by J. A. Pitts
I slipped off, letting the beeping of the heart monitor lull me to sleep.
Sixty-five
THE MOSAIC OF LIGHTS HUNG BELOW FREDERICK AS HE SOARED over Portland. It had been a long time since he’d shifted so completely. Decades since he’d felt the wind flowing along his body, pushed along by the beat of his mighty wings.
Moments like these brought back the rush of his younger days in the motherland—times when man lived in scattered villages and there was no need to watch for airliners and news copters.
He missed the olden days before man had risen so high. Maybe his kind were to blame, allowing them to progress so far and so fast. But he loved it as well. He had more money, more power than any of his kind in the old country. While they squabbled over scraps, he had his own kingdom here in this new country.
There were those who clung to the old ways, but not he. He’d embraced the burgeoning civilization, rode it like a lover until he reigned supreme.
Nidhogg might object, but he saw her frailty as weakness that would not long survive. Once he solidified his base with Seattle and Vancouver, he would have the largest holdings in the world.
Jean-Paul’s death was a fluke, brought on by his inability to control the beast. Frederick did not lose his senses in their true form. He even retained the ability to speak. Jean-Paul fell to the fury and rage, and good riddance to him.
He rode the thermals for a bit, breathing in the dreams of his people. They had such hope here in this city of green. Nothing was impossible to the children of the west.
That smith intrigued him, titillated him in ways he’d not been thrilled in years. Here was an adversary worthy of his time. If Jean-Paul had not been so arrogant, so foolhardy, he’d be alive today, crushing Vancouver under his tainted claws. Now his world was ripe for Frederick to take.
The girl, this smith . . . he would watch her and wait. Let her be a thorn in the side of Nidhogg a while longer. It made no never mind to him. The wheel turned, the fires burned. Let the dead lie and the living bring him the tribute worthy of his greatness.
Frederick climbed higher to where the wind buffeted his body—cold and strong. He turned toward Mount Hood, craving the frigid stillness that reminded him of his early years.
Sixty-six
KATIE DIDN’T NORMALLY SNORE, BUT THAT’S WHAT WOKE ME. I cracked my eyes open, like opening a vault, and the dim light of the hospital room pierced my brain. I had no idea how long I’d been unconscious, but I know I was not tired. Sore, yes. God, I hurt everywhere.
The soft beep of the heart monitor and the ambient smell of disinfectant were beginning to be familiar. Not sure I liked that.
I watched her for a long time. She sat in one of those square padded chairs with the little kick-out foot rest that the hospitals provided for loved ones. You could sleep in it, if you loved visiting your chiropractor on a regular basis.
Her lap was full of pictures, finger paintings mostly, and some line drawings. They were from her class. The splash of primary colors contrasted well with the earth tones of her skirt.
I didn’t mean to wake her. She looked wiped out. My body said it was time to be awake, regardless. Of course, I couldn’t see a clock. But I wanted to sit up and I wanted to get some of the tubes and such removed. I couldn’t see the catheter but I could feel it. Not the most pleasant experience, let me tell you.
On the table beside my bed was a tray with a water pitcher and small plastic cups. Just looking at it made me so thirsty I coughed.
Katie sat bolt upright, scattering pictures across the floor. “Sarah?” she said, not really awake.
“Sor . . .” I tried to clear my throat. “Sorry,” I managed.
She stood up, leaning against the chair, and rubbed her face. “You’re awake?”
Not like her, that’s for sure. I grinned and the skin on my face felt too tight.
I brought my left hand up, exploring my face with light touches. “What time is it?”
“Tuesday.”
“Oh. Wait . . . What happened to Sunday?”
“Let me get the nurse,” she said, scampering out of the room.
The nurse gave me the once-over, and okayed me for a glass of water. Katie chattered about the three days I’d been in and out of consciousness while she picked up the papers. Her voice was strained from more than sleep deprivation.
“How is everyone?” I asked when the nurse left.
She shrugged, dropping her hands in front of her waist. “Gunther is in a cast from hip to knee. He’s grumpy as hell.” She smiled at this. “Stuart had some stitches and is already back to work.”
“And the others?”
“Bad.” She sat down on the side of the bed, putting the pictures on the tray table. “They’ve got Deidre in a medically induced coma.”
“Jimmy doing okay?”
“Ha.” She croaked. “Spends his time blaming himself, you, and damn near everyone else.”
I sighed, lifted my left arm carefully so as not to tangle the IV. I couldn’t reach her, but I tried. She leaned forward and took my hand. “He loves her.”
“Melanie says there’s a good chance she’ll never walk again.”
Crap. I let go of her hand. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
She looked at me sternly. “You are not to blame here,” she said.
“I’m sorry this got out of hand,” I said, holding my hand out to stop her protest. “How could any rational person believe in dragons and dwarves?”
She half smiled. “Thanks.”
Oy, stepped into that one.
“Okay, besides you.”
“My father told me stories,” she said with a shrug. “It always bugged Jimmy that I believed all of it. Up until the time they were killed. Jimmy found some things, did some snooping.”
They knew? “Dragons and witches?”
“Is it any harder to believe than neuroscience or quantum physics?”
Ha . . . I was an English major. It wasn’t exactly gibberish, but I had nowhere near enough math. “Apples and oranges,” I said.
The thing was, they’d always been open about things. Jimmy had offered me a place in his group on the condition I’d be willing to fight when the need arose. I’d always assumed he meant the SCA skirmishes and wars they playacted in every year. How was I to know he meant it for real. And there was something funny about the way he took the weapons, after all that.
“Where’s Gram?” I asked. Suddenly the sword’s whereabouts was the most important thing in my life. Maybe more important than breathing.
“Stuart put them in the vault,” she said. “Where Jimmy keeps the relics and talismans.”
What relics? Talismans? How old was Black Briar? Where did they get these items? Nothing made sense in any way I’d thought of the world before. It was like a fairy tale, only instead of a knight in shining armor you got a blacksmith who needed therapy.
Why had Gram come to me? I was nobody. Hell, I couldn’t keep a job, or a relationship. How was I supposed to fight dragons? Okay, the one seemed to have worked out, but the cost was too damn high.
“How many did we lose?”
She winced. “Twenty-seven.”
Holy crap. We only had sixty in Black Briar. “How many mustered?”
“Everyone.”
Everyone? Sixty-plus people in the battle, and we lost twenty-seven. Mother of God. “Did they cover it up?”
She showed me a two-day-old copy of the paper. The headline read TRAGEDY AT MOVIE SHOOT.
She cleared her throat and began to read.
Director Carl Tuttle could not be reached for questioning, but Frederick Sawyer, a partner in Flight Test, Ltd., released a statement regretting the deaths among the cast and crew. “It’s tragedies on this scale that make us appreciate those closest to us,” the philanthropist from Portland, Oregon, said. Puget Gas and Electric are investigating the gas leak that caused the explosion.
The movie Odin’s Ghost is about a fictional battle between huma
ns and the giants and trolls of mythic lore. Many of those killed were extras. “It’s a crying shame,” said Bjorn Mitchell, a spokesman for the Nordic Cultural Committee of Ballard, Washington. “They had the mythology totally buggered,” he said. “No way giants and trolls would be landing in choppers. This is a movie of fantastical imagination.”
Among the dead were Susan and Maggie Hirsch. This married couple from Seattle were heralded as trailblazers both within the Seattle police force and in the community at large. “We’re the first same-sex married couple on the force and we’ve been given the highest levels of support,” Susan Hirsch was quoted in a 2008 interview.
The names of other deceased have been withheld pending notification of next of kin.
Deidre Cornett, wife of Jimmy Cornett, the seneschal (leader) of the local SCA house, was severely wounded in the accident. She is best known for the computer games Sisters of Steel and Barbarian Bunnies. She sold Protoplasm Studios in 2004 for 78 million dollars.
“Enough,” I said, closing my eyes. “That’s enough.”
She folded the paper and dropped it on the bed. I didn’t have the strength to hear more.
“What about Julie?”
“More fiction,” Katie said. “Recovering from an explosion at the smithy, likely a result of another gas leak.”
Of course. “Puget Gas and Electric are going to take a real beating for this.”
Katie just shrugged.
On the other hand, it’s not like people would stop buying gas and electricity. They would weather the storm. Earthquake gave them ample coverage.
“How did they justify the giants and trolls?”
“People will believe what they are told,” Katie said. “That’s one of the things my father taught us. If you give them a reasonable explanation for an event, they will accept it over the truth.”
Truth? What a concept. “So, Nidhogg performed the big cover-up and everyone buys it?”
“Up until this,” she waved her hands, “would you have believed it otherwise?”
Good point.
“Funny that insurance for the mythical movie shoot appeared, along with some permits that had been filed but misplaced,” she said, standing up. “Qindra thought of everything.”
“I guess.”
“Well, everything but this.” She walked over and grabbed her teacher satchel from the back of the seat she’d been sleeping in. From inside she pulled out a copy of The Vancouver Sun and showed me an article on page six of section B.
LOCAL CLUB OWNER FOUND DEAD AT CAMPGROUND.
Vancouver entrepreneur and club owner Jean-Paul Duchamp was found mauled to death at a campground in western Washington. Mr. Duchamp has been suspected of drug trafficking in a 2003 court case where he was acquitted when the only witness was found burned to death. The details surrounding Mr. Duchamp’s untimely death are still being investigated, but local authorities think nature got the best of the often violent man.
“This guy was running a meth lab out of some of the cabins here on the lake,” Sherriff Jeremy Stubbs said. “Seems he wandered into the woods, to take a leak or something, and got surprised by a black bear. They are normally gentle creatures, but we have evidence he ran into a mother and her cubs.”
“Killed by a bear?” I asked.
“The burned cabins were empty,” Katie said. “He didn’t hurt anyone else after he left the farm.” She paused, her face hard with emotion. “Besides you.”
“I’m alive,” I said. My right arm was covered in bandages from elbow to fingertip. I gingerly lifted the arm. “And I didn’t lose this.” I could remember the way my arm had been cooked down to the bone. Dragons were nasty beasts. “I owe Qindra for saving this.”
“Careful who you owe,” she said. “They just might decide to collect.”
She had a point. “Can I get something to eat?”
“Let me get the nurse.” She walked from the room, trailing her hand over my feet as she passed the end of the bed.
I still loved watching her walk in that skirt. Hell, any skirt. But I was so tired.
Maybe I should tell her about the dream. I had never thought about children of my own before, but I’d be damned if I was going to let a dragon force me to mate with Gunther or Stuart. Not that they weren’t great guys, but come on. It could’ve been a stress dream, but in light of everything else that had gone on recently, I had a hard time ignoring it.
Qindra served Nidhogg, but she had moments where she seemed approachable. Not that I could trust her as far as I could spit.
And Katie . . . did I want to raise a child with her? Yikes. I can’t figure out how to have a grown-up relationship with her. I sure as hell ain’t ready to be a mommy. And even if I was, I wouldn’t be handing my children off to an ancient dragon for her amusement.
The nurse declared I’d survive and ordered me apple juice and lime gelatin. Soon I’d be on a bulk-up diet, she assured me. So much for my figure.
Since I was going to live, Katie took time to go home and shower, get a change of clothes and a few books for me. The doctors and nurses treated me like a hero. Seems the word had been spread that I had pulled some folks from the burning barn, saving lives and getting burned in the process.
Losing my hair was not too significant; it was growing back. But that, combined with the burn treatments, really made me cranky. I wasn’t feeling up to dealing with anyone. I turned away all visitors, except for Katie. I just couldn’t face them. To see the pain in their faces, the horror at what I’d done. It was too much to even think about. I isolated myself to avoid the emotion. Cut myself off from what could cause me more pain.
Katie disapproved, but didn’t argue with me. The pain of it was clear in her eyes, but I can be pretty darn stubborn.
Sixty-seven
OVER THE NEXT THREE WEEKS I HAD TWO SKIN GRAFTS USING this new artificial skin Harborview had in trials. The delicate work around my hands was painful and required three surgeries, the first just to separate the ring and pinkie fingers. In the end, while I wouldn’t have fingerprints on that hand, with physical therapy I’d use it again. You took what blessings you could.
One night I woke to find Qindra bending over me, the blue glow of her wand and feather necklace lighting the room. She stroked my forehead; I could feel her fingertips tracing the runes in my hairline.
When I turned over, she slipped away. I guess I could’ve dreamed it. The pain in my shoulder was better the next morning, though, and the doctors were pleased with the way my face was healing.
Sixty-eight
QINDRA SLIPPED INTO HER ROOM, PEELING OFF LAYERS OF clothing as she went. This was the sixth night she’d gone to the hospital to tend to the blacksmith and she was exhausted. She draped her cloak over her bed and sat at the dressing table, pulling the cover from the mirror.
For several minutes she daubed cream on her face, then she began stripping the polish off her nails. Each movement precise and practiced. One cotton ball per nail, each placed carefully in a small wooden box. Magic was a dangerous thing to work with. The air sparkled as the remnants of stored magic diffused into the air.
Once she was done, she closed the box, walked over, and placed it into the fireplace. She whispered a quiet word, and it burst into flames, sending multicolored flames into the flue.
The smith would be whole, she was sure of it. But she still did not understand the compulsion she felt to help her. She’d killed Jean-Paul, and Nidhogg was deeply hurt. He had been the last of her brood. What did this mean for their world? Nidhogg would surely never spawn another, not at her age.
Was the power shifting? Qindra had only heard of the great wyrms falling in bedtime stories and nightmare tales whispered by her mother. Her mother had told her, when she was very young, that the dragons feared the return of the ancient gods. Feared the end times, and the loss of power they had accumulated over the centuries.
She sat back at the dressing table and began to brush her hair, long even strokes to help soothe her sp
irit as much as anything.
Was that why she felt compelled to help heal the smith? Did she see the beginning of the fable her mother had impressed upon her as a young child? Did she harbor hope for her kind?
She touched the mirror and the image shifted to Nidhogg’s room. Her mistress, ancient and frail, lay on her great bed, asleep. Jai Li, the surviving twin, slept curled at Nidhogg’s feet.
How many generations of girls had this most ancient of dragons used for her own pleasure and needs? How had she been so closed to the deprivations?
Qindra covered her mirror and crawled into bed. Sleep would not come for many hours.
Sixty-nine
THE NURSE BROUGHT IN A VASE OF FLOWERS FROM STUART JUST before lunch one afternoon and Katie showed back up after school with a new stack of pictures to stick up on the walls, and an envelope with the Flight Test, Ltd. logo on the front.
Inside was a check from Carl for back pay, and a nice letter inquiring about my health. I suspect it was written by Jennifer, but the dinner invitation at the bottom was definitely Carl’s.
“They started shooting again after the state investigated the set,” Katie told me when she saw the invitation. “Sawyer filed an insurance claim for the choppers and everything. Flight Line will get a pretty nice check out of their insurance company. Never guess who the major stockholder of said insurance company is.”
“Nidhogg, right?”
Katie nodded.
It was a puzzle, a twisty maze of connections and loyalties. How deep did these things go?
“As for Sawyer,” she said, wincing, “he’s paid all of your medical bills.”
“What?” I struggled to sit up, anger flaring in me, but it was weak. “Are you sure?”
She smiled. “A nice note appeared from a nonprofit in Portland. They’ve declared you are a hero and want to present you with a plaque after you’re better.”
