Dragon

by Finley Aaron

Since I didn’t even know where I was from, I was at a disadvantage from the start. Somewhere along the way, I stopped trying to gain acceptance. The last time I can really recall having friends was in the village.

  Homesickness wells up inside me again, and I turn to face the carcass I still need to finish.

  My enemy.

  The ones who stole my childhood and killed my mother.

  My blades sing again as I pull them from their sheaths. This time, I get everything right—the angle, the force, the speed, the cut. Steaks fall in piles in the pans below. This time I finish everything, right up to the hind shank and hock.

  When I finish this time, I’m panting. I grab a spray bottle and clean the lenses of my goggles while they’re still on my face, mopping up sweat along with blood.

  I glance at Ram and he’s looking my way.

  Grinning, again.

  What’s up with that?

  *

  By noon I’m starving.

  Ram must have guessed I’d be hungry after all that work, because I see him carry five large porterhouse steaks through the back door as I’m finishing the hindquarters.

  This is the best part of my job, the best perk in the history of job perks. We get to eat all we can of whatever meat we want.

  My first day working here, I was a little weirded out by the hanging carcasses and the swords (I think swords are smashing, and all, it was just a big adjustment getting used to their sharpness and using them on flesh and all that). In fact, by lunchtime that first day, I was starting to think my father had brought me here to punish me, which was sort of devastating on top of my crushed hope that I might finally get to go home.

  Then Ram went outside with the steaks, and minutes later called me to join him in the anteroom. There’s a table in there and a couple of big plates—platters, really. No silverware. No steak knives or anything remotely civilized like that.

  Ram pushed a platter of seared steak my way and grunted something vague that might have been, “Here,” but also could have been a belch. Then he picked up one of the steaks on his platter and tore into it with his teeth.

  Okay, big confession: I like meat.

  This was a huge no-no at school, where something like two-thirds of the girls were vegetarians, and even those who ate meat only did so in tiny amounts. I used to offer to clear the tables on the nights when we had chicken, and I’d eat the bones all the way back to the kitchen, with my body turned sideways so no one could see. Fortunately most of the girls were in a habit of ignoring me, so I rarely got caught.

  And when I did get caught, I denied it. “Who eats chicken bones?” I’d scoff. “That’s disgusting.” They never pushed the issue—I think they were scared of what they saw, so I got away with it.

  Deep down, though, I knew the truth. I am a disgusting person. Normal people don’t eat chicken bones, no matter how delicious and crunchy and irresistible they are, and no matter how long it’s been since they got a good meal with real meat in it.

  So, seeing Ram pick up the steak and tear into it with his teeth made me stare, gobsmacked, unsure how to proceed. For the past ten years I’d had to exercise strict self-control around meat, going to elaborate lengths to scarf down scraps in secret. And here was this hairy mountain of a man, openly eating a beautiful steak with no compunction and no silverware.

  Then—I can still picture this vividly—Ram sort of sucked in a long strip of fat and flesh he’d torn from the steak with his teeth, and with the food still dangling against his beard, he asked, “What’s the problem?”

  I’m sure my mouth was hanging open.

  In fact, I was probably drooling. I stammered something about utensils, and he told me there weren’t any, and gestured to the steak and told me to eat.

  And I did. I picked up the porterhouse and tore into it and loved it.

  Lunch has been my favorite time of day ever since, with the possible exception of supper, which is my other favorite time. Ram flash-grills the meat—I don’t know how he does it, exactly, but he sears the outside crispy while the inside is bloody and cool.

  It is the best food ever, made even better by the fact that I can eat it openly, without restraint or embarrassment, even sucking the marrow out of the bones.

  So today, Ram grills five steaks—three for him and two for me. And that was just lunch.

  We ate the same again for supper, and then Ram made cookies for dessert. Meat cookies—which are basically hamburgers, sometimes with chunks of onion or mushroom and seasonings inside. Meat cookies are my favorite kind of cookies.

  In all, it’s a great day at work, other than the part where Ram smiled at me, which was unnerving. I mastered the butterfly maneuver and cut up more meat than ever before.

  Satisfied, once I’m finished helping Ram clean up for the day, I step through the door to the anteroom and freeze.

  I can hear scratching and whining coming from the other side of the exterior door. Immediately I realize Ozzie is on the other side. She wants in.

  “Ozzie, what’s wrong?” I ask as I cross the room and open the door just wide enough to get a decent look at Ozzie.

  Then I scream.

  Chapter Four

  The smell is strong, far stronger than the night before, and Ozzie’s muzzle is a bloodied mess. I’m torn between holding the door open so she can come in, and slamming it shut to keep the evil out.

  Fortunately I don’t have to make the choice myself. Ram runs up behind me, scoops up Ozzie like an infant, and whisks her inside.

  I slam the door closed and lean my back against it.

  “There’s a drop bar, there.” Ram gestures with his head, his arms full of the wounded dog. I look up behind me and see the heavy beam, which I drop securely into place behind the iron catch plate.

  “Back inside,” Ram says, turning to the door that leads back into the refrigerated area.

  We’ve never let Ozzie inside before. In fact, I’m pretty sure the health code is strictly against animals in the prep room, not even wearing hairnets. But under the circumstances, I don’t care about the rules. I push the insulated door open and hold it wide so Ram can carry Ozzie through.

  He lays her on the stainless steel table we’d scrubbed down minutes before. I run to the corner where we keep the first aid kit.

  By the time I turn around again, Ram has sprayed Ozzie’s bloodied face with the cleanser we use, which is mostly water with a mild antibacterial antiseptic—food grade, of course. It probably won’t feel the greatest if it gets in her eyes, but that’s the least of our worries at the moment, and anyway, Ozzie has the sense to pinch her eyes shut the moment Ram points the bottle her way.

  Ram dabs gently at Ozzie’s face with a clean cloth. I circle around the table, making soothing sounds and checking her over for other injuries. She doesn’t appear to have any others, which is a relief.

  “How bad is it?” I come to a stop next to Ram and inspect the damage myself. This time, I grab the table with both hands and breathe in slowly, purposefully. I promise you, I don’t usually go woozy at the sight of blood. I live amidst blood, splattered with blood.

  But this blood is different, because it’s coming out of Ozzie. And I love Ozzie. Three days after my dad left me in Prague, before Ram had technically lent me his dog, I spent half an hour one day hugging Ozzie and crying into her fur. Crying because I had so hoped my father would bring me home, but he hadn’t. Crying because I work in a refrigerator with dead animal carcasses and a hairy guy whose eyes I can’t even see.

  That day, Ram found me crying with Ozzie and told me I could take the dog home with me.

  Best. Gift. Ever.

  And now I’m sniffling again, because Ozzie is the only creature on earth who lets me cry on her shoulder and now she’s hurt and bleeding and probably got injured trying to protect me from the nameless faceless enemies who’ve destroyed my life, who Ram will tell me nothing about.

  And as I’m standing here, gripping the cold stainless steel table and watching Ram
dab at the slash marks across Ozzie’s face, I realize a couple of things.

  One: I am sick of not knowing my enemy.

  And two: I am tired of waiting, doing nothing while Whoever-They-Are circle around us, moving in closer, preparing to attack us, hurting the dog I love.

  “We’ve got to go,” I blurt in a helpless, choked voice.

  Ram doesn’t look up from his dabbing. “I’m going to take care of these cuts first, and then check out the alley before I carry her back to your flat. Just be patient.”

  “No. I mean, we’ve got to get out of town. It’s not safe here anymore.”

  “Where are you going to go? Back to Saint Evangeline’s?”

  “No. Home.”

  “You can’t go home yet. Your father will come for you when it’s safe.” Ram finishes dabbing and gets out some ointment and bandages.

  “I don’t care if it’s not safe there. It’s not safe here, either.”

  “You can’t go home until your father comes. You need someone to go with you, to protect you and show you the way.”

  “Why can’t you do that?” This solution seems glaringly obvious to me. I don’t understand why Ram doesn’t see it.

  “My job is to teach you how to fight, and to keep you safe here.”

  “Fine. Just tell me how to get home. I know how to fight. I can defend myself.”

  Ram is scowling, either at the cuts on Ozzie’s face—which fortunately don’t look too deep—or at my suggestion.

  Which, I will admit, is probably not the most prudent plan I’ve ever come up with, but at least it’s a plan. Ram just wants to hang around until the enemy shows up. And as Ozzie’s injuries prove, that’s a barmy plan.

  “You will wait for your father,” Ram concludes. “Be patient and calm down.”

  I try to be calm. I think Ram is implying that it’s upsetting to Ozzie the way I’m getting worked up, but you know what? It’s upsetting to me that Ozzie got hurt and Ram won’t even acknowledge the danger is real enough for us to do something. “Can you at least call my dad? Talk to him? Tell him we’re getting attacked here, and we need him to come?”

  “That would give away our location.”

  I gesture to the gashes on Ozzie’s nose. “They don’t already know where we are?”

  Ram shakes his head. “This is just a guess. If they knew, it would be worse.”

  Ozzie whimpers as Ram tries to wrap gauze over her wounds. “You’re upsetting her. Why don’t you go wait at the front of the store? Keep Tyna and Zusa company.”

  “Fine.” I’m tired of arguing with Ram, anyway, so I stomp through the door to the storefront.

  Except Zusa and Tyna aren’t there. Neither is Michal. The lights are still on, though. The only person around is a guy wearing a gray shiny blazer over a black t-shirt with jeans, a classic tall-dark-and-handsome guy, standing at the meat counter, waiting to be helped.

  I’m so taken aback at seeing him there instead of the others, I blurt out, “Can I help you?” half a second before I remember this is Prague, and most people don’t speak English.

  But he smiles and says, “I’d like to look at your meat.”

  Now I know why Tyna and Zusa are always flirting with the customers. I’d never thought about it before, but when a guy asks to see your meat, and he says it while smiling like that, and he’s looking at you over the counter like that, it sounds really flirtatious.

  Or maybe I just think it does because I have zero experience with guys. Obviously there weren’t any at Saint Evangeline’s, and Ram doesn’t count.

  This guy, however? Yeah, this guy counts. I try not to blush (and fail). “What cut would you like to see?” I reach for the sliding door behind the meat counter, in the section where we keep the T-bones and porterhouse—the nicest steaks. He looks like the kind of guy who likes the nicest steaks.

  “What is the best thing you have?”

  I lift out a big porterhouse and extend it toward him, in the back of my mind wondering where the Jitrnickas went, and why they left the store unlocked with the lights on, and if they’re coming back. But mostly I’m thinking about the fact that I’m holding a conversation with a real live guy. A cute one, even. Okay, so probably he’s older than I am, but not too old. Twenties or so. And he has a cleft in his chin.

  “What do you think of this?” I hold the steak out for him to see.

  He leans against the glass front of the counter, close enough I can feel his warm breath on my arm (I’ve been hanging out in a refrigerator all day, so a little warm makes a big difference).

  “This steak is sword-cut.” He sounds impressed.

  “How can you tell?”

  “Knives pull the grain of the meet as they pass through the fibers. Swords move more swiftly. They preserve the cell structure so the meat retains more of its natural moisture and flavor. It’s a far superior cut, but a technique few practice anymore.” His English is perfect, as is his smile. He is tall but slender, his hair dark, though his skin is fairer than mine. I can’t tell his ethnicity, though his nose and chin are somewhat pointy, his cheekbones high, his eyes hidden by sunglasses. “You must charge a premium for such a fine product.”

  “Uh, yeah.” I look around for a price sheet, madly wishing one of the Jitrnickas would show up and save me from my own ignorance. The Czech koruna was only recently converted from the Czechoslovak koruna, and I’m not really familiar with either of the denominations because I’ve only been in Prague a few months and I spend most of my time in the refrigerator or sleeping. “I think there’s a sign, maybe? Can you see it from that side?”

  The guy crouches down and peers into the meat case through the glass. I do the same from this side, looking fruitlessly for a price label somewhere. When I glance up to see if he’s getting impatient, I find him looking at me.

  Studying me.

  I’m not even kidding. His eyes are locked on my face and he doesn’t even do that self-conscious look-away-I-wasn’t-really-looking thing like most people do in airports and bus stations when you catch them staring off into space in your direction.

  And then he smiles. It’s a jolly fine smile, but I get the impression he knows it’s a fine smile. He knows he’s gorgeous and he’s using that to his advantage!

  Okay, I may be naïve about guys but no way am I letting this bloke sweet-talk me into selling him a porterhouse for a reduced rate.

  If only I knew how much the steak is supposed to cost.

  “Let me just go in back and ask—”

  “Actually, please,” he reaches across the counter and touches my hand.

  The hand holding the steak.

  It’s like we’re holding hands, and also holding a porterhouse between us. This would be romantic if I knew the bloke.

  “My name is Ion.”

  And now I know him.

  “I’m Ilsa.” My name is no sooner out of my mouth then I wonder if I’m supposed to be sharing that information around, especially with my father’s arch-enemies on the loose, looking for me, and I don’t even know what they look like.

  Well, blimey, if I’m not supposed to tell people my name, maybe Ram should have said so. He kind of sucks at protecting me, you know? Speaking of, where is he? And where are the Jitrnickas? It’s pretty much dark outside by now and I don’t know why the butcher shop would still be open this late, and did I mention Ion has a nice smile?

  He also has kind of longish hair, probably shoulder length. It’s dark and full and slightly wavy, swept back from his face in a cosmopolitan look that pairs smartly with the shiny gray of his blazer.

  “Ilsa.” Ion repeats my name, beaming a smile that seems to say he’s glad to meet me, maybe even glad to have found me, although that seems weird.

  The door behind me opens and Ram walks through, talking. “We can go—”

  He stops talking.

  I hasten to make introductions as Ion pulls his hand quickly away from mine. “This is—”

  “Ion.” Ram says the name just as I sa
y it.

  “Hello, Ram.” Ion is no longer smiling.

  “Do you two know each other already?” My question seems appropriate, but neither of them bother to answer it. They’re glaring at each other like a couple of stag deer ready to lock horns, like in one of the nature shows they were always making us watch at Saint Evangeline’s, on account of we could only watch educational stuff.

  While wearing shoes.

  Yeah, I still resent that last part.

  The guys are silently staring each other down so I put the porterhouse away and close the meat case. I get the feeling Ion’s visit was never about the steak.

  “How did you get in here?” Ram’s nostrils flare with something seething. Anger? Threat?

  “The shop was open.” Ion’s smile is back, but it feels fake.

  I’m starting to worry about the Jitrnickas now, especially considering that Ozzie was attacked, so I clarify, “Unattended?”

  Ion shrugs off my question without answering, which does not make me like or respect him, in case you were wondering. He’s talking to Ram like I’m not there. “Elmir sent me to find you.”

  Elmir is my dad. Ion knows my dad? My dad sent him?

  I miss my dad. I miss my home.

  “He says you need to bring Ilsa home now.”

  You know what? I think I was wrong about Ion. He’s a great guy. I kind of want to hug him.

  But Ram, who seems to jolly well want to be kicked in the shins, just glares at Ion. “Elmir gave me specific instructions.”

  “To wait here until he comes?” Ion nods, a slow nod that leaves his head dipped an extra-long second, almost like he’s bowing. “His orders have changed. He sent this, as proof his request is sincere.” He whips a card from his pocket and holds it out toward Ram.

  Ram swallows visibly, which is quite a feat considering his enormous beard, but then I’m standing off to his side, so I can see his neck muscles working.

  “What is it?” I take a step closer, trying to see what it says on the card.

  Ram takes the card from Ion and passes it to me.

  “It’s a picture of your mother.”