His nostrils flared, more like the dragon he’d been than the human he was now, and he looked me up and down again. Disdainfully.
“You are part human, that verminous infestation that blights this world, but…” He sniffed, nose wrinkling. “You also smell like an elf.”
“And here I thought I smelled like ferns and dirt.”
I’d been twenty-one and not-dying of what should have been mortal wounds after a helicopter crash before I’d believed my mother’s story that I had an elf for a father. After that, I’d accepted it and learned to appreciate the handful of atypical aptitudes it gave me, such as the ability to heal quickly from wounds. Already, the acid burns in my skin had stopped hurting. That didn’t mean I could survive having a dragon snap me in half like a toothpick.
“An elf would never lower herself to be an assassin for humans.” He curled his lip. “Your trinkets and cat will not protect you if you irritate the Dragon Justice Court.”
He turned and walked toward the road.
It took me a minute to realize that he was done insulting me and leaving. Was I actually going to survive this day?
When he reached the road, he faced me again. “If you interfere with my work again, I will eliminate you.”
His eyes sent chills through me, but I made myself meet that gaze with all the confidence I could muster. “I’ll keep that in mind. Any chance you’re on your way back to whatever realm you came from?”
Something flashed in the dragon’s eyes, some emotion that was, for the first time, not irritation, indignation, or pomposity. Was it… wistfulness?
“No. I have many criminals that I must remove from this benighted prison yard of a planet. Stay out of my way, mongrel.”
He—Zav, was all I would call him—shifted from human form to dragon in a second, then sprang into the air, muscular legs propelling him up to the treetops before he extended his wings. He flapped them twice and soared out of view.
I lowered my sword and looked at my Jeep. How was I going to get home?
My phone buzzed. I dug it out of my pocket.
Great news, Ms. Thorvald. It was Dr. Brightman. My therapist acquaintance had a cancelation on Monday and can work you in. Here’s the link to book the appointment.
I groaned. I’d rather talk to another dragon than a therapist.
My wounds had mostly healed by Sunday afternoon when the bus dropped me off at the Greyhound station in Seattle. The acid burns on my hand were gone, and I trusted any bruises I’d received in my fight had disappeared. Healing fast was the biggest perk of having elven blood, especially in my line of work. Some people might think it a perk that I was in my forties and didn’t yet look thirty, but I wouldn’t mind getting past the stage where guys ogled my chest.
As I left the bus station, I grimaced at the idea of walking the mile to Occidental Square where Nin’s food truck was usually set up. I’d lost track of how many miles I’d walked this weekend, first on that dirt road and then on Highway 101, before I’d been close enough to order a car to take me to Portland. The outrageous receipt for that trip was in my inbox; I planned to write it off on my taxes as a work expense if Colonel Willard wouldn’t reimburse me.
If only I could be reimbursed for my Jeep. I’d spent most of Saturday on the phone with the insurance agency, trying to convince someone that an act of God had hurled it into those trees. My initial attempt to be honest and blame a dragon had gotten me hung up on. The last I’d heard, the agency was sending someone out to look at the crash site. Nobody had openly said I’d doctored the photos I’d sent, but it had been implied.
Hopefully, Nin would have time to see me. I needed more ammo, and Fezzik’s front sight had bent during my tiff with the dragon. Since I didn’t know how long I would be in town, I needed to take care of that as soon as possible.
In the morning, I had a meeting with Brightman’s therapist. I’d been so tempted to blow that off, but maybe she could give me a couple of useful breathing techniques that would loosen my chest when it felt tight. I hated relying on drugs. It didn’t make sense to me that someone who could heal quickly would have high inflammation markers, or whatever they’d called it.
Yes, my life was stressful, but I liked stress. A normal job would bore me to death.
But a few minutes with the therapist wouldn’t kill me, and I would have plenty of time to make my meeting with Colonel Willard, who would give me my combat bonus and let me know if she had anything else for me. I hoped not. I needed a few days off. And to figure out how to get around until I could get another rig. Transportation was no problem in the city, but my missions regularly took me to Oregon, Idaho, and British Columbia. For good or ill, I was the preeminent assassin of magical bad guys in the Pacific Northwest.
Even though it was Sunday, Occidental Square was packed for the lunch hour, with tourists wandering through and snapping pictures of the totem poles. I passed a teenager on a skateboard who had the aura of someone like me with part elven blood. That was rare in people under forty since it had been that long since the remaining elves and dwarves in this world had declared Earth too populated and cleared out en masse, finding new homes in other realms. This kid was probably only a quarter elven, enough to give him some extra agility at the skatepark.
The line at Nin’s Thai Tiger truck was packed, as always. I thought about pushing my way around and going in the side door, but I didn’t want to interrupt her day business. Since she also had magical blood, I could sense her working inside near the fryers. Her grandfather on her mother’s side had been a gnome, and she’d known him long enough to learn his trade of making magical weapons.
One of Nin’s assistants was at the window, handing out wrapped paper bundles of beef and rice. My stomach rumbled as the scents of grilling meat and spicy sauces teased my nose.
People chatted amiably in line, nobody glancing at the sword or gun I carried, since their magical glamours made them invisible to people without the blood to see through such things. Nobody glanced at me either. My height usually made me stand out, but the men and women were in groups or pairs, more interested in their private conversations than people-watching.
Strange, but in the crowded square, I felt a twinge of loneliness. Dr. Brightman’s words about my dearth of social connections came back to me, but I brushed them aside with irritation. I did fulfilling work that few others could do, and I helped people. That was enough of a social reward. Enough of a connection.
Besides, where would I go to seek new friends? The magical community feared and hated me, because they knew what I did. Many of them believed I would go after even the innocent among them if someone paid me enough—not true. And humans…
Unfortunately, humans couldn’t be relied upon to take care of themselves if they ran into the magical, and that happened frequently in my company. I’d made a lot of enemies, so blackmail, assassination attempts, and drive-by shootings were a regular part of my life. I didn’t tell anyone I had a daughter or an ex-husband who lived in the suburbs north of Seattle, just as I didn’t draw attention to my mother in Oregon. Forming new relationships would only get people I cared about hurt—or killed. I’d learned that painfully from past experience.
“One suea rong hai,” the assistant said, handing out a meal wrapped in paper.
I stepped to the front of the line. “I’ll take one of those and—” I raised my voice so Nin would hear it, from where she was now putting more rice in the cooker, “—I’m in need of something off the special menu.”
“They only serve beef and rice here,” a shaggy guy in dreads behind me said. “It’s a thing.”
“Thanks for the tip.” I shooed him back to give me an appropriate three feet of personal space.
Nin leaned into view, waving a slender arm and smiling. Her short black hair had been bleached as long as I’d known her, and this week, it was dyed purple. “It is not the usual hours for the special menu, but for a good client, of course, come inside, please.”
I left my puzzled advisor behind
and waited at the side door until it opened. I stepped into a workspace that was more like a closet than a smithy, but all manner of completed rifles, pistols, and specialty pieces hung on pegboards. Boxes under the counters held stocks, barrels, and bolts, along with boxes of wildcat cartridges for the weapons. The place reverberated with magic, at least to my senses.
Nin gave her assistant a few instructions and stepped inside with me, closing the door so the people waiting for food wouldn’t see this area. That made the tight space even tighter. I had to duck my head to keep from bumping it on the ceiling.
“Thanks for slipping me in, Nin.” I pulled out Fezzik and showed her the bent front sight. “I probably could have used some pliers to fix it, but I didn’t know if that would void the warranty.”
Her brow furrowed, but only for a second before she got the joke, then laughed. Even though Nin had only been in the country for five years, she’d about mastered American sarcasm and idioms, as far as I could tell. She spoke English slowly, but her words were precise and easy to understand.
“You are funny. What did you fight?” Nin took the gun from me and pulled out her tools. “Did my baby perform well?”
“It did. I got the last of the wyverns that killed those kids outside of Portland. And then I let a dragon throw me around.”
The tool kit slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor. I managed to catch Fezzik before it suffered a similar fate.
“A dragon?” Nin gaped at me. “You are joking again?”
“Unfortunately not.” I took out my phone and showed her pictures of my wrecked Jeep in the trees. It hadn’t occurred to me to stop and take a picture of the dragon himself—odd, I know—but I trusted the placement of the smashed vehicle would suffice as proof for most people. Not the insurance agents, alas.
Nin stared at the phone, stared back at my face, and then at the phone again. “You cannot fight dragons.”
“It wasn’t my intention.”
“I did not think there were dragons on Earth. I did not—do you think I need to put a warning on my weapons?” Nin glanced at the pegboards. “People will not believe they are strong enough to slay dragons, will they? They will get themselves killed. Then they will sue me. America is very litigious.”
“I’ve heard that, but since the official stance from the government is that magic and magical beings don’t exist, I think you’ll be all right.”
Nin grabbed a pad of sticky notes. “I am going to start putting a warning on all weapons I sell.”
“That’s a good idea, but could you fix mine first? And give me a few more boxes of your special ammo? I had to use more than expected on the wyvern.”
“Yes, certainly.” Nin, her tongue stuck in the corner of her mouth, proceeded to draw a stick dragon with a circle around it and a line through it before retrieving her tools and working on my gun. “Take what cartridges you need from that box, please.” She pointed without looking.
“How’s business?” I wondered how many clients she had who knew what she did when she wasn’t mixing sauces and grilling beef—and how many were likely to go on a dragon safari with her weapons.
“Business is good. I am saving my money and thinking of opening a restaurant next year.”
That wasn’t the business I’d meant, but I asked, “Will it have more than one entree on the menu?”
“In my country, it is very common to perfect one dish and sell only that.”
“I guess that’s a no.”
“I am thinking of adding a gluten-free sauce option.”
The assistant opened the door far enough to hand me the food I’d ordered. I dug out ten dollars for the meal and a hundred for the repair service. Nin, I knew, wouldn’t charge me for anything but the ammo, so I stuck the cash on a shelf when she wasn’t paying attention.
My phone buzzed. The number wasn’t familiar, but it was a local area code.
I answered, hoping the therapist was calling to cancel my appointment. “Yeah?”
“Ms. Thorvald?” a young male voice asked uncertainly.
“Good guess. Who’s this?”
“Lieutenant Sudo. I’ll be meeting you at the usual place tomorrow, but I need to move our appointment up an hour. I have something important to do in the afternoon.” His voice was snotty, and I immediately disliked him—and the insinuation that I wasn’t important.
But more concerning than that…
“Where’s Colonel Willard?” I asked.
“She can’t make it.”
“She’s always my contact.”
“Not this time.”
I opened my mouth to ask for more details, but he hung up.
“Why do I have a feeling this crappy week is not about to get any better?”
4
As soon as I walked into the fourth-floor waiting room and saw the marble floors, the leather couches, the counter full of free snacks and drinks, and the view of Lake Union out the window, I knew I should have asked for the therapist’s rates before making an appointment. As an independent contractor, I had health insurance on the minimalist side.
I rolled my eyes through filling out the new-patient paperwork, feeling antsy because my new contact had moved up our appointment, and I was already suspicious that this was going to be a waste of time.
“Are you all right, Ms. Thorvald?” The perky twenty-something receptionist looked at me with concern.
“Yeah, why?” I glanced around.
There were two other people in the waiting room, presumably to see other therapists. If this turned out to be some surprise group share-fest, I was going to bring Sindari out to eat everyone here. Or at least cow them into fleeing.
“I can hear your pen scrawling from here. You seem to be applying more pressure than necessary.”
“I like to be firm.” Noting the thick dark pen strokes on the paper, I forced my fingers to loosen. Would I be judged for that? Were there cameras in the waiting room, taking note of how pissed or frustrated people appeared while filling out the paperwork?
“Of course.” Perky Receptionist smiled, her artistically feathered eyebrows twitching.
Even though I attempted to finish the paperwork with less firmness, it was difficult. The guy a few seats away started muttering, “Life’s a long drive, but my car’s in the shop. Life’s a long drive, but my car’s in the shop.” Over and over, too loudly to ignore.
I turned in the paperwork. The other person waiting kept straightening the magazines on the coffee table over and over.
I gritted my teeth. Dr. Google assured me that normal people went to therapy—I’d checked—but they weren’t represented in this waiting room.
“Mary will see you now,” the receptionist said.
Mary? How… informal. Did this mean Mary hadn’t earned a degree that came with a fancy honorific?
“Thanks,” I mumbled and walked through the door she opened for me.
Mary turned out to be a graying Japanese woman with the last name Watanabe, but she only introduced herself by her first name and waved me to a chair that faced her seat and would put my back to the door. I gritted my teeth again. The odds of danger finding me here were low, but putting my back to a door went against my instincts. It wasn’t as if Ms. Perky was going to beat down invaders before they could reach us.
“Aren’t you supposed to have a couch?”
“Do you need a nap?”
“No, I need a seat that doesn’t put my back to the door.”
That was a weird thing to admit, wasn’t it? Her eyebrows climbed. Yes, it was.
Growling, I adjusted the chair so that I faced the certificate proclaiming her a Licensed Professional Counselor and could see the door. I had to turn my head to look at her, but it wasn’t my fault she’d so inconsiderately set up her office.
She had my paperwork on a tray beside her chair and a notepad in her lap. The sole desk in the room was pushed up against a wall and was apparently there to hold plants and stacks of folders rather than for work.
“What brings you here today?” Mary asked.
“A referral.”
She raised her eyebrows encouragingly. Oh hell, was I going to have to do all the talking? Small talk isn’t my thing. Nor is pouring out my soul to strangers.
“I’ve developed a few… health quirks, and my doctor thinks stress may be a factor. But look, I don’t want to talk about my childhood or my mom or analyze ink blots or take a personality test or any of that bullshit. I just need some breathing exercises or meditation techniques or something.”
It was a struggle not to lump those latter two into “any of that bullshit” too, but I was willing to admit that I did get tense at times. Maybe there was a method that could relax me when I was on the road. Punching the bag at the gym always helped, but beating things up wasn’t always practical.
“I see. Is work on the table?” Mary didn’t appear fazed by my list. “What do you do for a living?”
“Professional killer.”
She dropped her pen.
“Not of people.” I lifted my hands. “Of magical beings that come to our world and commit crimes against people. Like the wyverns in the news a couple of weeks ago.” I hoped she wasn’t going to be one of those nuts who denied that such creatures existed. The mainstream news didn’t cover them, but there were millions of social media posts and videos online. If she thought those were all hoaxes, I might end up with a fistful of drug prescriptions and an appointment in a sanitarium. Could medical professionals without fancy higher degrees prescribe drugs?
“I see.” Mary picked up the pen. “You don’t count them as people? Aren’t some of them intelligent with languages and cultures of their own?”
“They usually have languages, yes. We don’t talk about their art preferences and religious beliefs before I shoot them.”
At least she didn’t deny that the magical existed. Unless she was humoring me. I squinted at her. She’d lost some of her unfazed expression and was tapping the pen on her notepad.
“Most of my contracts come from the government,” I said, deciding that flippancy might get me in trouble. “And even with the ones that don’t, I do my research and make sure they’ve committed crimes—usually, they’re horrible crimes, like killing and eating people—before going after them. I don’t bug anyone who’s just hanging out here on Earth.”
Sinister Magic: An Urban Fantasy Dragon Series (Death Before Dragons Book 1) Page 3