther out of his egg. “And what would you be willing to give in exchange for this item?”
Amma licked her lips and tried to look unsure.
The dwarf took her bait. He jumped back in. “At the club, I heard you were with a dragon. Do you know him well? Would he be willing to help you get this item back?”
The dwarf’s eagerness was tangible.
Amma didn’t have to fake her uncertainty this time. “I… Dragons are very protective of their treasure.”
The dwarf’s stubby fingers curled around the sides of the shell. “What if the trade wasn’t for treasure? What if it was for something the dragon would never miss, could easily replace?”
“There isn’t much a dragon wouldn’t miss.”
Fafnir smiled. “Handled correctly there is.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a vial. Holding it between finger and thumb, he moved it back and forth. A green liquid sloshed from side to side.
Amma stilled. “What is it?”
“Nothing dangerous, just a sedative. It makes the other part of the task a lot simpler.” With his other hand, he reached into the inside of his coat and pulled out a flask. It was glass, wrapped in bands of metal—just like the flask the dwarf outside the portal had dropped and that she’d seen Fafnir fill with the dead dragon’s blood.
He handed it to her.
She flipped the flask over in her hands as if studying it. “What could the dragon have that I’d need this?” A sick feeling swept over her. She could barely stand to touch the thing; she knew what it was for, what Fafnir was about to ask her for.
“Dragons are rare,” he stated.
She inhaled and nodded.
“In some cultures beings even believe their magic can be used by others.”
“Really? I’ve never heard that.”
He shook his head as if the entire idea was distasteful. “There’s quite a market for dragon parts.”
Amma stared at the flask, wondering if it had been filled before.
“But we, of course—” he laughed “—don’t take part in that trade. We only deal in things that leave no one damaged.”
“Oh, good.” Had Fafnir been saving the dead dragon’s body for some reason aside from a source of blood? Did he see that as leaving no one damaged?
She closed her eyes for a brief second, forced herself to remain calm, and injected interest into her voice. “So, this—” she held out the flask “—is for what?”
He smiled. “Blood. I know it sounds odd but these…beings…pay quite well for dragon blood. They use it in elixirs and medical treatments. Some think it may be the cure to some of the worst diseases in the nine worlds.”
He made it all sound so very noble.
“And that?” She pointed at the vial of green liquid he still held.
“This?” He shook it as if he’d forgotten he was holding it. “Depending on the dragon and your relationship with him, this may not even be necessary. It’s just…well…some dragons we’ve found are squeamish about the process.”
“Squeamish?” she repeated.
His voice dropped. “This—” he held the vial out toward her “—keeps the dragon from even knowing the blood has been taken. Just slip it in his drink. It knocks them out for only a minute or two, but long enough to fill the flask. And they heal so quickly, if they notice the nick, they’ll just believe they cut themselves shaving.”
Somehow, Amma had a hard time believing that, but she took the vial.
The glimmer she’d noticed in Fafnir’s eyes earlier turned to a blaze. Obviously pleased, he relaxed a bit deeper into the egg. “So, now tell me about the object you gave the Collector.”
Still staring at the vial, Amma almost missed his request. She set the vial and the flask between her thigh and the wall of the egg. When she looked up the dwarf was watching her, eager and expectant. “It’s…” She hesitated. He’d made no mention of the chalice, but this entire journey had started because someone had delivered a note to the dragons claiming they had it and were willing to give it up. So, someone knew it was important; did Fafnir?
“It’s nothing really. I’m surprised your father even took it from me.” She laughed. “He probably took pity on me. I was a little desperate at the time.”
Fafnir waved her comments aside. “Then getting it back shouldn’t be an issue.”
Amma hoped not. She smiled, tried to appear meek and grateful for his upcoming assistance. “It’s a cup. Nothing special, metal with a few jewels.”
Fafnir stiffened; his hand, which had been tapping the edge of the egg, stilled. “A cup. The Collector has a number of cups that sound li
ke that. Could you be more specific?”
Amma knew then he realized exactly what cup she was talking about. What she didn’t know was if he was willing and able to give it to her.
“It’s about this big.” She held her hands eight inches apart. “And there are dragons on its sides.” She went on to describe the cup in more detail. Finally, Fafnir nodded.
“I think I know the cup you’re referring to. Why, may I ask, is it important to get it back?”
“I…” She wasn’t about to tell him her real reason. “I’m afraid I didn’t come by it honestly the first time. Over the years, the guilt… It was so unlike me to steal, but I was desperate.”
He curled his lips into his mouth and hopped down from his egg. Before she could move, he was in front of her, patting her knee. “You want to undo a wrong. That’s very understandable and noble. I’m sure the Collector will want to help you make things right. He, after all, doesn’t deal in stolen goods—not if he realizes it.” He gave her a judgmental look. “Normally, I don’t know that one flask of blood would be enough…but I’m sure I can talk him into it.”
“You think?” She widened her eyes, softened her voice.
He leaned closer; she could smell the mustiness of old caves clinging to his hair and clothes. Felt the strange sizzle of magic she’d sensed when she and Joarr had stood near the dwarf in the bar. She’d thought then it was coming from Fafnir, but when she’d tried to draw magic off him, there had been none. This time, however, she was sure the magic was coming from him. She concentrated to keep from reacting.
“Do you think you can get the blood?” He licked his lips.
Amma squirmed before remembering her act. She nodded, but dropped her gaze to keep from having to look at the dwarf any longer. She hoped he took it for shyness and regret for her past thievery. “You’re sure it won’t hurt him? He won’t feel anything?”
He patted her hand this time. His palms were rough and dry. “He won’t feel a thing.” He pulled a card from his pocket and dropped it on her lap. “When the flask is full, contact me here, and we’ll set up a meeting.”
She closed her hand over the card and nodded. She didn’t look up as he scurried away. She didn’t look up when couples and families started filling the bar for brunch, which the hotel apparently served there instead of at the regular restaurant. She was too lost in her thoughts, too wrapped up in deciding what she was going to do. A flask of Joarr’s blood for the chalice. It didn’t seem like too heavy a price.
Fafnir was right; forandre healed quickly. How long would it take Joarr’s body to re-create a pint of lost blood? Minutes?
To gain the chalice and to get away from Joarr, which after her fire-breathing episode had become important. Witches didn’t breathe fire, dragons did. She had to believe the child she carried was involved. If it happened again, if Joarr saw it, how long would it take him to guess the truth?
So an exchange of a pint or less of Joarr’s blood for the chalice had to be a good deal. Certainly it was for her. If she produced the chalice, Joarr would have to fulfill his end of the bargain, too. She would have sole claim to their son and she could leave before her condition became obvious.
Her son. He was all she wanted… Her mind drifted to waking up in Joarr’s arms, warm and safe. She hugged her body, tried to refocus on her baby and to forget his father.
She picked up Fafnir’s card and stared at it…black letters on a white card. The words blurred. She brushed the back of her hand over her eyes and wiped away the moisture that had gathered there.
Sole claim to their son. Being honest with herself she knew it wasn’t all she wanted, but it was the most she could hope to have.
Chapter 20
Joarr returned to the hotel, annoyed. He’d expected a trap, been prepared for it and looked forward to it.
And he’d got nothing. The bar he’d gone to was filled with dwarves and other beings of the nine worlds—cage fights between dwarves and trolls, dark elves and giants. The crowd had been huge and fired up, but no one had approached Joarr, at least not with an offer to sell him the chalice. Two promoters had recognized him as a dragon and tried to convince him to enter the ring; he’d tossed both aside. One, the last one, he’d had to freeze in place and with more than words.
They had, though, finally got the message and left him alone.
And for the rest of the day and evening he’d stayed that way. He’d sat through twelve hours of matches, drinking warm ale until the thought of it made him nauseous. He stunk of smoke and sweat. And he was fairly certain more than one type of body fluid had been sprayed on him by more than one pugilist.
At dawn, he’d faced the fact that he’d been stood up.
Tired and eager to see Amma, he pounded the elevator button and waited.
A couple with a child walked up behind him.
“He was a little person, honey. There’s nothing strange about it. All people are made differently.” The woman looked at Joarr, her lips curving into a smile that said, “Kids.”
“Why was he dressed funny?” the boy asked.
She placed a hand on the child’s head and pulled him against her. “He wasn’t.” Her cheeks flushed.
Joarr stared at the boy, realization and horror hitting him like a double hit to the gut. “A dwarf? A dwarf was here in the hotel?”
“Sir, really, that isn’t—” The woman stuttered.
His day clicked into place. Hours waiting with no contact.
He hadn’t been stood up. He had been diverted. Led astray so Amma would be left alone and unprotected.
Joarr didn’t wait to hear what else the woman had to say. He was already heading for the stairs.
Amma.
In his mind he was yelling her name. If he’d been in dragon form, she might have heard him, but in this body she couldn’t. He jerked open the stairwell door and took the steps three at a time.
* * *
The door to the room flew open and smashed against the wall. Amma jumped; a ball of power sizzled in her cupped hand.
Joarr stood in the doorway, his hair and eyes wild. When he saw her, he strode forward and jerked her against him.
She closed her eyes and leaned there. Her nose pressed against his chest, she inhaled his scent and felt the hard thump of his heart against her cheek. She trembled.
His fingers dug into her hair; he tilted her face up. “A dwarf. Was one here?”
She hesitated. She hadn’t expected him to guess that, hadn’t prepared herself with an answer. The vial Fafnir had given her was in her pocket. She hadn’t decided yet what to do, hadn’t decided if she trusted that the liquid wouldn’t hurt the dragon. Joarr himself had said dragons couldn’t be poisoned. Then again, dragons weren’t supposed to die except at the hands of a hero, but the body she and Joarr had discovered had been all too real.
She blew out a breath; it smelled of smoke. She clamped her lips closed and turned out of Joarr’s embrace.
