by R. L. Naquin
I followed Andrew to the kitchen and watched as he ground up a variety of pungent-smelling, mysterious herbs, liquids and greasy stuff.
He made tea and poured it into a shot glass for them to dip their tiny Barbie cups into, then slathered two kinds of mystery goo on little Pepto-pink plates. I made a face as I helped him pile the smelly load on a small tray.
“I thought Christmas Sweat Sock tea was nasty,” I said.
Standing outside the closet, Andrew explained each item. Fred and Molly were to drink the tea for pain and for stress. The goopy stuff was a poultice, though I was clueless as to what that meant. I hadn’t seen any chicken parts go into it, so poultry and poultice must be unrelated. I, apparently, was an idiot. The brownies knew exactly what to do with the gunk.
The one with all the leafiness to it was patted along Fred’s possibly-broken arm.
“It should reduce swelling, and if bones are broken, it’ll help them knit faster,” Andrew said. He tied the tiny sling in place and gave Fred a cheery smile. “Better in no time, Fred.”
Molly’s goop was a little more delicate to apply. Andrew enlisted Aaron’s tiny hands to help smear it over her black eye and along her hairline where she’d been cut.
“Now,” Andrew said, “let’s take a look at my first dragon.”
Without warning, Molly let out a series of yippy barks that bore an eerie similarity to the sound of a fennec fox, then made a flying leap off the ledge of the linen closet shelf. I didn’t have time to react. My heart felt like it blew a valve in that single second. She did a little somersault midair and landed neatly on Milo’s back at my feet. After grabbing a double handful of fur, she barked once. Milo answered and trotted off toward the front door.
Andrew and I exchanged alarmed expressions and tore after them.
When we reached the back corner of the garage, I was a little out of breath. Maybe those trips to the gym with Sara shouldn’t be such a low priority after this. If I ever had time.
Molly was tsk-tsk-ing from astride her mount.
“You did not say he was pink. This is not good. Who ever heard of a pink dragon?”
Andrew and I agreed that we had not, up until today, seen or heard of a pink dragon.
The brownie woman made a series of snorting sounds which were returned by the miserable dragon, punctuated by sneeze-induced sparklers.
“We must cool him off,” she said. “Inside and out. And he is very hungry.”
“I’m on it,” I said. I ran into the house and yanked bowls out of the kitchen cupboards. “Maurice!” I hadn’t seen him since Andrew had arrived. That was odd. Still, whatever his sudden bout of shyness was about, he was at my elbow within seconds.
“I’m here,” he said.
“Where did you go? Never mind. I need towels. Will you grab some out of the linen closet and bring them to the sink, please?”
He was gone as quickly as he’d appeared. I dumped every ice cube in my freezer into one of the bowls, congratulating myself for getting a fridge with a sizeable ice maker. In another bowl I piled every bit of frozen meat I could find. Chicken, fish, hamburger, steak. I was a little sad about the steaks. They had been on special, and I’d been so pleased with myself about getting such a good deal on an expensive cut. I shrugged. The universe had given me a deal on dragon feed.
Maurice brought in a stack of towels and set them on the counter.
“The steak, too?” he said. “You have to be kidding me. That was going to be tomorrow night’s dinner.” He looked pouty.
“I’ll get you more steak. Don’t be stingy.” I sorted the towels, grabbing a few of my favorites and setting them aside. I didn’t know if wet towels on a hot dragon would disintegrate on contact.
The rest I threw into the sink and ran under the faucet. Without wringing them out, I dumped them into my monster-sized popcorn bowl.
“We’re set. Can you help me get it all out there?”
Maurice looked a little ashen. Well, compared to his normal ashen complexion.
“He won’t bite,” I said. I shoved the bowl of sopping towels into his arms. “I promise. He saved my life, remember? He’s a good guy.”
“But.” Maurice’s bottom lip quivered. “But he’s human.”
“I’m human. My mother was human. What’s the problem?”
“You’re special. Regular humans aren’t supposed to see the Hidden.”
“Trust me. Andrew’s special, too.” I gave him an encouraging smile and walked out, hoping he’d follow. I did not have time to hold a closet monster’s hand. I was terrified a baby dragon was going to spontaneously combust in my garage.
Between the metal bowl of ice cubes and the plastic bowl of frozen, packaged meat, my teeth were chattering by the time I got back into the garage. Andrew took the ice from me and knelt down next to the dragon.
“Hey, handsome. How about something cold to chomp on with those wicked teeth of yours?” He held a chunk in the palm of his hand and offered it like a sugar cube to a horse. The dragon sniffed at it, slithered out a forked tongue, then grabbed the ice with his lips, exactly like a horse. He crunched it once and swallowed. Steam blew out his nostrils in twin streams.
The sneeze that followed bounced sparks off Andrew’s palm. I jumped. Andrew held firm.
While Andrew continued to feed ice to the dragon, I looked around for Maurice. My foot kicked the bowl of towels, and water sloshed over the edge, drenching my new Skechers. I finally spotted Maurice in the corner, his enormous eyes shining from the shadows. His issues would have to wait. A sick dragon had to take precedence over a closet monster with social anxiety disorder. One problem at a time.
I pulled a sopping towel from the bowl and draped it across the dragon’s back. He shivered, and a blanket of steam rose from the ridge along his spine. Within minutes, the towel was dry and crisp. If I were the type to iron my linens, this is the way I would do it. I pulled the towel off and replaced it with another wet one. By the third application of wet towel, half the ice was gone and the dragon was a little less pink than he had been.
I scratched his head. “Poor baby,” I said. “Where’s your mama?” That thought made me nauseous. “Oh my God. What if his mother comes looking for him?”
Molly laughed. “He is not a baby. Do not be ridiculous.”
“But he’s so small.”
“He is a pygmy dragon. They do not come much bigger these days. It is hard enough for someone my size to hide from humanity.”
She had a point. There was so much I had to learn. I was woefully ignorant in the most basic folklore. And half of what I had read was wrong. Probably more than half. Why was there not an instruction manual for this? Mystical Creatures and Urban Legends for Dummies would come in handy right about now. Or maybe Care and Feeding of Your New Hidden Horde.
“Think he’s ready for some food?”
Molly exchanged a few grunts and snorts with the dragon. “Bruce is ready to eat.”
“Bruce?” The mundane aspects of the supernatural floored me more than the crazy stuff.
I clawed at the plastic wrapping on the frozen chicken and became frustrated quickly. I can never get them open without a sharp implement, and by the time I get one, I’m usually so irritated that I do damage to whatever is inside in my haste to stab at the problem.
A knife appeared as if I’d wished for it. Maurice had stepped out of his protective shadows to present it to me.
“Thought you might need this, so I brought it with me,” he said in a stage whisper. Or maybe, for a closet monster, that was a regular whisper. I was sure my missing Dummies book would have answered the question.
I poked at the plastic and sliced the package open. Holding a chicken leg between my fingers as delicately as possible, I offered it to Bruce.
“Here you go, buddy. I know it’s
cold, but you need that right now.”
Bruce snarfed down the frozen chunk of flesh so fast I had trouble following it with my eyes. If it weren’t for the single, very loud crunch coming from his jaws before he swallowed, I might not have believed he’d gotten any of it.
Two packages of chicken, three sea bass (also on special), and all of the ground beef were gone before he started to slow. Maurice and I looked at each other with hopeful relief, but it was not to be. Bruce let out a long, rumbling burp and asked for more. With sadness in our hearts, we unwrapped the steaks and tossed them in with the rest of the contents of my freezer. So much for dinner.
On the bright side, it looked like it worked. Bruce let out a warm sigh, turned on his side so his distended belly would be more comfortable, and dozed off. He didn’t snore so much as gurgle in his sleep.
He wasn’t exactly cool to the touch, but he wasn’t hot either. And the snot-sparkler sneezes had tapered off.
“See?” Molly said. “Broken furnace in his belly. He should be better now. His color is much better.”
Bruce was now a brownish green with darker green spots—apparently the industry standard for adult pygmy dragons.
We all stood there watching him for a few minutes until it started to feel uncomfortable. Maurice resumed his spot in the shadows, and Molly made tiny braids in Milo’s hair. Andrew grimaced, still hunkered down on the garage floor.
“Need some help?” I stuck my hand out and helped haul him to his feet.
He brushed himself off and stretched. “That was pretty cool. Not sure you needed an herbalist for it, but I’m happy to be here.”
“Glad we could entertain you.” I grinned. He had no idea how much I had needed another human around today. If nothing else, I needed confirmation that I wasn’t insane.
“I guess the show’s over for now. Milo and I should head back.”
I was a little worried about getting them out of the driveway, but apparently security wasn’t as concerned about who left as they were about who arrived. I watched the tail end of his car disappear down the road, and my stomach sank.
I was on my own again.
Chapter Seven
The baby raccoon in the basket by my desk wouldn’t eat the Tootsie Roll I was trying to feed him. Frustrated, I wished I had some celery. Raccoons love celery.
I returned to my paperwork and squinted. The words jumbled together and my eyes wouldn’t focus. It was as if each letter squirmed out of reach of my direct gaze, making it impossible to string them together into words, phrases and sentences.
Maybe I needed glasses. The light was a little dim, but the wedding was about to start and Maurice hadn’t lit all the candles yet.
Sara appeared beside me, looking stern. “What are you wearing?” she said, dragging me from my desk. “You look ridiculous. Start the music. Everybody’s waiting.”
I grabbed my cell phone and punched at it to bring up my ringtones. A synthesized version of “The Wedding March” rang out, and Sara pushed me toward the aisle.
My wedding? Crap. I looked down at my clothes. I couldn’t get married in a Hello Kitty nightgown. Did I have a wedding dress? The music from my phone ended. Everyone was leaning over the pews looking at me. I tapped buttons and scrolled through the ringtone list, but I couldn’t find the song again to restart it.
Panicked, I darted into the church foyer to rummage in my closet. No wedding dress. No, wait, there it was. I ripped the plastic from the frothy black gown and pulled it over my head. The sleeves were too long and the hem was above my ankles. Now everyone would see my bare feet. I should have painted my toenails.
I ran into the church and walked down the aisle as slowly as I could. The groom faced away from me. His sandy hair curled over the collar of his tuxedo. My feet moved faster.
From his seat in a pew ahead, Dad smiled and gave me a thumbs-up. I worried for a moment that he wasn’t walking me down the aisle, but then I remembered he had died, so couldn’t possibly give me away. When I walked past him, he leaned out and grabbed my hand.
“Your mother’s dress suits you,” he said. “I hope you kept her chili recipe.” He pulled his arm back and faced front.
The groom was gone. I must have taken too long. The candles had blown out, and I was alone.
The darkness was oily and thick. Weak moonlight trickled in through the stained-glass windows causing shadows to flit around me. I tried to leave, but a tree branch snagged at my skirt, pinning me in place. I tugged at it, desperate to press my back against something solid. The open space left me exposed to something moving in the lightless night. A hungry thing. A thing with claws.
I ripped the fabric free and fled, every step impeded, like taffy pulling at my feet. I raced in slow motion, knowing something was coming for me in the dark. The pressure on my legs released and I stumbled forward into soft, velvet arms.
Glowing green eyes bored into me. “My dear, you look lovely. Positively delicious.”
Sebastian leaned his head forward to taste me. I opened my mouth to scream and his mouth engulfed mine, tongue darting in to lick at my panic. His eyes remained locked on mine, and waves of fear and pleasure shot through my body. My struggles weakened and my arms went limp.
I loved him. Of course I did. How could I have forgotten? I stroked my hands against his velvet coat and up to his face, then curled my fingers in his hair. I moaned and moved my body tighter against his.
He broke the kiss and chuckled. “Just a taste. Let’s not be greedy. I wouldn’t want to overfish the lake when the harvest is so bountiful.”
He released me, and my legs buckled. A pathetic, mewling protest escaped from me as I watched him go.
I crawled after him through the grass, but I didn’t have far to go. He stopped and knelt over the prone figure of a woman covered in tattoos. He glanced at me and winked before pressing his lips against hers.
She stirred and moaned, her body twisting about in a sensuous dance. He stroked his hand along her waist and she bucked, her moans more frantic. Sebastian pressed his mouth harder against hers, and her back arched in the throes of orgasm. His hand moved to her hip, fingers digging into the fabric of her jeans. Her back arched again and she groaned. Her legs kicked out and her arms shoved at him to release her.
He clutched her harder.
The pitch of her muffled cries became higher, more frantic. Another orgasm ripped through her body. Her back arched so hard I thought it might snap. Her arms flapped like caged birds, batting at him with less and less force.
Selma’s hips continued to twitch long after her arms and legs fell to the grass, motionless. When he released her from the prison of his kiss, her head fell sideways. Her lips were bruised and swollen, her eyes glassy and empty. The grocery clerk was dead.
Sebastian rose to his feet and looked down at me where I knelt in the grass.
He pulled a delicate handkerchief from his lacy shirt sleeve and dabbed at his mouth. “I must say, you are a fabulous cook. That was superb.”
His eyes flashed at me and something tightened between my legs. I reached my hand up toward him, a shameless whimper escaping from my throat.
“No, no,” he said. “Thank you, I couldn’t eat another bite. I’m stuffed. But I can’t wait to see what you’ll cook for me next. You are truly an artist.”
My throat cramped and a tear slid down my cheek. He walked away and I crumpled, sobbing.
“Zoey.”
Someone was shaking me.
“Zoey, wake up.”
I opened my eyes to find Maurice standing over my bed, his yellow eyes glowing in the near dark. “Wake up, Zoey.”
I sat up and wiped at my wet face. “What time is it?”
“About three-thirty. You were crying. Are you okay?”
I thought about it. “I think so. Th
at was a weird one.” I slid out from the sweaty, tangled sheets. “I’m sure as hell not going back to sleep anytime soon.”
Maurice dragged me to the kitchen and sat me down at the table. He grumbled while he made hot cocoa from chocolate milk mix.
“Real cocoa, Zoey,” he said, shaking a wooden spoon at me. “You have no idea how hard it is to cook in a kitchen so woefully thin on ingredients.”
I grinned around a mouthful of caramel-pear pie. “From where I’m sitting, you don’t seem to be having any problems.” I poked my fork into the flaky crust and gave a suspicious frown. “In fact, I know I didn’t have any pears in the house.”
In response, he became extra busy at the stove, stirring furiously.
“Maurice, what have you done?”
He pulled his shoulders straighter and faced me with a slow reluctance. “Nothing. I did nothing. They couldn’t eat all those pears anyway.”
I thought about all the deliciousness of the past several meals and cringed. Strawberries. Melons. Cabbage. Green beans. “Oh my God. You’ve been stealing from the neighbors.”
“It’s not stealing, Zoey. I only take a little, hardly enough for them to notice. Fresh is better. And the hens practically show me where their nests are.”
I was stunned. I didn’t know any of my neighbors had chickens.
“Eggs, too? Maurice, we can’t do that. Please, please, write me a grocery list. I’ll go to the farmers’ market if you’re so set on fresh. But I need you not to harvest my neighbors’ produce. We have enough going on here without pitchforked villagers storming the house looking for their missing butternut squash.”
He poured the heated cocoa into mugs and brought them to the table. Taking a seat, he sipped at the steaming drink and blinked his yellow eyes without saying a word.
“Maurice, promise me.”
He gave me a dramatic sigh. “Fine. No eggs. No gardens. But I reserve the right to pick from trees when the fruit is going to go bad anyway. You really are unreasonable.”
