The Temptation of Dragons (Penny White Book 1)

by Chrys Cymri

  I was nearly in front of him now. ‘No, it’s not your fault. It’s those who killed her who are to blame. Not you.’

  ‘She’d be alive if we hadn’t married.’ His eyes darted to the kitchen windows and his wings lifted.

  Was he planning to throw himself against the glass? I wasn’t certain, but I couldn’t take the risk. I reached out and grabbed him with both hands, thumbs locked around his chest, fingers under his wings. And for a moment he fought me. Bird and cat claws raked towards my face, wings buffeted my arms. I hung on, grimly determined to protect him from hurting himself.

  Then he collapsed. His body flopped in my hands, all his strength gone. I gathered him into my arms and held him against my chest. There were no tears, but I was certain that his shudders were the gryphon equivalent of crying.

  To his credit, James found a plastic bucket and began to pick up the broken pieces of bottle. I met his eyes, and he jerked his head upwards. So I carried Morey away from the kitchen and up the stairs to my own room.

  For a long time I sat in a chair and rocked him, just as I had sought to soothe James when he’d been an upset toddler. There was nothing to say, so I said nothing. Tomorrow, when the initial shock had passed, maybe then Morey would be in a position to listen. But not now.

  Finally, he stilled. His breathing informed me that he’d passed into uneasy unconsciousness. For a moment I contemplated carrying him to his room. Then I rose and carefully placed him on the end of my own bed. Too tired to even brush my teeth, I changed clothes and slid under the covers. But sleep was a long time coming.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Morey might be half falcon, but his sleeping habits were pure cat. During the night, he had moved up the bed, taken up residence on the left, and stretched out to his full length. Even while asleep, I had simply moved further and further across my side, so that I woke perched at the edge of the mattress.

  I had awakened before the alarm, and I turned it off and crept out of the bed. Morey was still asleep, and it seemed best to leave him that way. I dressed as quietly as I could and made my way downstairs.

  The kitchen reeked of alcohol, but the floor had been cleared of glass and liquid. James was sitting at the table, drinking coffee while he read the newspaper.

  I poured myself a coffee and joined him. ‘Thank you for cleaning up.’

  ‘That’s okay. How’s Morey?’

  ‘Left him sleeping on my bed.’

  ‘Better than having someone else in it.’

  He’d said it quietly, but I still heard him. ‘James. It was only--’

  ‘I’m around for a couple of days,’ he said, cutting me off. ‘But I need to go down to London on Friday.’

  ‘I’ll put you in touch with Peter,’ I decided. ‘He said he can help you get a good price for Lloegyr coins.’

  James scowled. ‘You want me to deal with some dodgy currency guy?’

  Of course. He had no idea what Peter did for a living. ‘Peter is an Inspector. In the police department. Far from dodgy.’

  ‘A cop?’ James was suddenly cheerful. ‘Alan’s life was saved by a policeman, remember? When he fell into the river trying to save that dog?’

  ‘Yes, I remember.’ I decided not to let James know that the police had privately told Alan off for risking his life to save an animal. At least James suddenly seemed to have a bit more of a positive attitude towards Peter, which shouldn’t have mattered to me at all. We were only colleagues. Weren’t we?

  For a moment, I resented Alan. How dare he die on me? I was only in my mid-thirties. I should still be happily married, not worried about what was and what wasn’t a date with a man. Or with a dragon, for that matter.

  I glanced at the wall clock. ‘Got to go. School assembly. You don’t have to wait in for Morey. He knows how to use the cat flap.’

  I entertained children for twenty minutes on the Good Samaritan, visited a couple arranging for their children to be baptised, and showed my support for local businesses by having lunch in the village pub. Then I drove home, hoping that Morey might now be in a state to talk.

  Except, when I got home, the gryphon was nowhere to be found.

  ‘No, haven’t seen him,’ James said when I found him in the lounge. His laptop cast a blue light on his face as he continued to type away. ‘Not since he left, just before lunch. Maybe he’s still hunting?’

  I checked the back garden, but found neither gryphon nor carcass. Morey didn’t hunt every day, and I found myself trying to remember when he had last brought down a bird.

  Finally, I gave up looking under bushes and went back into the house. The office was very quiet. I glanced at the terrarium. Clyde was tucked into the log, only his tentacles showing. His eyespots came to me. ‘Morey,’ he said mournfully.

  ‘Yes, Morey,’ I agreed in the same tone. ‘Have you seen Morey?’

  ‘Morey gone.’

  I crouched, bringing myself level with the snail pup. ‘Do you know where he’s gone?’

  ‘Morey gone.’ And with that he withdrew into his shell.

  I turned on the computer and tried to start my sermon. Morey would come back sometime today. Wouldn’t he?

  Peter rang me that evening. ‘Let me know if you want help to break this to Morey,’ he said after we exchanged the usual meaningless pleasantries. ‘But we’ve had back the tests done on Seren.’

  ‘He already knows,’ I said heavily. ‘He found out last night. From a passing rat.’

  Peter swore, then apologised. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Just because I’m a priest doesn’t mean I’m going to faint if I hear a rude word.’

  ‘I was apologising because you’re a woman, not because you’re a minister.’ My eyebrows rose, but Peter went on before I could say anything. ‘These rat kings, they’re the worst gossips out.’

  ‘Let me know if you see him?’ I asked. ‘In case he speaks to Taryn. They’re friends, aren’t they?’

  ‘Acquaintances, I’d say, not friends. But, yes, I’ll let you know.’

  <><><><><><>

  Morey didn’t return that night. Nor had he reappeared by Friday morning when I dropped James off at the train station and then continued on to Duston. Although she wasn’t a member of my congregation nor lived in my parish, I still felt a duty of care for Miranda. I had been the last person to see Dominic alive, after all. Her own priest had agreed, by email, that he had no objections to me providing pastoral support.

  The front garden was more overgrown than last time. I felt a pang of guilt at this reminder that I hadn’t visited her earlier. Somehow the weeks had just flown by. Well, I’m here now, I told myself as I rang the doorbell.

  I had arranged the visit by phone, so Miranda was expecting me. She said little as she showed me to the front room. I sank into an armchair and waited while she made the customary cup of tea. ‘So, how are you?’ I asked.

  ‘I miss him,’ she said tightly. Her hair was still blue, but dark roots were showing. ‘It’s hard. They wouldn’t even let me go to his funeral.’

  ‘His Order?’

  ‘Exactly.’ The tea cup was rattling in its saucer, so she put them down on the faded rug. ‘And they were the ones who sent him here in the first place. They must have known it would happen.’

  ‘What would happen?’

  ‘Well, it was that were-fox first, wasn’t it?’

  I hid my surprise, and allowed myself an inward sigh as she brought out a cigarette. I don’t allow smoking in my own home, but I don’t feel I can forbid others to smoke in theirs. Particularly the bereaved. ‘He was seeing a were-fox?’

  ‘Melody. That bitch.’

  ‘You said she was a were-fox,’ I said, risking a stab at humour. ‘I think the term is “vixen”.’

  ‘She was a bitch.’ The cigarette stabbed the air in emphasis. ‘She couldn’t accept that Endre was with me. Kept bleating that he was supposed to be with her.’

  She was using anger to avoid feeling grief. It’s quite common. ‘Why do you keep c
alling him Endre? Didn’t he use his Christian name at Saint George’s?’

  ‘In church he was Dominic,’ Miranda said. ‘But here, with just us, he was Endre.’

  I drank some tea, using the time to ponder how best to help her. Reach back into happier memories? ‘Tell me how you met.’

  ‘He’d been at Saint George’s for a couple of months.’ The lines around her mouth eased. ‘He was just--gorgeous. Don’t you think that? Dragons are gorgeous. Of course I had the hots for him.’

  I nearly choked on my tea. ‘You did?’ I managed to squeak out.

  ‘You wouldn’t understand.’ She flicked cigarette ash dismissively in my direction. ‘When we met, we just knew.’

  My throat was still in recovery mode. ‘How?’

  ‘The chemistry. We were soul mates.’ She looked off into the distance. ‘We’d curl up in here together. Didn’t matter what was on the telly. We were together.’

  ‘Anything else?’ I asked, voice almost back to normal. ‘Holidays, days out?’

  ‘Not really.’ The frown lines were back. ‘We mostly hung out here.’

  ‘I suppose he was rather tired from his work at Saint George’s,’ I said sympathetically. ‘You helped him to relax.’

  ‘Work?’ She shook her head. ‘He didn’t work at Saint George’s.’

  ‘Then what was he doing there?’

  Miranda shrugged. ‘I don’t know. That wasn’t important. What mattered was us.’

  I kept her talking about their enchanted evenings together, the laughs they had shared, his concern that their relationship might be discovered. But I was wondering why Dominic had been placed at Saint George’s. The church served ex pats and people like Miranda. Why had the Order of Saint Thomas sent one of their monks to England? What purpose could he have served in that church?

  ‘Grief is hard,’ I said quietly when she started to cry. ‘My husband died only eighteen months ago.’

  ‘How did you get through this?’ she asked. ‘It’s so hard.’

  It was times like these, when I couldn’t think of my own words, that I reached out to the wisdom of Doctor Who. ‘The day you lose someone isn’t the lowest point,’ I paraphrased. ‘It’s all the days that follow, when they stay dead and you have to carry on. But it does get better. Just concentrate on one day at a time, or even one breath at a time.’

  The sun was fading behind a wall of grey cloud when I returned home. Still no Morey. And the crickets were hopping around Clyde’s tank, all far too alive. The snail pup was off his food. I was surprised at his continued misery at Morey’s absence, and at a complete loss as to how I was supposed to give pastoral care to a snail shark. Even the death of his mother hadn’t affected him like this.

  <><><><><><>

  On Saturday afternoon I sent an email to the Bishop’s chaplain. Hi Sally. Need some advice. Morey has gone missing. He found out some bad news on Tuesday and I haven’t seen him since Wednesday morning. Can you send a message to Lloegyr? I’m really worried about him. Penny W.

  <><><><><><>

  ‘The candles don’t fit.’ The sacristan seemed to view this as a personal affront. ‘They’re too small for the holders.’

  I paused, sermon in hand, my garment bag in my stall. The church, I noted absently, was rather cold for an October morning. I would need to convince the churchwarden to put the heating on for the Sunday service. ‘It’s the size you said,’ I reminded Sarah, biting back the observation that it shouldn’t be the responsibility of a vicar to order altar candles in the first place.

  ‘They’re too small.’ Then she looked down at the candle in her hand. ‘But I suppose I can make them fit. With a bit of paper around the bottom.’

  ‘That sounds good,’ I said. And to myself I thought, One.

  I climbed the narrow stairs to the pulpit and placed my sermon on the bookrest. As I came down I found Marjorie waiting for me. ‘Vicar, someone has rearranged my flowers.’ My gaze obediently followed the finger pointing at the pedestal near the altar. ‘Look at it. I had alternating roses and lillies. Now it’s just lillies.’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t know who it could be,’ I said truthfully. And I counted, Two.

  I started down the aisle. Only to be stopped next to first pew by the day’s sideperson. ‘The first hymn makes no sense,’ he said. ‘It’s a Christmas carol. The number can’t be right.’

  I glanced at the hymn board. ‘I haven’t a clue,’ I told him. ‘The organist picks the hymns, not me.’

  ‘But it can’t be right.’

  ‘Please ask the organist when he comes in.’ And I made the mental note, Three.

  I made my way to the middle of the church, and was accosted by one of the servers. ‘The rota isn’t right,’ she said indignantly. ‘On the pew sheet. I’m down for chalice. But I did it last week. It’s not my turn.’

  ‘I don’t put together the pew sheet,’ I said politely. ‘You need to speak to Graham.’

  ‘But it’s not right!’

  ‘I don’t put together the pew sheet,’ I repeated. ‘Let’s go by the master copy of the rota, okay?’ And now it was Four.

  I escaped to my small vestry, a cold little room on the right side of the church. As I changed into my robes, I prayed desperately that no one else would come to speak to me. Three unimportant crises not of my own making I could tolerate before a service. Four started to fray at my temper. The fifth would very likely find the vicar reacting in a less than pastoral fashion.

  Dear Lord, I prayed, I have to go out in a moment and lead this service. And preach about the Good Shepherd. And then represent you at the altar. Please help me to get in the right mood for all of this.

  A knock at the door. ‘Penny?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied reluctantly. ‘Come on in.’ Rosie Gough came in, the retired minister whom the Bishop had sent to help out in my parish. Her short grey hair stood out against her bright purple cardigan. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘To pray for you, Vicar.’ And then she bowed her head. ‘God our comforter and companion, whose son began each day in the quietness of your presence, we ask that Penny might be filled with your peace as she leads your people in worship. Bring her mind into focus on all that is good, all that is true, of all that is of you. May she know that you hold her, and that you hold all of us, in the gentleness of your love. Amen.’

  I turned my head away in embarassment and fiddled with the microphone on my chasuble. God said nothing, and his silence spoke louder than any words.

  Procession, first hymn, announcements, opening sentences, call to repentence. ‘And in a moment of silence,’ I said, ‘let us bring before God our sins against him and against each other.’ Please, Lord, I prayed, forgive me. These are your people, and you have entrusted them to me. Help me never to forget the privilege granted to me to lead them in worship. ‘And let us confess our sins by saying, “Almighty God, our heavenly Father, we have sinned against you and against our neighbour in thought and word and deed…’”

  Feeling acutely my own need for absolution, I gave the corporate version. ‘”Almighty God, who forgives all who truly repent, have mercy upon us…”’

  It was with a lighter heart that I continued with the service. At the altar rail, placing the communion wafers in the hands held out to me, I prayed quickly and silently for each person. Holly, worried about the many duties which fell to her as the sole churchwarden. Joseph, refusing to let his limp keep him from visiting the old and infirm in the village. Sarah, whose son had been arrested yet again for petty theft from the corner shop. Majorie, who found it difficult to pay her winter fuel bills but still insisted on providing flowers free to the church. And on and on, the people who had taken me into private parts of their lives, looking to me to remind them that God loved and cared for each of them.

  Final hymn, dismissal. I pulled off my robes and put my more comfortable fleece back on. Then I wandered out in search of a coffee, feeling cheerful and in love with my congregation.

  ‘Vicar.’ Patric
k blocked my way. ‘I want a word with you.’ I had scarcely nodded when he continued, ‘You used the wrong words for the absolution.’

  ‘The “us” form,’ I said, ‘is permitted. It reminds everyone that the priest needs forgiveness as much as anyone else.’

  ‘But I want the “you”,’ he retorted. ‘I want you to absolve my sins. That’s what I pay you for. Don’t use the other words again.’

  And as he strode off, I found myself thinking, One.

  Fortunately I was only up to Three before the last people left and I could lock up the church. Home to a cheddar sandwich, which I had to make twice. I left the room after making the sandwich the first time, and when I returned I found a snail pup demolishing the cheese. I was torn between relief that he was finally eating, and annoyance that he had disobeyed the kitchen rules and crawled onto the counters. I banished him to the terrarium in punishment.

  A soft thump drew my attention away from my disturbed lunch and to the back garden. There, looking down in alarm at the weeds curling around her claws, was the Bishop of Llanbedr.

  It took me several minutes to find the key to the back door. It was only as moisture seeped into my slippers that I realised I hadn’t stopped to put on proper shoes. ‘Bishop Aeron. Good afternoon.’

  ‘And to you, Father Penny.’ She swung her head around the strip of overgrown grass. ‘Your plot looks different than the others in this area. Do you prefer wilderness?’

  ‘I hate gardening. Why should a person have a power complex about flowers? It’s like dictatorship for inadequates.’ I should have realised that my Doctor Who based quote would mean little to a dragon. She merely blinked at me. ‘How may I help you, Bishop?’

  ‘I’ve come about Trahaearneifion.’ For the first time, perhaps assisted by my recent Welsh lessons, I actually understood Morey’s Welsh name. ‘Has he still not returned?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him since Tuesday. I don’t know where he is.’