Silver Dragon

by Zoe Chant

  Joey walked them around, introducing the heads of departments. The guests’ gazes touched her briefly, and moved on to Mikhail, as this reception was in his honor. He proved to be deft and assured with social interactions, though on the quiet side.

  Joey brought Bird a cup of the punch from a great crystal bowl. It was berry-flavored and fizzy, pleasantly spiked with gin. She sipped it, enjoying the heady drink as Mikhail fielded questions.

  Finally Joey said to Bird, “May I borrow him for a minute? Are you all right here?”

  They stood at one side of the hall, with an excellent view of the stage. “I’m fine, thanks.”

  Mikhail glanced at her in silent question. She smiled to reassure him. He smiled back, touched her hand, and followed Joey up to the podium.

  Joey tapped the microphone. “Let’s get started, shall we? It is my honor to welcome Professor Mikhail Long among us. Many of you are aware of his credentials. The list is as ‘long’ as his name.”

  The mild pun raised a chuckle, and Joey started listing those credentials. Bird sipped again, relishing the sight of Mikhail up there, looking so handsome. She couldn’t believe it—here she was, his invited guest, at a place she never thought to set foot again. Somehow the university didn’t seem so terrible anymore. The humiliating memories were still there, but they were mere shadows of what they had once been.

  All of a sudden she was glad she’d come. It was true, time could heal.

  And that was before she even considered the fact that she had been brought here by dragon back. The man she’d met two days ago, and kissed today, was a dragon. He was kind, and sincere, and smart, and he loved tea and art, and buying hot pastries in the morning. He thought she was pretty.

  And he was a dragon.

  What a wild, wonderful turn her life had taken!

  Joey finished up listing all Mikhail’s many honors, from places around the world. Bird smiled to herself. She looked forward to asking Mikhail for details about all those places. Then the lights dimmed, and the screen behind the podium lit up with a picture of Mikhail’s book.

  A video began, close-ups of beautiful silk tassels with gorgeous objects attached. Bird’s interest sharpened as Mikhail’s recorded voice began talking about the history of the jade toggles that Chinese men had worn on their robes in ancient days. These were full of symbols—

  “Bertie?”

  Her nerves shot with sharp pain, then chilled to ice. She had not heard that voice in twenty-seven years, that incredulous, patronizing tone. But she instantly recognized it. An insight flashed through her mind. That was why she had begun hating hearing her name: it was his voice. Bartholomew had refused to call her Bird, convinced that it wasn’t a suitable nickname for the wife of a man in his position. The last time she’d heard that bitter Bertie was in divorce court.

  “Bartholomew,” she whispered, all the old fear and uncertainty crowding her heart like smothering ghosts. “Wh-what are you doing here?”

  “I teach here,” he said in that slow, fake-patient sarcastic tone he’d used whenever he thought she’d said something stupid. Which was often. “The question is, what are you doing here?”

  Old habit nearly brought the hated I’m sorry to her lips, words that had prefaced every single utterance she made in those last terrible days before he served papers on her.

  She had no reason to apologize.

  She forced herself to take a breath. “I was invited.”

  “You?” he said in that incredulous tone that had flayed her nerves to the bone.

  Up on the podium, Mikhail seemed to turn her way. But he could not possibly see her in the dim room. This was something she had to deal with alone.

  “By?” Bartholomew prompted. “Or is your plus one invisible?”

  “I came with Mikhail Long,” she said.

  “What?” Bartholomew stared.

  Everything about him was unchanged, from his sarcasm to his appearance. He was still tall and fit in his Armani suit, his dark hair expertly cut. She was hyperconscious of the fact that she, who had never been good-looking, showed every one of those twenty-seven years.

  But they had been good years.

  She drew a slow breath, squaring her shoulders. They were about to become better years.

  For she had fixed dinner for a dragon.

  “How the hell did you get mixed up with him?” Then he hissed, “Was it that sad sack Joey Hu? Couldn’t find any better-looking arm-candy, and brought one of his head cases for a pity party approach?”

  “I just met Joey Hu ten minutes ago,” she said, feeling her dignity crumbling beneath his vicious sarcasm.

  Just then she noticed Mikhail’s husky voice in the video, warm and sure as he pronounced the Chinese name of a mythological creature. If she asked him, he’d tell her all about it...

  Bird remembered then that she did not have to go home with Bartholomew. She never again had to endure a furious lecture listing everything she had said wrong, every awkward move she’d made at those hideous parties, and then a cold night in the bed as he slept with his back to her.

  Just because he wants to belittle me, I don’t have let him make me little, she reminded herself.

  She straightened her shoulders. “If you have nothing worthwhile to say, Bartholomew, please let me finish listening to the video.”

  Bartholomew snapped an incredulous look her way.

  Then she became aware of a strong presence at her shoulder. Mikhail murmured, “May I fetch you another drink, Bird?”

  “I don’t need a drink,” she said. “But I do need fresh air.”

  Mikhail took her arm.

  On the video presentation, a photo of a white jade fox, laughing with a fan of tails curling overhead, came up. By the light it cast, Bird seemed to truly see Bartholomew for the very first time. Lines of sourness ran across his forehead, and the grooves beside his mouth accentuated his habitual dissatisfaction. Twenty-seven years did show in his face, and from the look of him, getting her loser, incompetent self out of his life had not been his ticket to happiness and the success he craved.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me?” Bartholomew demanded. “Still as clumsy as ever, Bertie.”

  His face tightened in the old white-mouthed rage Bird had dreaded once. But she was free of him now. His anger was no longer her problem.

  Mikhail started to move forward, his muscles tensing under her palm. But she shook her head slightly. He stopped and stood still, giving her the silence she needed to say what she wanted to say.

  “I could say a lot,” she said to Bartholomew, still keeping her voice low, “but in retrospect, I believe that being you is your own worst punishment. Go away, Bartholomew. You’re distracting me from what matters.”

  “You fat, stupid—” Bartholomew began in a furious voice.

  “The lady has spoken,” Mikhail said in a quiet but curiously compelling voice. “Be gone.”

  Bartholomew fell back, his face paling. Bird turned her back on him and walked away, with Mikhail at her side.

  Joey appeared, looking chagrined. “Sorry about that. I didn’t see Waterson there—or know that you knew him. But I did hear that masterful summation. ‘His own worst punishment.’ That’s very insightful. So you are the mysterious ex-wife?”

  Bird glanced at him in surprise. She thought that she would be utterly forgotten by now.

  Joey went on, “Many people were half-inclined to believe you never existed, that those trophies he has on his mantel were fake, except there was the existence of a son and daughter.”

  Bird gasped. “He still has my awards on display?”

  Mikhail’s arm tightened protectively around her back. She didn’t need his support. It wasn’t as if she was going to faint from shock. But she could luxuriate in his gesture because she wanted to.

  Joey nicked his head down in a nod. “I’ve only been to his house once—a pleasure I decided to deny myself forever afterward. He does indeed. Or did, claiming that his had been the real hand
behind their success, and if it hadn’t been for him sacrificing his time and creativity, blah de blah.”

  Bird gritted her teeth. Breathe. Let it go.

  “He destroyed my creativity,” she whispered, trembling. Breathe! “But I have to admit that I let him. It sounded so sensible to let him handle my contracts and the publicity stuff that I hated. Letting him handle my money was what a good wife does, he said, and I believed him. It was when he started dictating to me what I should write—what the award juries were currently looking for, you know, the latest trendy issue . . .” She shook her head. “Never mind. It’s over and done.”

  “He still gets your royalties?” Mikhail’s voice was deep and low, almost a growl.

  “No longer. At first I didn’t contest it. I thought that at least my earnings supported my children, even if I didn’t get to see them. But when they turned eighteen, my agent went to bat for me. She eventually got all my rights back, but the sales had dried to a trickle anyway. It’s kind of pathetic, if he’s still waving those stupid trophies around. I guess the Great American Novel that my failure as a wife and mother kept him from writing still isn’t written.”

  “His two novels are self-published,” Joey said. “That’s not a bad thing in itself. I know a number of self-published successes. But he’s not one of them. I’m not sure he’s sold a single copy of them to anyone but himself. And they’re certainly not taught in English classes, which was his goal and expectation.”

  Bird was all too glad to set aside the subject of Bartholomew. But as she looked up, the video ended. The lights rose in the room, and the screen darkened.

  “I missed it,” she observed, disappointed.

  Joey’s smile was wicked. “So, ask for a private viewing! Excuse me. Time to return to my host duties. Mikhail, back to the podium. Time for questions.”

  Mikhail bent to whisper in Bird’s ear, “I felt your distress when that man came to your side. I wanted to rid the world of his obnoxious presence. But your handling was far more effective.”

  Bird smiled, her heart full. “I have been so afraid of him for so long. Now . . . I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.” She shook her head. “I figured out during the years of trying to understand what had happened to my marriage that my mother-in-law was the driving force behind the Waterson men. And their pretensions. She has all the poisonous intent of a woman who believes she had married down.”

  He was silent, his downcast eyes gray as slate.

  She sighed. “In retrospect, I can see that she was determined not to let her offspring, or their offspring, make a similar error. I was bearable when I came with the ‘fame’ of silly awards, until she understood that those didn’t come with pots of money or prestige outside the world of children’s books. Bartholomew knew more about the literary world, and had all kinds of plans . . . well, they weren’t my plans, and my creativity left me. Let’s not talk about him. I’m sorry I missed the video. The little bit I saw looked fascinating.”

  “I promise I will take you to see the real thing,” he said, smiling into her eyes. “But at this moment, I had better go with Joey.”

  She nodded, and watched him walk to the dais, her throat tight with overwhelming joy, gratitude, and wonder. As Joey opened the gathering to questions, she felt she could ask Mikhail anything, and there would be no fake-patience, or sarcasm, or comment about how stupid her question was.

  She breathed out, making an inward decision that it was truly time to purge all the residual poison that had been the legacy of her relationship with Bartholomew Waterson. His view of her, of the world, was not true.

  Polite applause broke her thoughts. It was over. Mikhail started back toward her, pausing briefly to accept compliments along the way. He was soon there, holding out his arm and smiling down into her eyes.

  They walked out, as people streamed toward the parking lot. Lights were extinguished in the building behind them as they walked slowly, letting the crowd thin out.

  “Joey is really nice,” Bird said, smiling at the memory of the friendly man. He wasn’t as . . . imposing as Mikhail, but she liked his smile. “He seems a good friend.”

  “That he is. He’s another mythic shifter. I trust him to have my back. Same with him. If you ever were to need help when I wasn’t there, you can trust him. He knows everything there is to know about me.” He looked around. “No one in sight. Are you ready?”

  “Yes!” Joy suffused her heart as he flashed in muted blue light to his beautiful dragon. She took her place behind his head, stroking her hands over his scales in a caress; as she did, she felt a curious, delightful sensation through her bones, a deep, almost subsonic hum.

  He’s purring, she laughed to herself as they soared into the air.

  The flight was swift, the landing as light as before. Once again they reached the garden behind her cottage, the scent of roses rising on the cool air.

  He shimmered back to his human self, and smiled at her. “Shall we say goodnight?”

  Her heart beat fast. “Would you . . . like to stay?”

  He took her hands. “Bird, I would love that more than anything. But there is another aspect to my nature that we should talk about first.”

  A tick of dread was back. She straightened her spine and said, “Let’s go inside. I want to see your face before we go any farther.”

  Bird led him to the couch, and sat beside him. His warm presence comforted her jangling nerves.

  “I remember everything you’ve said,” she began. “If it’s to tell me you have to travel a lot for your work, I completely understand.”

  “Yes,” he said, then hesitated.

  A sharper lance of pain struck then, straight to her heart. Her fault, her fault. Two days, and she was already assuming he would be here forever. Stupid! These thoughts sped through her mind in the time it took for her heart to clatter once against her ribs.

  Then he said, “Bird, please forgive me. I am not adept at courtship. I am trying to learn, though I will only use this skill once, for you.”

  Her breathing stilled. “Are you saying . . .”

  “We shifters—when we find our mates, it is forever. You can still step back,” he added in haste. “It’s one aspect granted to humans. You and I, we have not yet mated. If we do that, and I very much want to, then it is for the rest of our lives. But you, being human . . . I want you to know that if you feel that—if you can’t—if you’re the slightest in doubt—”

  Mikhail, the calm and suave, was fumbling like... like...

  Like a teenager, she realized. It wasn’t only her who had gone back in time.

  She took his hands, her emotions swinging between laughter and tears. “What would happen to you?”

  His eyes darkened to gray before they slid aside. “I will accept whatever you decide.”

  Overwhelming sadness washed over her, a sense of loneliness, but that was chased by awe. He, this powerful and special creature, had known loneliness. He was willing to accept it again, if she so chose. Her instinct was very certain, though he had said nothing of the kind.

  She had been lonely enough to know the cost. Love welled up in her, almost too strong to bear. No, she couldn’t bear it alone.

  It must be shared.

  It had never been in her nature to act coy. “Oh, Mikhail, the rest of the world would probably laugh me right out of the house, but the truth is, I think I fell in love with you the moment you threw yourself on poor Jen—and then worked so hard not to hurt her.”

  “I know,” he said, low and utterly sincere, “that is the moment I fell in love with you.”

  She threw her arms around him and sought his mouth. His hands came up her sides as his passion met hers, then matched it. Once again, the sun met the fountain.

  She had thought that earlier kiss had been the greatest kiss in the world, but this one was even better, with the heat of arousal rising in them both. His body, and through his, hers, hummed with sensitivity and power that was both familiar and utterly foreign.
>
  “Come,” she said, a little shy, but eager.

  She tugged him to his feet and led him to her bedroom. At first she was tempted to leave the light off. But she wanted to see every inch of him. And if she was to give herself to him, body, heart, and soul, then he had a right to see what he was getting, flaws and all.

  So she undid the pretty shoulder clasps of the blue gown and let it fall to the floor in a puddle of silk around her feet. She stood there in her plain white panties and her support bra, then forced herself to meet his eyes.

  “You are beautiful,” he whispered.

  His utter sincerity rang through her. His gaze overflowed with the love, tenderness, and desire she had never truly had. He cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her brow, her eyelids, the corners of her mouth.

  “Every line and curve of you is a crown,” he murmured. “Beauty and wisdom combined.”

  “After two kids and a lot of years,” she whispered. “There’s no getting around gravity.”

  But he just gave his head a shake. “In the culture I grew up with, age is cherished. Your goodness of spirit is drawn in every line, more lovely than mere art, because it is the truth of you. There is no one,” he breathed, “more beautiful to my eyes.”

  She choked on a laugh that was part sob, and suddenly wanted to be free of her clothes, and to rip him out of his, so they could get skin to skin.

  “Let me,” he murmured, his hands caressing slowly, carefully, sweetly over her shoulders, down her arms, and then he folded his arms around her, and she stood in their shelter as his fingers caressed up and down her back until at last they arrived at the clasp of her bra.

  She had always been comfortable in her body, until marriage with Bartholomew had made every aspect of life a competition. Suddenly she wasn’t thin enough, shapely enough, never enough . . . but after that encounter earlier in the evening she had begun to understood the hollowness inside of Bartholomew. No longer shackled by his disdain, she had space for pity, but no regrets.