by CK Dawn
Leyton shot her a toothless grin, clearly aroused by her discomfiture. “I think we could be friends,” he said. “Real good friends.”
“No.” She snatched her hand away and raised it to slap him and the image away. A slithering voice echoed in her head urging her to close her fist and another whispered gleeful encouragement, detailing the rich, hot blood that would be theirs to gorge in, if only she would strike true, hard and repeatedly. Horrified, Dragon watched as a stain of bitter, dark emerald spread over the flesh on the back of her hand and as her fingers, unbidden, curled into a fist. The veins along her forearm engorged, their pulsating lengths glowing platinum in the restaurant’s gloom. The whispers increased until she could barely hear herself think, urging her to let them help her, let them show her the dark perfection that awaited if only she’d give in. The fix to end all fixes, one cheeky whisper laughed, jerking Dragon to her senses.
She spun away from her audience and held on to the back of a chair dry heaving until tears ran from her eyes. “What’s happening to me?” She drooled as her stomach contracted, spat and considered sticking her finger down her throat—anything to get those voices out of her head. She looked at the back of her hand and the quickly fading colors, wondering what kind of illness could make her cells do something so inhuman.
Inhuman. Yesssss. A jeering purr echoed as it faded away.
Shaking, Dragon made her way to the front door and the clearer air that would surely still her swirling head. Ignoring Leyton’s lustful commentary about her backside and what he would do with it if he had a spare minute and an empty men’s bathroom, she dug in her purse and threw the balance of their bill on the bar’s well-wiped top before bursting into the weak light of the waning day.
“Ryan,” she hoarsely called to the diminishing figures hurrying down the sidewalk to her left.
Ryan, his arm around his Megan’s shoulders, turned, scowling before he buried his face in the hollow of his girlfriend’s neck and allowed her sober strides to lead them away.
The piece of soul Dragon had bet on him split away from her with a few audible pops and swirled down a metaphysical gutter like so much glowing refuse. Dragon clutched her violently cramping stomach against the pain and dizziness that followed.
“I can help,” a voice said from behind her.
Dragon swung towards it and scowled. “Fuck you,” she croaked to the indistinct figure in front of her. She inhaled deeply to help dissipate the worst of her swimming head.
“If you’d like,” the voice rasped. “But I think a drink—and perhaps an antacid—might be more appropriate.” A trouser-clad leg broke out of the shadows and took a deliberate step into the uncertain gaze of twilight. “I’d be honored to supply both. Join me?”
Two
Even in her distress, Dragon saw the darkness slip away from him like a silk-lined cape falling to the floor.
His charcoal suit draped his form exquisitely, its crisp worsted lines clinging where motion required and flowing in the seconds in between, as if a careless cuff and impeccable hem could convey a heavy burden of power. His shirt was a woven gray silk and his tie black.
But for the thin scars that decorated the backs of his hands and disappeared past simple oval cufflinks like some ancient swirling text, he could’ve passed for a model or a metrosexual or a salesman. A salesman pulling seven, even eight figures when the world was at their fingertips, before the Unveiling and war sent everything into the realm of unpredictability. Before magic.
“Though I’m happy to indulge in the initial request—make us both happy.” His deep-set eyes regarded Dragon knowingly as if he could discern the abnormal hunger that gripped her.
Suddenly aware of her situation and terrified that her craving for bliss would put her in this stranger’s arms as well as Leyton’s, Dragon took a few steps away from him and searched the slowly waking boulevard for a cop.
“There’s never one around when you need one, is there?” the man said, smiling faintly—a slight curling of the corners of his lips that did not reach his eyes, yet made him seem all the more sexy despite the lack of warmth. An easy breeze fluttered a few locks of black hair about the ordered slashes of his brows and into his eyes. He squinted and the last rays of the sun highlighted their extraordinary color for a moment before time shrouded them entirely.
Gray, Dragon thought and took a shallow breath to get ahold of herself. Truly gray, not some muddied green or indistinct blue or, Shiva save us, hazel—the catch-all response to odd eye color. Gray like a looming storm cloud, like damp plaster just before it sets and outlined with a precise black stroke.
“Fuck you,” she whispered for lack of anything better to say as she wiped mascara tears from her face.
“Bravo,” he murmured, clasping his hands behind his back.
At ease, his stance read. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said, hoping that hid the turmoil still churning within her. Her arm still rippled like thousands of tiny teeth longed to pierce through her flesh. The fact that it had returned to its everyday coppery tan was hardly comforting.
“Fight is invariably better than flight.” He shrugged. “Especially when it’s a stranger you’re cursing while you make ready for combat.” He smiled. Still not entirely genuine nor reassuring, but bruised somehow as if he was used to taking a hit.
Finally noticing his height, easily over six feet, Dragon fixed her features so that a veneer of neutrality covered her lingering pain and sudden trepidation; it was dark after all and she was alone in the middle of a night-shrouded ghetto. She raised her twitching hand to signal the oncoming traffic of cars and rickshaws pulled by two legs or four.
“Maybe I should introduce myself. Would that help?”
“I don’t see how.” She faced oncoming traffic, looking for an empty cab, took a few steps backward, her arm still raised, then turned and started to walk.
He chuckled darkly, his loose stride easily keeping pace beside her. “I’m Fel and I’m an Aquarius.” His smile widened at the bad pickup line.
Dragon pulled her gaze away from his lips then spun around and stuck out her arm again, flapping her hand at the dilapidated taxi that seemed like it was going to stop for her, then sped past. Frustrated, she stopped in the light of a lamppost and straightened her hailing arm determinedly.
When another cab and two rickshaws, one manned by a Minotaur, all empty flew by her, Dragon scowled at Fel. “You’re scaring them away. What are you?”
“Harmless. Essentially.” He put his hands in his pockets and Dragon was struck again by how gorgeous he was.
“Swimmer’s build,” she whispered, focusing on his lips—wide with easy curves. “Trouble,” she concluded before turning away.
“What?”
She shrugged and said nothing. Across the street, Ryan and Megan appeared to window-shop. Their clasped hands swayed between them like the bond was a child who made a swing from their arms. They crossed the street to Ryan’s scooter, both ignoring Dragon so intensely she swore she could see the snub covering the street like a tidal wave.
Not once as she made all her plans did it ever occur to Dragon that once fixed Ryan would leave, though she saw now that it should’ve.
Her very first fix (and the first time her powers had manifested—cackled, to be exact) had exited her life with the speed only a man with no regrets can achieve, and the ink was barely dry on their college diplomas when the love of her life dumped her. Soon after she wrote and ratified the Cardinal Rules of Fixing, rule number one stating, Thou shalt not fix for your own gain. It hurts too much when they leave, and they always do.
“Thought he’d be different,” Dragon said out loud as the sight of Ryan and Megan faded into the crowded sidewalk.
Haven’t thought of Bobby in ages. Or that first time. Dragon’s brow furrowed. Embers don’t cackle, do they?
“I can help. Truly,” Fel interrupted her thoughts, taking a step closer to Dragon. He dug into his breast pocket, pulled out a business card
and, holding it between two fingers like a cigarette, offered it to Dragon.
As she reached for it, her arm stopped pulsating at once, the sensation of slinking retreat flaring briefly before there was nothing.
“Flannacán?” she read as she surreptitiously inspected her arm. “No last name?”
“Just Fel.” His voice, a lazy, gravel baritone, washed over her in jerky, uncontrolled prickles that scraped roughly over her skin and made Dragon wince against the untutored use of basic kama magic. A second, more polished attempt hit her and she felt her labia engorge. Suddenly the scarification and the seducing magic made sense.
“Shoo, fae, don’t bother me.” She tossed the card to the sidewalk, watching as the breeze whipped it and other scraps of paper around like confetti.
Smiling, he drew another card from his pocket and offered it to her.
She ignored him and concentrated on trying to flag a ride home. Three more empty conveyances swept by her and Dragon glared at Fel in irritation. “Cut it out,” she bit out wondering what kind of glamour he used to make them both look so threatening as to scare away a carriage being pulled by a Cerberus.
He waved the card, inviting her to take it with a very effective and unadulterated bedroom gaze.
She took it with a huff of disdain. “There. Happy?”
They indulged in a staring contest, his steady and patient, hers laden with resentment.
With a long-suffering sigh, Dragon scanned the card. “Masseur and escort.” She bit her lip trying not to smile. “Shouldn’t you be better at, uh, the seductive arts?”
His grin was sheepish and utterly charming. “Too much wine with dinner. Let me change your mind.”
“No thanks,” she said with a horrified laugh. “But if you hurry there might be a couple yards of Fourteenth Street open for you to strut your stuff. Mind the drag queens, especially the shifter queens. They can be vicious about their territory.”
The easygoing façade he wore dimmed.
Dragon raised her brows at him, ignoring the remorse his coldly affronted expression provoked. It was his livelihood, after all, to manipulate people into believing that he cared what they thought. Well, a bullshit encounter wasn’t good enough for her, especially in her current state: fucked and abandoned like, well… At least he got paid, she thought wildly swallowing against the lump in her throat.
“It says here ‘masseur and escort.’” She raised her eyebrows at his stiff silence. “Are you saying that ‘masseur and escort’ isn’t a centuries-old euphemism for prostitute?”
“Perhaps I am an exception to the rule,” he bit out, his voice like ice.
As objectively as she could, she took inventory of his person. “I don’t think so,” she murmured, unexpectedly caught up in the simple enjoyment of just looking at him. “You are incredibly gorgeous.” She shrugged. “I have a hard time believing that any client of yours would be satisfied with just a massage.”
His stance eased a bit, but he didn’t confirm or deny her statement. “How did you know I am fae?”
She met his gaze, her lower lip between her teeth, debating whether or not she should answer his question. “If I was without a certain scruple or two,” she finally said, “I’d make damn sure I got more than just a massage.” She cocked her head to one side inquisitively. “Would I get it?”
His laugh was genuine and seemed to catch even him off guard. Then he blushed, entrancing Dragon even more than his earlier attempt to force desire.
“That’s a nice touch,” she said with a knowing smile. “Is the shy act part of the standard package?”
“I plead the Fifth,” he murmured, ducking his head bashfully, his grin wicked.
Dragon chuckled in spite of herself. The ache from Ryan’s betrayal still threatened her like a slowly descending stone wall in an action flicker from the old days, but the painful need to fix was gone. She looked around even more bewildered as her body cooled, signaling her craving’s satiation.
Healing miscellus had, thankfully, never been an issue. Her balm never fell for the lure fixing a mythical being represented. Didn’t stop it from hungering though, and forcing Dragon towards a quick and easy fix just to take the edge off.
She took a step towards Fel, close enough to catch a hint of his cologne then braced herself to mentally collar her addiction. The leash she imagined was two-inch-thick chain link, experience telling her she needed at least that to keep her power from lunging at Fel and pulling her arm out of the socket in the process before dragging her off to investigate the nearest lowlife.
When nothing happened, Dragon relaxed a little. A slight breeze fluttered the hem of her blouse and tickled the back of her neck, but her body remained in her control. More relieved and at peace than she could remember, Dragon stooped a little to meet Fel’s downcast gaze. “I’m sorry, okay?” she said, resuming the thread of their conversation. “All right?”
He nodded. “Sure.”
“No thanks, though. Okay?”
Still smiling, he wrinkled his brow and said apologetically, “Not okay.”
“Gimme a break!” Dragon shouted then turned her face to the starlit sky to laugh helplessly.
He laughed too and held his hands out in entreaty. “I gotta make a living, right?” he explained, going through the exaggerated motions of straightening his tie and buttoning his jacket all business-like.
“Okay,” Dragon sighed. “Give it your best shot, but then,” she pointed a stern finger at him, “No more glamour and I get a cab home.”
He nodded slowly; the bedroom look was back, heightened by a devil’s smile. “Okay, but you won’t need it.”
“Your pitch is that good?”
“It gets the job done.” His eyes glowed with confidence. “Besides, you need what I have more than anyone I’ve ever met, so I have the advantage,” he finished candidly, his smile dissolving into compassion by degrees.
“I’m fine,” she blurted, aware of her circumstance and mortified by it. It wasn’t enough that he and all of Junior’s knew what happened in the men’s bathroom, but coupled with the knowledge of what she’d endured the fifteen years she’d been dating, and the fact that she’d been seconds away from fixing the man who murdered her father was just…too much.
“I just want to go home.” Her voice broke on the last word and to her horror she found herself blinking back tears.
“I know,” he said, his alluring voice shifting to the benign work of soothing instead of seducing.
It was enough to crack Dragon’s fragile control and she wrapped her arms around her torso as if she alone could staunch this overdue bereavement.
“Shhh,” he said. He cupped her face, catching and wiping away each new tear with his thumbs. “How about a free consultation?” He gathered her weak, grief-stricken form close.
“I don’t want to have sex,” she gulped out between sobs. “God, I’m ruining your shirt.”
“No sex,” he promised. He pulled away from her, unbuttoned his jacket, drew her arms about his waist and wrapped his arms around her shoulders.
Dragon fit her profile in his neck’s hollow without a thought, as easily as a thirsty blossom opening for rain. She fisted the heavy weave of his silk shirt and cried for all she was worth. Her back arched then bowed as inelegant sobs tore out of her like some phantasm suddenly freed. They took a bit of herself with them. The portion set aside for indiscriminate giving followed in their wake like the disappearing tail of a comet. It was not an easy parting.
He held her through all of it.
“Okay?” he asked at last.
“No,” she said. “Not yet.” And just like that, he held her some more; as long as she needed, it felt like. It was so good wallowing there in his embrace. So easy. It reminded her of forever—her fantasy of it anyhow—and she finally found rest, hidden deep in her bones.
Eventually her hands drifted to his waistband and fingered his leather belt, and with a single, hesitant step backward, she put enough space between t
hem to end their intimacy.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Come with me.” He wiped her face free of those few last tears.
She shook her head automatically, her smile forced and full of platitudes.
“No sex. I promised.” His hands feathered along her jaw. “You need…a salve,” he said at last. “Let me give that to you.”
She raised achingly vulnerable eyes to his. “’Kay,” she said, suppressing one last hiccoughing sob.
He took her hand firmly, turned and walked off the curb into the street, and raised his hand for a cab. Three ignored them completely before Dragon said dully, “The glamour.”
He grunted and Dragon felt a couple of ghostly pinches, as if she dreamed unfortunately and tried to wake herself. Her ears popped and her view of the world sharpened dramatically. She hadn’t even realized when he’d laid the sleight-of-hand spell in the first place.
The proverbial red flag fluttered before her eyes. Crap at kama magic, but able to execute more complex concealing craft exquisitely. Surely this meant that he was harmful somehow, but when a cab rolled to a stop in front of them—an old-fashioned Rolls, the top crudely sawed off to make it a convertible and painted a glossy yellow—and Fel held the door for her, she got in, nodding politely to the specter who drove it.
“Yorktown Plaza,” Fel said.
“York, gotcha mister,” the cabbie said. The cabbie’s ghostly form was old and gray, with a neat-as-a-pin bun and prim lace collar, and only somewhat transparent, which could mean that she was close to moving on or staying put; no way of knowing without uncovering the ghost’s afterlife intentions more commonly referred to as a bottomless pit of need. Talk therapy for the deceased could clean out a vibrant savings account in no time flat.
“Second thoughts?” Fel whispered in Dragon’s ear, making her jump.