Quicksilver Dragon

by Chant, Zoe

  He didn’t know what kind of control he would have in that body.

  He was worried the answer was “none.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Urges?” Lindsay said.

  It was a word she associated almost solely with commercials about dieting and old afterschool specials about puberty; it was weird to hear Boone say it and see him looking genuinely uncomfortable at the same time.

  “I kept thinking about how whoever went after Eleanor could be coming after you,” Boone said slowly, “and I kept thinking about what I wanted to do to them if they did.” He gave her a small, unsure smile. “It felt intense. I want to do whatever I can to keep you safe, no matter what that means, but when I was a dragon, it felt like I was spoiling for a fight. Like I really, viscerally wanted to tear the head off anyone who even thought about trying to hurt you. And frankly, I don’t have a problem with that. I’m just worried because it felt like I was a living rocket launcher with a hair trigger. Like maybe anything could have set me off once I was stirred up. If someone had come in right then... I’m worried they’d be dead. I think I might have lost control.”

  Lindsay knew that the socially acceptable response to all this would have been horror that Boone had even thought about something so violent.

  But the truth was, she loved it. That he’d been driven to that urge by wanting to protect her—and that when push came to shove, he was goodhearted enough to question that and want to avoid it if he could.

  She said, “You didn’t lose control, though.”

  “Barely,” Boone said.

  “Barely’s all you need. That’s practically a motto at my office.”

  To her amusement, he looked alarmed, like he would have liked a city planner’s office to be a little more sure of itself. Clearly he’d never had to sit through one of their awful, interminable meetings where every person at the table had their own ideas and their own intra-office grudges. It was amazing they ever got to any agreement at all, let alone enough of one to make any real progress. Barely was all you needed, in her experience. It had to be, because people—even good people like Boone—weren’t always capable of anything else.

  So Lindsay shook her head. “I get what you’re worried about. I do. But I don’t think it’s that big of a deal.”

  “I could be a monster,” he stressed. “Killing me could be the right thing to do. And if I am, and I’m too big to be controlled or arrested, killing me could be the right thing to do. It could be the only thing to do.”

  “No way. I can’t take you not killing someone as evidence that you could kill someone. Everybody wants to kill somebody sometime.”

  “That sounds like a terrible pop anthem.”

  “I’m serious. Think about when someone cuts you off in traffic.”

  “I’m actually not that prone to road rage.”

  “Well, I am. I get angry—really angry sometimes, if I’m having a crappy day—and sometimes I think about what it would be like to slam into their bumper. I could do it. I’m driving a ton of steel. That might not make me as powerful as a dragon, but it’s powerful enough. I could kill somebody.” She shrugged. “But instead, I honk or slam my hands against the steering wheel or say things I wouldn’t say around my mother. If somebody killed me for it, would they be the good guys?”

  “No. Of course not.” He tilted his head, considering her, and then reluctantly smiled. “Remind me never to cut you off in traffic, though.”

  “Yes,” Lindsay said. “Fear my wrath.”

  “Oh, I do.”

  He stepped closer to her, and the atmosphere in the room changed. No, not just the room’s atmosphere—its physics. It was like the room itself wanted to push them together. Like he was her gravity and she was his and they were falling towards each other.

  Boone touched her cheek, drawing his fingers down towards her mouth. Lindsay turned her head towards them utterly unselfconsciously and kissed them, wondering what she was doing. She was always afraid of looking ridiculous. She wasn’t afraid of it now.

  Maybe after you’d seen dragons and dragon killers, being open and honest about wanting a guy didn’t seem so terrifying anymore. You didn’t worry about it being too soon or him thinking you were too easy. Maybe you just trusted that he was as good as you thought he was—and as into you as you were into him.

  Though as Boone drew her close and into a kiss, his mouth against hers, Lindsay felt the kind of rush that could still be terrifying.

  It was just exhilarating to be touching him again. She felt like she could get drunk off the smell of his skin and the taste of his mouth. Never mind what he’d said about being a dragon, this was really intoxicating power. This made her sure she could do anything.

  She gave into it and luxuriated in the feel of his body on hers. The slightly chapped texture of his lips. The soft cotton of his shirt beneath her hands and the way the heat of his body radiated through it. The way he breathed in sharply as she went up onto her toes to find the perfect angle of her mouth against his.

  It was like every cell of her body was alert to every cell of his.

  Some sane, sensible part of her tried to exert itself to say that she was being melodramatic. Right, that part of her said. Cells—she had that part right. This was just biology and chemistry, plain and simple. They both had a surplus of adrenaline running through their systems right now, plus some kind of crazy cocktail of dragon hormones, for all she knew. What was the chemical in the body that made you happy? Serotonin? This was a rush of serotonin... or whatever she was trying to think of. This was—

  Don’t minimize it.

  It was a steely voice from somewhere down in her heart, and Lindsay instantly liked it better than the sensible, “don’t get carried away” voice that had, frankly, been separating her from enjoying what was happening.

  She didn’t want to try to draw a thick dividing line between her soul and her body. Maybe an adrenaline high played a part in this kiss, but so did Boone’s crooked smile and rumpled hair and drawings. So did his courage and his kindness. So did he, because Boone was no more a collection of his best qualities than she was a collection of chemical impulses and rationalizations.

  Boone slid his fingers over the nape of her neck, and she forgot any kind of philosophy.

  They wound up on the couch. Lindsay was beneath him, and she loved the pressure of his body pinning her down and the slight scratch of the upholstery against her flushed, sensitive skin. She loved the way he curled a tendril of her hair around one finger as he pushed it out of her face to dip down to her mouth again.

  They’d been talking about murder and ended up like this?

  No. Not really. They’d been talking about impulses—impulses and restraint.

  No point in restraining all their impulses. That was what they were proving now.

  Lindsay ran her hands down the hard muscles of his back, feeling his shoulders flex beneath her touch as he bent to kiss her neck. It was such a gorgeous, confusing tangle of sensations. It took her right back to her first fumbling experiences, when curiosity had reigned and her skin had felt so new that every touch had been a fresh surprise. This was like that, but without the self-consciousness, without the endless agonizing over whether or not she should try to suck her stomach in or make sure the lights were off. She didn’t need the dark to be bold. Not now.

  She pushed her fingers through his hair and felt its silkiness.

  Boone’s eyes were maybe her favorite part of him. If she looked into them long enough, she felt like she could see every color in the world.

  “I like you,” Lindsay whispered.

  Boone smiled. “I like you too.”

  She began to peel his shirt off, and then he groaned.

  She stopped at once. “What is it? Are you changing again?”

  “No.” He did look like he was suffering, though. “I just realized that if there’s a murderer after you we should consider moving your car away from their murder scene.”

  Lindsay groa
ned then too and buried her face down against his shoulder. “You’re killing me here, Boone.”

  “It’s just—”

  “My car’s not exactly discreet,” she finished for him.

  And it wasn’t. It was bright, sunshine-yellow, and it had the city parking permit hanging from its rearview mirror and two or three bumper stickers on the back that narrowed down her hobbies and frequent locations, more or less. They’d already left it there long enough for the killer to have possibly noticed it. They didn’t want to leave it there long enough that the killer would pick up on it for sure, because it came with enough evidence for someone to hunt her down with it. She’d never thought about that—but then, she’d never lived her life actively trying not to get murdered, either.

  “We’re taking a risk.” She tried to not sound hopeful that he’d agree. “If we go back and move my car, there’s a chance the killer sees us doing it. It’s probably safer to just stay here and have sex.”

  His smile had no chance of changing her mind on that front. All it made her want to do was kiss him more so she could feel the shape of his lips against her own.

  But he was being noble and practical, so she guessed she should be noble and practical too.

  She let out another groan for good measure—and emphasis—and then stood up.

  “See, this is what I mean,” she said sadly. “You can resist your urges.”

  “Trust me, this is another case of ‘barely.’ If you’d gone for your shirt instead of mine, I don’t think we’d be talking about my self-restraint right now.”

  If that was true, Lindsay was tempted to whip her shirt off then and there—but he was right. They really should move her car. And focus on whether or not they were going to be killed by dragon-hunters.

  She said, “I’ll remember that for next time.”

  Chapter Ten

  So here they were again. Back at the beach for the third time in two days.

  The thin crowd of that morning had perked up a little bit now that the cops had cut away the crime scene tape. There probably wasn’t much point to trying to preserve a sandy crime scene for long, not when the wind and the tide were both intent on wrecking it. Already, people were starting to swarm over the pristine beach like nothing bad had ever happened there. Boone wondered if they didn’t watch the news or if they just didn’t worry. Maybe they just didn’t care.

  Either way, the parking lot that had been all but deserted on Saturday and only sparsely occupied this morning was now jam-packed, and Boone could already see someone endlessly circling around. The driver, an elderly man, was watching every car with hawk-like attention, but Boone pegged the type at once. Not a murderer. Just someone in desperate need of a parking space.

  Boone gave him a little wave as he dropped Lindsay off alongside her car. He held up one finger: Just give us a minute.

  The driver gave him an almost comically expressive look—half hopeful and half world-weary, like he’d believe they’d leave him a space when he actually saw it, but not before. He’d seen too much disappointment in his life, the gaze implied, to let himself get hurt again.

  Boone wanted to draw him too. He hadn’t gotten to draw anything since the beach yesterday, and it was making him jittery.

  But it still fell a distant second compared to how anxious he felt about leaving Lindsay standing there alone beside her car. In the bright sunlight, with the cheerful sounds of the crowd still drifting up from the beach, it should have seemed impossible for anything to happen to her. But Boone knew better. He knew that “impossible” no longer applied to their lives.

  And now he really would have to watch her drive away. But not, he was determined, away from him.

  He said again, “And we’ll just go directly to your place?”

  “Yes,” Lindsay said. She still sounded patient, even though they’d had this exact conversation three or four times on the way over. “We’ll go to my place, I’ll pack an overnight bag and grab my laptop, and then we’ll make up a plan from there.”

  “We can’t stay at your apartment.” He was repeating himself too.

  “At least my apartment has a couch that’s still in one piece.”

  “Ha ha,” Boone said. “I’m serious, Lindsay.”

  She kissed him on the cheek. “I know. We won’t stay at my place until we know it’s safe. I’m not arguing with you. Now you need to let me pull out of here before that gentleman in the white Taurus decides to just run us over.”

  She slid into the car. Boone took one last look at her, savoring the warm, honeyed way her skin glowed in the sunlight, and got back in his own car.

  First he pulled out, and then he watched in his rearview mirror as Lindsay did the same. She’d follow him out of the lot. He’d have to be careful to not watch his mirror the whole time just to keep track of her.

  But he did see the old man in the white Taurus finally get the victory of sliding into his parking spot. Boone would have sworn he saw tears glistening in the man’s eyes, even from this far away. Sometimes virtue really did get rewarded.

  He guessed he’d cling to that.

  Maybe they’d be okay.

  *

  Lindsay’s apartment was an old California standard, a multi-story Spanish revival with white stucco walls, graceful archways, wrought iron railings, and a red tiled roof. Like a lot of San Marco buildings—outside of the pricey suburbs reserved for millionaires and up—it was in some mild disrepair that the landlord would never get around to fixing. There were a few cracked tiles on the roof and a few cracked stones in the walkway. The stucco had been chipped away in places by years of movers bumping into the walls. The outdoor steps were stained dark with dirt and scuff-marks.

  The flowerbeds were a riot of lavender and freesias—“Those are my favorites,” Lindsay said to him as they passed by, her voice sounding dreamy—and full of humming bumblebees. Boone could hear distant hip-hop and salsa music.

  He hadn’t had the focus—or the light—to appreciate any of this last night. It was nice. Once they were in Lindsay’s hallway—her apartment was at the very end of a long corridor—they were inside and out of the sun. Some of the little canned lights in the ceiling had gone out, but somebody had strung up red and green Christmas lights to replace them. A couple of the residents had little dog bowls of water out by their welcome mats for any thirsty pets or strays. As they walked down the hall, Boone saw a woman refilling one with an enormous water-can shaped like a daisy.

  “Lindsay!” the woman said, waving. “I could have sworn you were already home. Who’s your friend?”

  “This is Boone,” Lindsay said. Her smile did a good job of hiding the stress. “Boone, this is Annemarie, one of my neighbors. Patron saint of the dog bowls.”

  Annemarie laughed and hefted up the water can. “I bought this for plants, but the damn new landlord keeps all the flower-beds in such good shape that I had to think of something else to do with it. I figured if I couldn’t water flowers, I’d water dogs.”

  “I’m sure the dogs appreciate it,” Boone said.

  “Oh, they do. I’m one more stray mutt away from being a crazy dog lady.”

  “There are worse things to be,” Lindsay said.

  Annemarie put on a playful scowl. “Damn new landlord keeps being nice and overlooking the number of pets, too.” She balanced the watering can on her hip. “Well, I’ve kept you long enough. You two go have... fun.” She waggled her eyebrows at them and then sauntered off to refill the next dog bowl.

  “I like this place,” Boone said.

  “It’s fun, right? I’ve lived here since college, so it’s getting a little cramped, but it’s hard to walk away.”

  He could imagine. All of this felt completely homey and familiar to him.

  None of which stopped the high-tension jitters running through him.

  Something’s wrong.

  He could almost feel the blistering desert sun on the back of his neck. Instead of the pulse of the hip-hop, he could almost hear c
hopper blades.

  It was like he was back there again. Back in Iraq. The memories hadn’t been this intense, this present, in years.

  Boone didn’t know whether to fight the feeling or give into it. Finding Eleanor on the beach had let danger into the midst of their lives: there was nothing strange about wanting to be vigilant. He just didn’t want to slip so far into his past that he lost his present.

  He forced himself to concentrate on little details, like the welcome mats they were passing. Some of them had names on them, others had jokes or greetings, and one, Boone’s favorite, just said SUP?

  But as they finally reached Lindsay’s door, the cool hyper-attention of the war sank deep into him, unavoidable this time.

  This isn’t in your head, a distant voice said. This is real. Be prepared.

  He stopped Lindsay’s hand as she reached to turn her key. “Let me do it.”

  “It’s not like loosening a jar lid,” Lindsay said, but she turned the keys over to him and stepped back a little. Maybe something in his face had told her that, at least to him, this felt like more than overprotectiveness and paranoia.

  Boone unlocked the door.

  He turned the knob carefully and swung the door open as slowly as he could.

  Lindsay let out a sharp gasp once she could see inside.

  Boone didn’t have to ask why. Her apartment had been trashed—trashed with a fury, ferocity, and thoroughness that went beyond anything even Boone had ever seen before.

  In Iraq, he’d seen houses searched, and sometimes the searchers had overturned them so completely that he knew the mess had to be awful for the family to look at. Once all the drawers were empty and all the cupboards bare and all the beds stripped, houses were so disassembled into their individual components that they were like a broken puzzle. He’d seen his share of drunken idiots rampaging through a place, too. Some of his college buddies had been prone to getting drunk and knocking things over.

  But he had never seen anything like what had happened to Lindsay’s apartment. It had been searched and demolished, and the combination of determination and destruction was terrifying.