by Noah Harris
“Hello, young man.” He had looked up to see her, looking the same as she did now. He’d stood up awkwardly and reached out his hand. She seemed like royalty, and that seemed like the correct greeting. “How formal.”
She reached out and daintily took his hand, shaking it warmly. Her face seemed like it was made of wet paper.
“My name is Jack Johannsen,” he remembered saying, and then pointing to the pyre. “That’s my dad. Are you going to take me home?”
“If you would like me to. I can take you to a place your father called home.” Jack had looked around, in all his nine-year-old uncertainty, and then up into her face. Her eyes glittered, like gold, with humor.
“I’m not supposed to go with strangers,” he’d said, and she laughed, the sound of a bell tinkling.
“Well, that’s very smart, isn’t it?” she said, nodding her head. “My name is Clara Anaheim. Your father worked for me. I promised I would take care of you if something bad happened.”
“Something bad did happen,” Jack said, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “They burned him.”
“A proper dragon’s funeral. You will understand someday. Why don’t I take you to your new home, and we can make some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?” He’d taken one last longing look at his father, now a withered, charred log, and nodded up at Clara. They’d gone back to her mansion, and he’d gaped and gasped at the vastness of the gardens. Clara’s servant had made them sandwiches with homemade jelly, and he’d run himself ragged in the backyard.
He never left Anaheim Manor, and Clara raised him in the image of his father. He would have made his father proud, Clara had instilled that into his spirit. Jack wasn’t sure what that meant, as he didn’t really remember his father. He knew he’d been a good man, a loyal man, a strong and stolid man. That was what Clara always said. The only thing he remembered about his father was his stern demeanor and terrible cooking.
He was sure of one thing, though, the things that Clara said about his father, he had fostered in himself. He was a protector. Jack had been a weapon in the war, he still was, but for the right reasons, for the good of others. That was his calling, who he was.
Jack stood up and paced for a moment, rubbing his face and then letting his head roll around to pop the bones in his neck. He stretched his arms over his head, then sat heavily back on his bed. He needed to sleep.
He lay back down, screwing his eyes together and willing his mind to go blank. No red. No screams. Silence, darkness.
Jack slept fitfully through the night, but something about being back in his bed after a few weeks of uncomfortable crashing on futons and in rental cars made it easier, his internal clock always stirring him into reality at around 6am. It used to be 4am.
He dressed and made his way upstairs, troubled by the silence he was met with. Usually, Portia would be in the kitchen shouting about her new tights which had gotten a hole in them, or how she needed fresh lamb’s wool to pad her toes. Frankie would be trying to placate her, and the cooks would be bustling in the kitchen banging pots and pans together, or at least that’s what it sounded like to his groggy brain.
He walked into the kitchen, and found the reason for the quiet, Portia wasn’t home. She’d written a note and left it on the counter, and Frankie was currently reading it.
“Morning,” he said, walking by her to look for some orange juice in the fridge. The servants were nowhere to be found.
“You’re in for it,” Frankie said in amusement, shaking her head at Portia’s note.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, popping the cap off. She handed him the note.
Dad didn’t know how to help, can you talk to him, Auntie Clara? Maybe he doesn’t know.
“Christ,” he grumbled. “Well, she wouldn’t tell me anything except that she couldn’t sleep. What am I supposed to know?” Frankie rolled her eyes and snatched the note out of his hands.
“How old were you when you went through puberty?”
“Jeez, J, I don’t know. I wasn’t really tracking it.”
“Well, there’s your problem. I think Portia needs help that I can’t give her. Puberty for human girls is period-talk, body changes, hair, all that stuff. But she’s not human. She’s half-dragon. She’s going to have questions I don’t have an answer for, Jack.”
“Well, fuck’s sake. I could’ve used some notice,” he said irritably, taking another gulp of orange juice. Frankie glared at him.
“When would you have liked the notice? While you were on the road for a month, during Christmas, or when you got back with your eyes closed last night?”
“Christmas, probably.” Jack said. She huffed, and he raised his free hand in surrender. “Alright, alright. I know, same old bad-dad routine. I’m on it.” Frankie sighed and put her hand on his arm like she had the previous night. It was starting to unnerve him. She placed the note in his hand.
“You’re not a bad dad. We just…want to make sure you’re okay. You seem distant. Have you been sleeping enough?”
“Sleep has nothing to do with it,” he said gruffly, putting the orange juice away. Frankie pursed her lips at him, and he shrugged back at her. “I’ll take care of it.” He walked off, knowing Clara was probably sitting in her little greenhouse-teahouse, as Portia liked to call it. Or, when she was mad at Clara, the greenhouse-meanhouse. He felt another pang of guilt.
“Clara?” he called, and then he saw a servant coming from inside the glass-paned building. She was hidden by tall plants, but when he walked inside, he saw her sitting at her little table, with her gold-veined teapot. She was munching on a scone and gestured at the chair across from her when she saw him.
He sat down awkwardly, feeling huge in the tiny chair.
“Your daughter is not happy with you,” she said calmly, taking a sip of her tea. Jack pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Yeah. I didn’t really know the whole situation.”
“Well, you are not exactly well-suited to situations like these, anyway.” Clara looked at him hard, and he sighed heavily.
“Yeah, well.”
“I know that is partly my fault.” He looked at her in surprise, and she nodded grimly. “Yes. Definitely.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I am talking about a topic for another time, unfortunately.” He sighed and looked around the greenhouse impatiently. He loved Clara, but she could be frustratingly vague. “I think Frankie already explained to you that Portia is beginning to go through puberty.” Jack nodded, and then Clara looked up and over his shoulder. “Fiona, perfect. Come in.” Jack turned around and saw Clara’s personal assistant step through the doorway. Her hair was always a different color, it seemed. Today, it was a vibrant green, snakelike. She nodded to him, then looked down at her phone.
“Am I interrupting a meeting?” Jack asked, looking between them.
“No, no. I will finish my little spiel, and then Fiona can have you.” Fiona smiled politely at him, and Clara cleared her throat. What did Fiona want with him? Another job, already? He felt himself getting his hopes up, maybe this one would be easier, like a vacation. Just him, his rucksack, a sleeping bag and a few paperbacks. Some time to get his head straight. “I think Portia will need a bit of extra guidance from you, as the dragon-blooded parent, to get her through this difficult time.”
“Okay, of course. Anything,” he said, and Clara nodded in satisfaction. She waved Fiona over, and they whispered to one another for a few moments. He could’ve listened in, but he knew Clara would smite him if he even attempted it.
He understood Clara’s need for him, specifically, to guide Portia through this tumultuous time. He didn’t particularly remember anything but rage during his teenage battle with his inner dragon, but it was more like his dragon had been a bad influence on him. With Portia, it seemed like she didn’t know how to embrace it, the human half of her at odds with her animal side. He wasn’t even sure if she’d even attempted to shift yet. Clara belonged
to another generation of dragons, and even though he was full-blooded like her, he’d lived the majority of his life in the human world. He understood humans better than any dragon he’d ever met.
“Are you okay, Jack?” Clara asked, and he noticed that both she and Fiona were staring at him, eyes wide with concern. He blinked a few times and nodded.
“Yes. I was just thinking.”
“Okay,” Fiona said, then glanced down at Clara. “Are you sleeping enough?” He stood up and looked down at them, feeling frustrated. Then, as he saw the stricken looks on their faces, he felt ashamed.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what got into me. I’m sleeping fine,” Jack said stiffly, and Clara looked deep into his eyes. He dropped his gaze, and she made a little noise in the back of her throat, something between a cough and a harrumph.
“We can talk inside, Jack,” Fiona said, and he nodded, embarrassed, and headed back into the manor. He wasn’t sure what was wrong with him. He thought about Portia’s angst-filled question last night. What’s wrong with me? Her problem was normal teenage stuff, well normal half-shifter teenage stuff…his problem? He couldn’t even think of a cause. He couldn’t sleep, his dragon was nearly dormant…he had a family, maybe unconventional, but one that loved him. A job he was good at, a safe place to live…why did he feel so empty and agitated? Why did he want to escape the moment he got comfortable? Did he ever feel comfortable, at all?
“So, it’s another assignment. I know, you just got back,” Fiona said, and he wheeled around to see her striding toward him with a bulky folder in her arms. She walked by him into the kitchen, and he followed her.
“I’ll decide whether to complain or not once I see it,” he said, and she dropped the folder onto the counter.
“You’re going to complain.”
“Ronnie Redcliff. Why do I feel like I’ve heard of this guy?”
“You might have. He was in a lot of movies and sitcoms when he was a teenager, about ten years back.” Jack nodded, flipping through the folder. All he saw were letters, though, dozens of threat-filled, hateful, violent letters. “He’s been getting death threats, a lot of them. Normally celebrities are used to this kind of thing, but these are specific. Clara is having me fly him in privately so he can stay here.”
“Here?” he asked, closing the folder. “Why here?” Fiona shrugged casually, and Jack looked at her for a moment before shaking his head in defeat. “I don’t know how I feel about a guy getting death threats being in our house, but if that’s what Clara wants…”
“It is. And it’s what I want. He’s a very close friend.” Fiona looked at him stiffly, and he raised his eyebrows.
“Alright, then.”
“I’m picking him up from the airport this afternoon. Clara has Frankie J locking down the house. I’m also picking Portia up from school now.”
“Why?” he asked again, feeling severely out of the loop.
“If the house is locked down, everyone needs to be inside. Plus, if anyone finds out he’s here, they might track this house back to Portia. We just need to be safe.”
“Okay, that makes sense,” Jack conceded, still feeling thrown off. Fiona readjusted her bag, which was spilling over with papers and pens, and looked around the room as if giving it a once-over.
“I’ll be back in a half-hour. Have some breakfast.”
“Dad,” Portia wheezed, coming into the manor and swinging her bag off her shoulder, letting it fall haphazardly into a side room. “Ronnie Redcliff!” Her grin was wide, her eyes sparkling with excitement. Her hair was braided and piled on top of her head, and her green converse sneakers trailed mud from the April rains across the kitchen floor.
“What about him? Fiona,” he complained. Fiona shrugged at him, an amused smile playing subtly on her face.
“He was on that show I used to watch when I was younger? Don’t you remember?” she asked, and he grimaced at her.
“No?”
“Ugh,” she rolled her eyes, looking to Fiona for help. “He’s like, a genius. Him and Lucy Lazenby and Travis Caulfield,” she paused, waiting for some reaction from him, but Jack only watched her expectantly. “Caulfield, like, Holden Caulfield? His last name was, like, the best thing about him. But Lucy and Ronnie were way better. They were in all these movies and shows, and they were so smart and cool everyone wanted to be them when they grew up. I know everything about Ronnie and Lucy. I have a whole Tumblr dedicated to them. Ronnie’s this cool influencer now.”
“What the hell is a Tumble?” he asked, and Portia groaned.
“Holy shit, Dad,” she said, and he coughed, trying to hide a laugh.
“Language, young lady,” Frankie said, walking by them.
“Sorry, Mom. It’s like a blog, Dad. And it’s Tumblr, not a tumble,” she said emphatically. “I can’t believe he’s coming here. Why is he coming here, anyway?”
“Well, he’s, uh, he’s in danger. There are some people that want to hurt him,” Jack said lamely, and Portia’s eyes grew wide.
“Who would ever want to hurt Ronnie? He’s the nicest person in the world.”
“I’m sure he is,” Jack played along, and Fiona giggled. Portia whipped around and looked at her in annoyance, her cheeks flaring. “But what’s important to me is that you stay out of it.”
“I’m not going to miss the chance to meet Ronnie Redcliff, Dad, especially when he’s staying in our house!”
“Portia, there is nothing special enough about this guy to make you or us risk your safety,” Fiona said quickly, and Jack nodded at her gratefully.
“I’m not agreeing to anything. Ronnie’s hilarious, really smart, and he’s a total smart-ass. Sorry, Mom!” Portia called when she heard Frankie yell out a hey! from the next room. “Smart-aleck. He’s so cute. But, Dad? He’s going to drive you absolutely insane.”
Ronnie’s Arrival
Ronnie
“Can I get a cosmo? Pretty please.” The stewardess smiled eagerly at Ronnie, her teeth unusually sharp-looking, and then she walked off leaving him to fretfully lounge in his seat. He was flying in the Anaheim’s private jet, one he’d only just found out they owned. He knew Fiona worked for a wealthy, old-money family, but he hadn’t known that old money would be paying for his passage on their plane.
He pulled out his phone, desperate for something to do while they sped across the country to Clara Anaheim’s manor in the heart of Texas. He’d only heard good things about her from Fiona, a philanthropist, an art collector, a community-organizer. She sounded like the sweet kind of old lady he favored, not the grouchy, Botox-filled women with immovable faces he’d known and worked with in his star-studded youth. Pulling Instagram open, he scrolled through the vapid posts from the random celebrities he followed after meeting them at brunches and events and found one he’d recently posted. There he was, grinning widely with a swamp-green smoothie in one hand and a peace sign in the other. The caption read…
Just got this delicious pomegranate, pineapple, and spinach smoothie from my local Jamba. They added a bit of ginger to help with my after-gym soreness! Feed your body, feed your mind, feed your soul! #jambajuice #positivity #healthyhabits #peaceandlove
He’d gotten more likes on the previous post, and he frowned. Ronnie was living off the few independent movies he’d landed, the health-advocacy sponsors of his online presence, and while he wished more people would respect him as a real actor, he knew he still had to shed his childhood persona. After growing up in the spotlight and developing dozens of unhealthy coping mechanisms, this was what he was passionate about. Being true to himself, even if it wasn’t particularly successful. He didn’t want people to aspire to be the person he used to be on all those childish movies and shows he starred in as the cute nerd that always got the girl. He wanted people to live for themselves and not base their identities on what they saw on television.
The problem with that, though, was that he couldn’t live for himself right now, carefree, drinking smoothies and eating Buddha bowls fr
om the family-owned Chinese restaurant five minutes from his modest apartment. He tried not to think about the letters, but they seemed to permeate his every passing thought, consume all his energy. Gutting, dismemberment, burning, bloodletting until his body was drained, his friends and family either getting killed in front of him or watching him get killed. It was so horrific he’d been having trouble sleeping.
The worst part, and the part that had worried Fiona the most when he’d called her, begging for some help from her connections, was that the person threatening him wasn’t asking for money or favors. They were just stalking and threatening him, sending him paparazzi-like pictures of himself or the inside of his home through his windows. The specificity of the letters and the apparent closeness of the stalker was what had pushed him over the edge. It seemed like pure hatred was fueling this person.
“Cosmo for you, sir,” came the stewardess, who leaned over and placed it gently on the table in front of him. He nodded jerkily at her, realizing he’d been stewing in his thoughts. “I have to ask, you’re Ronnie Redcliff, right?”
“Sure am, dear,” he said, that new twinge of nervousness in his voice embarrassingly present. He felt off his game.
“I used to watch your movies all the time when I was little. I’m so glad you always got the girl, you know. You were always better than those other mean guys.”
“Well, you know, I didn’t really get them,” he said with a chuckle, and she flushed.
“Of course, I just mean in the movie.”
“Right, I know what you mean. Thank you,” Ronnie said sincerely, and she smiled again.