by Laura Bickle
“Protestors.” Jason stabbed his drink with his straw. “I don’t know why they won’t go home.”
“Well...they’ll go home after the EPA ruling, right? When what’s done is done?”
“God alone knows how long that will take. And in the meantime, we’ve gotta put up with their preachy bullshit. Most of them have never lived here, and shouldn’t have any say.”
“But some of them look local,” I observed.
“Yeah, they’re recruiting. They got a couple of the guys who quit the mine to talk to the local news station last week.”
“How did that happen?”
“Lotta people with a lot of time on their hands and not much desire to work.”
I picked at my sandwich, unwilling to argue or agree.
The lead singer of the Scotsmen paused at the end of the set, wiping his face with a towel. “I see we’ve got some visitors here.” He pointed to the dark corner the tree huggers had occupied. The new arrivals murmured among themselves and raised their glasses jovially. “Some out-of-towners. I say, let’s make ’em feel welcome.”
I shuddered. There was nothing genuine about that sinister greeting. All eyes remained on the back corner. A tall man and two of his friends ambled up to the table. “How ’bout we make y’all welcome out in the parking lot?”
I heard Will’s voice: “Look, we don’t want any trouble. We just want to drink a pint and watch the show.”
The man placed his hands down on the table. They were broad, and sunburned, and had probably cut a lot of lumber. “If y’all didn’t want any trouble, you ought not to have come here looking for it, telling hardworking people what to do.”
Jason stood up. He grabbed my wrist and pulled me behind him. “Stay behind me,” he said. “This isn’t going to end well.”
CHAPTER 11
SOMEONE HURLED A BOTTLE AGAINST the wall, just above the heads of the protestors. The glass exploded with a sound like a gunshot. The girls shrieked.
And then it was on.
The Scotsmen stormed down from the highland of the stage, spoiling for a fight. They came down swinging as the rest of the room erupted. Tables overturned, glasses shattered.
Jason grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the exit. I craned my neck to see how Will was faring in the melee.
He was standing in front of the fish tank full of salamanders, slugging it out with one of the Scotsmen. He’d landed a couple of punches, but the Scotsman was clearly the more experienced fighter. Will ducked as the lead singer’s fist slammed into the aquarium, cracking it with a splintering sound. Water gushed over the floor.
“Now look what you made me do—you hurt an endangered species!” the Scotsman bellowed.
Water splashed my shoes. The exit was jammed full of patrons, and the cacophony of panicked people rolled over me. Jason’s hand was tight on my wrist as I looked back. The cooks and dishwashers poured out of the kitchen, brandishing pots and pans. The waitress who’d served us was holding a fire extinguisher. She pulled the trigger, dousing everyone in the vicinity with a hiss of acrid foam.
“Take this shit outside!” she yelled.
The fire extinguisher did little except render the wet floor more slippery. Fighters and fleers fell in the mess, surrounded by broken dishes.
A soggy hellbender crawled over my foot. I squirmed out of Jason’s grasp to scoop him up. He flapped in my hands, and I stuffed him in my shirt, recoiling at the ooze against my skin. I let the last of the crowd push me from the door out into the parking lot, riding that wave of shrieking sound.
“Di!” Jason was at my elbow, pulling me toward the truck. “Where were you?”
In the distance, sirens wailed. We clambered into the truck and pulled out of the parking lot as two sheriff’s cruisers spun into the lot.
“Are you okay?” Jason asked.
“Yeah, but...I need to find some water.” A slimy tail snaked over the edge of my shirt.
He started laughing. He laughed so hard he shook. I couldn’t help myself—I joined him as we sped down the road, giggling like a schoolgirl who’d just gotten away with stealing salt shakers from the burger stand.
We were still roaring as Jason pulled off the road miles away. A creek bed oozed beyond the drainage ditch, toward the river.
He opened the truck door for me with a flourish, and I clambered down, holding my squirming shirt. I waded into the creek with my shoes and socks on, soaking the bottoms of my jeans, then fished the hellbender out of my shirt. He squirmed out of my hands and plopped into the stream with a mighty kerplunk. His shadow sped away in the clear water.
I braced my hands on my knees, the last of the laughter draining out of me.
“Not what I’d planned, but...an exciting date, huh?” Jason grinned.
On impulse, I stood on tiptoe in the clear water, put my salamander-slimy hands on his cheek, and kissed him. Maybe it was just the adrenaline-shock of the fight in the bar, but I felt alive.
His grin widened, and his hands circled my waist. “Getting more exciting by the minute.”
He kissed me back.
And for a moment, I forgot all about salamanders. And dragons. And crazy protestors. And music. And Will.
I just savored the moment. This moment of his lips on mine that felt so much like the past, and maybe like my future.
*
I swore I still smelled like salamander the next day, like mud and algae. I showered twice and scrubbed myself with my dad’s pumice soap, but I couldn’t quite get the musty tang of dirt and amphibian to go away.
My boss was good enough not to comment, though his nose twitched whenever I was in the vicinity. There was no way to explain it without sounding like a complete fool, so I kept quiet. He seemed relieved when I left for lunch.
I had a mission: find out as much as I could about dragons. And the Enchanted Broomstick seemed as good a place to start as any.
I parked on the street beside the store, watching as Julie buried what looked like bits of broken glass at the corner of the property. As I opened the car door, an acrid stench assaulted my nose. Worse than salamander.
“A new spell?” I asked. I didn’t want to tell Julie that it stank.
“Another ward.” She made a face. “Someone left a dead opossum in the mailbox last night.”
“Charming.”
“I thought so. Come on in. It smells better in there. Less like...well, ass.”
I followed Julie up the steps. The cat was perched on top of the mailbox, which had been freshly washed, the garden hose still coiled around it. Whether the cat was interested in the smell or guarding it from future incursions, I couldn’t be sure.
It didn’t smell like dead opossum inside. Or ass. Julie was burning four sticks of incense in a glass burner. It smelled like a helluva lot of patchouli.
I looked through the books displayed in the bookcase, scanning for anything about dragons.
“Anything particular you’re looking for?” Julie asked as she lit another stick and fanned the smoke over her body.
“Dragons,” I said. It didn’t seem like an unusual request, in this place.
“Any particular type?”
“No...just curious. I heard ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’ on the radio and got to thinking about them.” A lie. But one I was comfortable telling.
Julie squatted at the bottom of a bookcase. “This is a good one.” She handed me a paperback with a dog-eared cover decorated with a large red watercolor dragon. “It talks about the mythology of dragons across cultures and their uses in magic.”
“Dragons can be used in magic?”
“Well...maybe ‘use’ is the wrong word. They’re considered volatile forces with free will. Not recommended for beginners.” She frowned.
“Have you ever…met a dragon?” I tried to ask casually as I flipped through it.
“No. They’re not from this world. They’re considered by most metaphysicians to be astral plane beings, and they’re rare even there.”
&
nbsp; She still had that worried crease in her brow, like the one my fourth-grade teacher used to get when I started asking questions about whether black holes made noise. “But there are better magic books for beginners. Here...” She reached for a higher shelf.
“No worries. I’m not interested in putting one on a leash and making it do tricks. Just the history.”
She relaxed. “Then that would be a good book for you.”
I turned the book over, looked surreptitiously at the price above the UPC code. It was two dollars more than I had in my wallet. I wondered how much change I could dig out from between the seats of the car.
“That’s a used book. It’s half off the cover price,” Julie said. She pointed to a small hand-lettered sign on top of the shelf.
It was meant to be, or Julie was being kind to me. Either way, I wanted it. “I’ll take it.”
I headed up to the register as she rang it up, standing close to the incense. Hopefully, it would eclipse some of the salamander stink without making my boss think I was a pothead. Patchouli and pot smelled too much alike.
The jingle bells on the door chimed, and a heavy thud hit the floor. Will stood there, beside a new shrink-wrapped window he’d hauled inside.
“Julie, where do you want me to put this?”
“Over there in the corner. Thanks.”
Our gazes crossed. He spoke first: “Hi, Di.”
My gaze lingered on the new bruise on his cheek. “You got your ass kicked by the cops again?”
His mouth turned down. “That was from an angry Scotsman who pummeled me with a bottle of ketchup.” He lifted his hands, where red marks circled his wrist. “This was from the cops.”
“That’s beginning to be a refrain.”
“Yeah, well. Excitement seems to follow me.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “You got arrested?”
“Spent a night in jail. I had two beers, and that qualified me for ‘drunk and disorderly.’ Who knew?” He shrugged and moved the window over to an unused corner, out of the way of foot traffic.
“How’d you get out?”
He frowned. “I had to call my dad for bail money. Not my finest moment, trust me.”
“Wow.” I tried in vain to suspend judgment. “Your dad knows you’re here?”
“Yeah. He’s actually pretty supportive.”
“He must be. My dad wouldn’t have...” I trailed off. I didn’t want to talk about my dad. I grabbed my bag from the counter and thanked Julie.
“Your dad wouldn’t bail you out of jail?” Will asked me as he pulled nails out of the plywood covering Julie’s broken window with a hammer.
I looked him full in the face. “No. He wouldn’t.”
“That’s kinda sad, actually.”
I paused. “Yeah. It is.”
I pushed through the door and out into the stinking daylight. Why did Will get under my skin so much? Maybe it was the air of privilege. The fact that trouble seemed not to stick to him, as if he were made of Teflon. The idea that rules didn’t seem to apply to him. Maybe I resented that freedom.
But get under my skin, he did. Like something more than simple jealousy.
And that worried me.
*
Dragons are not like any other spirit.
They do not act out of any sense of morality, of right or wrong. They are aligned with neither light nor dark. Their affections and attachments are fickle and unpredictable.
Their environments are diverse: oceans, deserts, forests on every continent. They are as broadly-scattered as humankind. Their powers are even more diverse: fire, glamours and illusions, healing, and more.
But one characteristic is constant: they adore treasure.
The savvy magician knows how to use that greed to his advantage.
The trailer door creaked open, and I slammed the book shut and threw it in a desk drawer. Bad enough to get busted by the boss for reading, but reading a woo-woo book called Dragon Fire, Lore, and Summoning: A Primer for the Adept would definitely get me fired fast.
I plastered a pleasant expression on my face as Peters clomped back into the office. “Coffee’s ready, sir,” I chirped.
“Thanks, Di.” He grabbed his stainless-steel travel mug and dove in for a refill. “Hey, I got a call from Gabby.”
“How’s she doing?”
He leaned back on his desk and took a slurp of coffee. “Good, good. But she says she’s not coming back to work.”
“Oh.” My breath caught in my throat. Hope and fear surged through me. I wasn’t sure what I was hoping for, whether I wanted the job or not. If it was open, I’d have to take it. And I didn’t want that to be a sign that governed my future, whichever way it went.
He waved his hand. “I told her to give it the full six weeks. Hormones are screwing with her head, now. But she says she doesn’t want to come back. She wants to stay home with the baby and knit booties. Can’t say it’s unexpected, but...”
I swallowed.
“But. If you want the job, it’s yours.”
I couldn’t speak.
“You’re doing a good job. Picked up on things quick. And you make good coffee.” Coffee dampened his mustache.
“Thank you, sir. I’d love to.” My mouth was dry and sticky.
I didn’t know what I really wanted, for forever. But for right now...I just wanted to be next to the dragon. Never mind all the stuff about money and filial duty.
“Excellent. I’ll send the paperwork on to corporate. In the meantime, you can start organizing the supply cabinet. There’s a lotta junk in there that Gabby couldn’t dig through, in her delicate condition. Feel free to pitch anything we don’t need in the Dumpster.”
“Yessir,” I croaked, and scurried to the back of the trailer.
I spent the rest of the afternoon organizing paper clips, pens, and copy toner. Peters was right—there was a lot of junk. I threw away several paper boxes full of notepads, folders, and blank forms that had been damaged by a water leak in the ceiling. I found a label maker that worked, much to my delight, though the adhesive was iffy. I got busy labeling shelves. I pitched out a poinsettia that had been put in the dark to hibernate over spring but had been forgotten.
But I was thinking of the dragon.
What could I give him that would demonstrate my good will? I could play for him, and he seemed to enjoy that, but the book suggested that dragons liked tangible things. Loot for their hoards. I didn’t know how much of that was true, or under what authority the author spoke. But it couldn’t hurt to try.
I was dusting the top shelf when I came across an old radio. The white plastic casing was yellowed and cracked. The antenna was bent, and the radio was as big as my purse, with black plastic dials.
But did it work? I scavenged some batteries from a bin I’d just labeled. I stuffed four C cells in and flipped the big switch on the top.
It crackled to life. I tuned it to a classical music station. “Claire de Lune” echoed from the speaker.
I smiled, ridiculously overjoyed that the piece of junk worked.
*
After work, I climbed up the blind side of the mountain to the flat rock where I’d encountered Afakos. Birds warbled merrily overhead, which meant he wasn’t around. My heart fell. I worried that I’d never see him again, that I’d be thrown back into my ordinary life. That I’d be unspecial again.
“Afakos?” I called into the dense underbrush.
Only a sparrow answered me.
I set the radio down on the rock and turned on the power. A string quartet played swing music through the tinny little speaker.
I had no idea if the dragon would know how to use the radio. But I was pretty sure he’d find it. I hoped he’d get some hours of pleasure from it before the batteries died.
As I climbed down the mountainside, the music became fainter and fainter, until it faded completely into ordinary silence.
But I had hope that Afakos would see it for what it was: a gesture of friendship.
&nbs
p; CHAPTER 12
MY MIND WAS FIXED ON dragons, but the thoughts of those around me chased other things.
My mother was thinking about my new job. I’d told her it was probably permanent now, and she was overjoyed. I’d managed to crack a smile, for her sake. On my first payday, I brought home several sacks of groceries. I agreed to pay her three hundred dollars a month in “rent,” which allowed her to save face, but also let me to save a bit back for school. Someday.
When he was awake, my father was thinking about whichever ballgame was on television. When he slept, he had terrible nightmares...and I wondered exactly what he’d encountered in the mine. At the back of my thoughts, I worried that perhaps Afakos had something to do with it. And I felt a traitor for currying the favor of such an amazing creature.
Jason, emboldened by the kiss after our date at the Mud Devil’s Kitchen, began to leave me flowers under the windshield wipers of my car. Just one, every day: a daisy, a violet, or a bit of Queen Anne’s lace. I smiled at the end of every workday to find a bloom perched on my cracked windshield.
And there were other gifts.
The day after I left the radio for Afakos, I climbed up to the flat rock to see if it was still there, playing. But I heard no music, except the robins singing.
The radio was gone, but something glittered in its place. It flashed bits of wobbly sunshine up into the tree canopy as I approached, and I puzzled over what it was.
As I bent down, I saw a silver hand mirror. A very old one. The glass was dark, with the same phantoms that one could find in quartz. The reverse side was ornate sterling silver, tarnished with time. I cupped the mirror in my hand and stared at it.
A gift. Maybe...an invitation to further conversation.
It was the end of the day. I’d brought my violin, so I opened the case, tucked the violin under my chin, and played, with my back to the forest. “Every Breath You Take” by the Police. I softened the hard edges, slowed the rhythm, and gave it a very dreamy, waltz-like quality. As I worked the strings, I was conscious of the shadows of birds flickering over me, of the weight of inhuman eyes upon me.