Breaking Ties

by Vaughn R. Demont

  I arch a brow. “Even the vampires?”

  “A guardian that appears human, knows how to act human, is more than human, is easily subjugated to your will, never dies, and can easily be replaced and propagated? Every Ra’keth had good reason for creating the mythic races.”

  “Like dragons being made as security guards?” I’ll admit the question comes across a bit more huffy than I intended, but he smiles approvingly.

  “Might I ask why you chose the Snow Clan?”

  “I didn’t even know there was such a thing as the Snow Clan. I just… I was falling off a building and I panicked. I turned into a dragon that happened to be a White. I play a lot of Dungeons & Dragons, okay?”

  “There are dungeons where dragons are kept?” he asks quizzically.

  “No, no, it’s a game.”

  “Entrapping dragons is a game to you?”

  “No! It’s all pretend. It’s role-playing. With pencils and paper and dice and easily abused rule systems.”

  He steeples his fingers. “And in this…game…you traverse dungeons and engage with dragons?”

  Well, we usually kill them, or at least we used to. Dave isn’t too keen on “pushing negative stereotypes”. Undead, thieves and swindlers that bear an uncanny resemblance to Coyotes are the standard fare. “We leave dragons out of it. What’s with all the questions, anyway?”

  “To determine.”

  “Determine what?”

  “Whether you are even worth protecting, James.” He doesn’t lose that smile. “If there can be only one Sorcerer King, should it not be the most skilled? Is that not the decree of the Lightning Rod?”

  Damn it. “For starters, I never meant it to be only one Ra’keth, just only one to a city, that’s all.”

  “Then perhaps you will take better care in your decrees in the future? Keep them simple, limit the smallest, most insignificant things.” He takes another drink of his tea. “I myself decreed that roses could never possess more than one hundred petals. The possibility was stricken from the world, the tiniest nick on our existence excised.”

  Oh shit. “You…you decreed? But you’re a dragon.”

  At that, he meets my eyes. “For centuries I believed as such, yes. I had forgotten my true nature. Your decree, however, and the challenge it issued to all remaining Ra’keth, caused me to remember. I was quite content to be king and caretaker of my dragons.” He sets the cup down. “That you have preserved their nature and call one of them friend is the only reason you are still alive, James.” He waves his hand, and the tea set vanishes, the abjuration on the borders of my senses. “Worry not, I do not see reason to kill you just yet. I am not so bloodthirsty as my forebears. If your decree forces us to fight to the death, I will ensure you are adequately prepared. In the meantime, please, enjoy the amenities.”

  “The what, now?”

  “You’ve demonstrated you enjoy the company of dragons.” There was a bit of accent on enjoy.

  “One time, I had almost died, and he’d just saved my life. What would you have done?”

  “Not that, but then, I prefer females. However, I supposed you would wish a more familiar comfort.”

  “I hope you don’t mean Fluffy.”

  At that he chuckles, and it’s a short, dry sound, like he hadn’t done it in ages. “Ah yes. ‘Fluffy.’ Giving him that name was an inspired way of bringing the issue to our attention. Now all dragons have names for their human forms, though none are as…interesting as Salondine’s. He will seek to balance the scale, I must warn you.”

  “And you would let him do that?”

  “As you are now? Of course not. Should you show your favor to the Snow Clan again so brazenly, I would not be surprised if you found him roaring his challenge.”

  So no turning into a dragon for a while. Like I needed another reason.

  “Can I leave here?”

  “I don’t know.” He tilts his head. “Can you?”

  I look around the room, and outside of the limited furniture, there’s not a lot to power the working. Plus I’d need a circle to focus, a mirror to scry a location, and a lot of time if I was planning on going through the portal myself. Teleportation’s a midlevel spell in the game, but in the real world it’s a bitch. “There’s not enough to work with in here.”

  “Why not?” He rests his chin on his hands. “You are able to take the form of a dragon with little expenditure, and a transformation is as taxing as moving through space.”

  “No it’s not. It’s just exchanging one name for another. Humanity for dragonkind, that’s all. Names don’t need anything to work. I don’t even have to say anything.”

  “Exactly. And you believe that Names only apply to a physical form? That we only used…” he furrows his brow, searching, “…Sigil? That is its name now?” I nod, and he continues. “Names are power, and to know and use them is a sorcerer’s gift and curse. You will understand. Eventually.”

  Which brings me to the big question. “So if you’re not going to kill me, what happens now?”

  “I agree with my original judgment. You are too weak and vulnerable to be allowed on your own. Until such a time as I deem you fit for independence, you will be under guard. Since you lack the appropriate skill, do you have any preferred foods or beverages?”

  I fold my arms. “I can conjure food.”

  He snorts in amusement. “You can conjure food-shaped plasm, yes. I assume you’d prefer something with more sustenance. I would take this time to practice that. Magic is more than memory, young sorcerer. It is the knowledge of Names. To know is to name. To name is to control. And to control is to have power.” He walks toward the door, opens it and pauses. “And for now, Lightning Rod, I am the one with control.” He closes the door, which promptly vanishes behind him.

  I bang at the wall until my hands start to sting, kick it, prod about for a weakness, some suggestion of a door or window or crawl space. Nothing. All that remains are the chairs and the table. I’m trapped, and no one knows I’m here.

  But I’m a sorcerer, and they’ve just given me the last thing a sorcerer should have: an empty room, free will and time.

  I extend my hand at the furniture, claiming it with my will and letting it dissolve into energy. It’s not much, but if I do it right, it should be enough. I call on a wispy memory from my childhood: standing in front of a chalkboard to do long division and being absolutely terrified I was going to look like a fool in front of my classmates. The smell of the chalk, the dusty feel of it on my fingers—the immersion in the memory deepens as I pass energy through the mental image. Closing my eyes, I feel a tingle in my fingers and then find a piece of chalk, large and thick in my hand. With a focused breath, I kneel down on the floor and begin drawing a circle, inscribing Sigil as I go.

  He wants to know if I can leave?

  It’s not a question of can, it’s a question of will.

  And I will.

  Chapter Ten

  Spencer

  December 19, 8:41 pm

  There are only a couple of times that it’s acceptable for the hero to smoke: he’s just finished a badass encounter and he’s being hauled away by an ambulance, or he’s just been through a heavy emotional encounter and there’s no other way for him to alleviate some of the worry. It’s the only reason I’d take up smoking, but considering the number of times that James has tried to quit (he’s currently on attempt number fifteen, unlike him I’ve actually been counting), it’s likely best that I don’t take up the habit.

  The Cobalt Order is the Fae equivalent of a violent hate group, except what they’re doing isn’t illegal in their society. It’s sure as hell illegal in ours. But in the end, Fae don’t give a damn about the twin-blooded and half-blooded of the world, whose only sin is popping out the wrong vagina. By their opinion, someone like me would be fair game, as well as my mother, father, half-brothers, M
om’s new husband, and anyone related to me. The sick thing? To the Coyotes, they’d be performing a civil service.

  Rourke gave me the CliffsNotes, as I requested, but as any of my high school teachers would tell you, CliffsNotes don’t tell you what you really need to get the passing grade. The Cobalt Order sprang up not long after the Duke of Destry Bay (since that’s apparently a thing) was killed in an honorable duel for speaking out against the knighting of a half-sidhe, Sir Simaron Gray, in some tiny county of St. Benedict headed up by Viscount Richard Stone. (He has a very long formal name.) After the Queen of the Fae got involved and legitimized the knighting, there was a plethora of pissed-off traditionalists.

  So, the Cobalt Order hunts and kills half-bloods of all shapes and sizes, and punishes people they feel are giving them shelter or generally treating them like people, such as Bjorn, who saw them as customers rather than potential meal ideas.

  “I knew you’d run straight to him.”

  My father standing next to a car in front of Rourke’s. It’s a 1967 Corvette that I last saw being driven away by a Fox with multiple tails.

  “You stole Shiko’s car?”

  “It was mine to begin with, I’m just taking it back. Then she does something, I do something. There’s witty banter, maybe we fuck. It’s a game.” He shrugs and opens the door for me.

  “And the reason she won’t call the cops?”

  “Same reason I didn’t. It’s bad form. You getting in or not?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t want your help.”

  “You’re chasing people who’ll gladly kill you and your mother, and I’m not supposed to feel involved?” He points at the passenger seat. “C’mon. Wherever you’re going, this’ll be faster.”

  “They’d kill you too, Dad.” I don’t move.

  “All the more reason to get in on this. We’ll go to Tolon Park, set up a table by the walrus statue, run a little Three Card. It’ll clear your head and you can tell me all about it.”

  A few seconds pass while I stand there, not moving.

  “Damn it, Spencer, how am I supposed to start with you if you won’t let me even take the first step?”

  “You held a knife to my mother’s throat.”

  “That was—”

  “I don’t care! What’s to say you won’t do it again? How do I know this isn’t a scam?”

  “You don’t.”

  “And you want me to trust you?” I have to laugh at that.

  “I haven’t done anything outside of the Feud to you, and believe me, I’ve had my opportunities. I could’ve done plenty to your mother or that guy she replaced me with or the baby.” He rolls his eyes. “Figures she’d marry a cop.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “Some fucking flatfoot with a patrol in Destry Bay. He’s…” Dad shudders, “…nice.”

  “No, you said ‘the baby’.”

  He blinks at me. “You didn’t know that? Kid’s about seven months now. Little girl. Adorable little thing, but they all are at that age.” He snorts. “You were too damned cute for words, laughed at practically everything. I thought you’d been dropped on your head, but Rachel said it was normal.”

  They had a kid? How long has it been since I checked on Mom? I’ve kept a respectable distance to minimize exposure. After all, I was partially the reason she was losing her mind in the first place, and I’m entirely the reason she doesn’t remember any of the supernatural and will never see it again. I made my choice, I’m not happy with it, but I know it was best for her.

  I knew she was going to marry that guy, and, yeah, he’s nice. For a cop. I just didn’t think they’d start a family so quickly, considering she already has a…

  But she doesn’t remember me, does she?

  She gets to experience the firsts all over again. First words, first time seeing her kid walk.

  I have a little sister. Holy shit.

  It’s only when the Corvette begins to pull away from the curb that I realize I was helped into it during my reverie.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Hm?” Dad weaves the car through traffic. “Christina. Christy. I haven’t caught the middle name yet. Been a new guy in the building, assistant super, delivery guy getting the address wrong…”

  I glance at him. “Checked on her a lot, huh?”

  He exhales, going through an intersection. “She has a great laugh. Too good for a cop.” He catches my glare. “I’m not going to do anything, don’t worry. She’s happy. Apparently I should be happy that she’s happy.”

  “You know, I didn’t tell you where I’m going.” I check the neighborhood and see we’re moving into Beckettsville now.

  “You’re going back to that diner, where you’ll talk to that dragon who’s gullible as fuck that I haven’t tricked yet.” He smirks at me. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

  “Why should I go back there?”

  “Because you’re BFF with the Ra’keth, and if you’re so hell-bent on getting yourself killed chasing a bunch of Fae bigots, you should think ahead and get the big guns ready. And maybe find a use for this.”

  He tosses something at me, and when I catch it, it’s a smartphone. “Ah, did Thornton tell you the side-splitting story of how he boosted my phone and texted the Sorcerer King?”

  My father sighs at me. “My Little Pony, Spencer? Really?”

  “Just making up for a childhood of learning short cons and offensive blonde jokes and how to rake a lock.”

  He pulls up to the curb in front of the diner. “I taught you life skills that can be utilized by people other than eight-year-old girls.” He gestures to the smartphone in my hand. “If you change your mind, my number’s in there under Spicy.”

  I roll my eyes. “Figures you’d be taking calls at a strip club.”

  “There is no such place as Spicy, Spencer. I can’t believe you never picked up on that, considering how ridiculous the slogan is.” He appears thoughtful a moment. “Then again, quite a few other idiots bought it too. Wouldn’t be a bad way to go legit.” He shoos me out of the car. “Go on. Go back to not tricking dragons and making friends with sorcerers and not having sex with either of your two attractive coworkers.”

  “Hannah and Monica?”

  “Don’t screw weres, learn from your father’s mistake. I mean the girl who washes the dishes.”

  I get out of the ’Vette and lean toward the window. “Wasn’t Thornton’s mom a were?”

  “I stand by my statement.” Dad pulls away from the curb, and I’m already chiding myself because I’m thinking of him as Dad, not Asshole or the Prick Who Left or, better yet, the Guy Who Tried to Murder Me. Selah screwed with my head pretty bad, yes, but I shook it. Why couldn’t he?

  It’s been a pretty eventful day, all told, what with Dad and the Kitsune and sex with the ex and everything. That’s always a sign Fate’s keeping an eye on you, that those ladies feel your life isn’t interesting enough.

  The dinner crowd’s in when I go into the diner, which is set up like most you see on TV. It’s a long rectangle with a lunch counter, booths along the wall, no standing tables, the seats upholstered with a faded yellow leather that might’ve been hip in the seventies. I honestly wonder how long Dave’s been running this diner, how many waitresses have worked for a dragon and had no idea.

  I take a seat at the counter, which is the only seat open in the place, and get a look from Sharon, Monica’s older sister and the newly minted assistant manager. She’s in her thirties, olive complexion, stopped bleaching her hair so it’s back to black, a kid at home and a husband overseas. She’s not all that fond of me.

  I take out my signed, laminated card from Dave, guaranteeing me free meals for the rest of my life, so long as the meal costs less than ten dollars, and only one meal per use, maximum of four uses per day. I got it for giving him almost a quarter of a million do
llars to replace his enchanted skylight earlier in the year. It was finally finished a couple months ago, installed by James’s Dwarven boyfriend. Apparently there was a shortage on dweomered glass, whatever the hell that is.

  “Burger, rarely legal, please?” James got me into ordering them like that. I don’t bother with a Coyote smile with Sharon. She has a spray bottle under the counter, expressly for dissuading that behavior. She puts the order on the wheel and goes to tend to other customers. All of the servers are here tonight, even Hannah’s working the kitchen and looking rather miserable, seeing as weres aren’t good around people, especially the weres that were born that way.

  Most people in the diner are human. Hannah is a lioness that plays human. To her, the diner is likely a place full of fat slow prey that’s paying to make themselves fatter and slower.

  “Hey, moocher.” I turn around, when my shoulder’s given a light shove, to find Monica, Sharon’s younger (and better-looking) sister. She’s in her twenties, but looks early as opposed to mid-late. Her hair has been dyed brunette, tucked underneath a Gryphons cap for the local football team, ponytail sticking out the back. “Sharon already get you?”

  I nod. “Yeah, just a burger tonight. So is she making more money than you now?”

  She grins. “Not in tips.” Monica has customer service down. I’m pretty sure she could sell cars if she wanted to. She yawns and stretches, and I keep my staring at her rack as subtle as possible. Hey, I’m a guy. Besides, our one date didn’t go well so this is as good as I can hope for.

  “James ever come back?”

  “Nah, he’s probably over at Ozzie’s.” Another customer calls for her attention, and she gives me a playful nudge. “Later, moocher. Thought you’d be upstairs fighting with Dave over the TV.”

  Oh shit. The midseason finale of Secret McQueen is on in a few minutes. I glance into the kitchen on the other side of the pass-through and see Annette and Hannah, but no dragon working the grill. Instead, Annette’s flipping the burgers and running the fryer.