Live and Let Fly

by Karina Fabian

  "I'll take those!" I offered cheerily as Grace hurried past us to get the door. Rak rolled his eyes at me. He'd lost the beard and mustache, and his eyes were their normal color again.

  We greeted Heidi, and Rak slid his card into the slot. Instead of the conference room, however, Rak led us to Mordash's office.

  I looked around, took in the standard furnishings, computer on the desk with the screen's back to us, books and three-ring binders peacefully cohabitating on the shelves. Two or three knick-knacks told of service in the Air Force, overseas and in the Pentagon; intelligence, it looked like. Not surprising. One wall held an artist's rendition of the Gap at the moment of its formation, magical and nuclear energies mixing in a wild dance of swirling color. Not half bad, actually. A couple of certificates surrounded it. One said, "Colonel Thomas Mordash."

  In all, a nice collection, but not nearly enough "I love me" stuff for a retired colonel turned to government service.

  "Where's your real office?" I asked.

  Mordash blinked. "Colorado Springs. I'm usually only here two days out of the week. So, you're all recovered?"

  "Except the emotional scarring," I quipped. It was only a half-joke. I'd been scared before; but never such a prolonged, “fear-for-my-life-and-sanity” kind of terror. Grace and I hadn't had much time to discuss it, but I could sense the anxiety behind her calm, bright demeanor. We weren't just out of our league; we were amateurs in a new sport without any semblance of a home team advantage.

  "You get used to it," Rak said, and the tone of voice made me cock my head at him. He nodded slightly. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt to hide the scars. Maybe next time, I'd suggest some beers instead of donuts, and we could hang out in the secure facility and swap war stories.

  Later. Right now, I had a little bit of business and a little bit of vengeance to conduct.

  "Heard Calloway's message. He didn't sound too pleased."

  By way of answer, Mordash turned the computer screen so we could see it. A video popped up, starting with an aerial view of the McThing Complex. Then the title scrolled onto the screen: McThing Industries, Employee-Affirming Management, and You!

  "And you didn't like my description of the perp," I told Rak.

  Mordash punched a key on his keyboard, ending the program. "The entire thing was training materials. Videos, online tests, even a rather interesting counseling program. But nothing pertaining to our concerns."

  Grace shrugged. "I went to the only computer being used at the time. After I subdued the guard, I stuck the thumb drive in and worked some magic on the other computers while the program worked on that one. Since someone was using it, I thought it'd be the most likely to have important information, and I didn’t know if starting another computer up would set off an alarm, or if we’d have time for the boot-up sequence."

  The BILE director gnawed on his mustache, and I got the feeling he was fighting the urge to chew out Grace for failing an important assignment. I gave him a minute to stew. If he were a good commander, he would be telling himself he'd sent in an untrained, new recruit into a dangerous mission with no clear directions on how to accomplish her objectives. If he wasn't a good commander, then I was going to make things a lot harder for him.

  In the end, he just shook his head, as if telling himself there wasn't much he could do in either case. "So what's this magic you did?"

  Very good commander then.

  Briefly, Grace explained about brownies and the spell she cast on the computer room.

  "Brownies are, by nature, far more independent than your Mundane legends imply, but they do enjoy a challenge, so I suggested the McThing computer network could use some sprucing up.

  And when we returned home, I created a logical space on our computers for any information we might find useful." She reached into the flowing sleeves of her tunic and pulled out three thumb drives. "Now, no one can predict the thoughts of a brownie, although I did suggest files for world domination, illegal activities, Gap creation, and destruction, and 'unsavory acts by or for humans.'"

  Rak looked torn between laughing and applauding, but Mordash just leaned forward, his hand out, his eyes glinting. "I'll have our people analyze these—"

  Grace started to hand him the files.

  I set my large paw between them. "Not so fast. There's one very important detail we're missing," I said. I pulled out of my pocket one of the most important tools in the private investigator's repertoire.

  The receipt book.

  "What're you doing?" Mustache Mordash asked as I took out my small inkpot, opened the lid and dipped my writing claw into it.

  "Our rescue was strictly an independent operation, remember?" I tossed Rakness a dark look but spoke reasonably enough. "So any information we might have acquired on said operation would be our own—"

  "You mean to sell this information to us? I thought we were trying to protect this country; both our worlds, for that matter. What kind of patriot are you?"

  I looked at him like he was a stupid mortal and didn't mention that I wasn't a citizen of the United States—or any nation, come to think of it. "Funny thing about saving the world," I mused. "It always manages to get un-saved. Kind of wrecks the job satisfaction factor.

  Philanthropy, though... Grace, how much did the Christian Brothers say they needed to start that school in Territory?"

  Grace's eyes lit up. "Well, seven hundred fifty thousand, but the diocese and FlintCorp are contributing."

  "Right. Some kind of matching funds deal." Even though I had already done the calculations in my head, I wrote them down. Dramatic effect. Very important.

  Mustache blanched. "Are you out of your minds? You said yourself the forces of evil could be rising—"

  "Exactly. Which is why a morally-based education for the underprivileged youth is so important. Now if we consider operating expenses for the first year..."

  Mustache glowered. "And if the information you 'hypothetically acquired' is useless?"

  "Then I'll be glad to negotiate a discount the next time you hand us a mission and some commercially available tech toys and abandon us at twenty thousand feet." I ripped off the top copy with a flourish and handed it to Mustache. He looked from my hand to Grace's, but she'd already returned the thumb drives to her sleeve pockets. He snatched the bill out of my claw.

  "Let me make some calls," he growled. He spun his chair around, dismissing us.

  We left a latte and a donut for him and found our own way out.

  "You know," Rak said as we entered the hall, "that was blackmail."

  "Blackmail. Such an ugly word," I quipped. "To you Mundanes."

  "Aye," Grace added, her accent teasingly thick. "T'was naught but a wee bit of bargaining, that was. 'Tis nae our fault you Americans do it so badly."

  We were still laughing when we waved goodbye to the receptionist and headed into the heat and humidity of the day. We might get rain after all. I looked at the parched and dying grass and tried to feel happy about that.

  The cell phone rang on the way home. I answered it.

  "Vern? Chit, man, where the hell you been?"

  The Costas had raised their children well; it took a lot to make Jerry, Jr., swear and even more to do it with a Chicano accent. "What's wrong?"

  "Do you even listen to your phone messages? Somebody attacked Kitty. She's in ICU, and the last thing she did before she slipped into a coma was ask for you."

  * * * *

  We met Jerry in the visitor lounge just outside ICU, talking with a nurse at the desk.

  Arguing actually, though he kept his tone polite. "She hasn't got any family," he was saying. The nurse was insisting rules were there for a reason.

  Grace cleared her throat when we got to human hearing distance. Jerry saw us and waved his hands in our direction. His camera bag slid off his shoulder and hung up on his elbow. He pulled it back up with an impatient gesture.

  "You see? This is the Vern she was asking for."

  The nurse, young and, I
guessed, new to her job, gave me the exact look you'd expect when being told a dragon was some lady's "significant other."

  "I...can't authorize this," she said. "Let me contact the physician on duty."

  "Do that!" Jerry snarled, as he led us a little distance away. He didn't even bother with greetings or beratings, just went straight into the story. "She was outside, working on her patio.

  They shot her and left her there to bleed while they searched the house. Tried to make it look like a vandalism, but there're no data CDs or thumb drives anywhere, and the computer was totaled, but not the monitor. Papers and files scattered everywhere, and all her research related to Heather's kidnapping or the Gates murder is gone."

  I huffed. "I told her stay away from that. Can't that stubborn Mundane listen?"

  " Sí, she listened all right. She cut me out, told me she was handling this one alone."

  Jerry's biceps bulged under his T-shirt, and the pads of his fingers dug into his palms. Even as a kid, Jerry was the one protecting the butterflies from his bug-collecting friends, or bringing the fallen bird to his mom for help. Now, if he had a gun and a target, I didn't think he'd hold back.

  Grace moved to him, set her hands on his cheeks. He met her gaze then closed his eyes tightly. They stood like that, a moment, then two, while in the background, the nurse was on the phone saying she didn't even know dragons were allowed in the building.

  Finally, Jerry shook his head, pushed away from Grace, and reached into his bag. "She told me if anything ever happened to her, to give you this. She said you'd understand."

  The pretty silver bag was held shut with a tag saying, "For Vern—you know why."

  If I had a human face at that moment, my expression would have been a mirror image of the nurse's.

  I opened the package, Grace and Jerry leaning in to peek. In it was a half-full bottle of Siren Song, a perfume that had gotten all of us into a lot of trouble a few years back, and a CD.

  In marker, she'd drawn a heart and written Our Song on it. There was also something lacy and intimate under that.

  "Well, that's..." I couldn't think of an appropriate adjective and cut off my sentence by worrying my tongue against the groove of one of my fangs, the dragon equivalent of nail biting, I suppose.

  Jerry said, "The police didn't find nothing. Nothing. The cold-blooded hijos de—they even pulled the bullet out of her and poisoned her before they left. If the landscaper hadn't come by with a delivery..." He glared at me as if it were my fault.

  The doctor approached, sparing us all further discomfort. He introduced himself as Stephen Vialpondo. "Am I to understand you wish to see Ms. McGrue? Do you have ties to her?"

  "Not like you think," I said, though that sounded even more ridiculous considering what I was holding. This was just so wrong. In fact, there were a lot of things wrong with this whole scenario.

  Grace asked about her condition, and Dr. Vialpondo explained they'd managed to clean out a lot of the poison, but not before several of her internal organs had been affected.

  Why do you shoot someone and poison them? This wasn't a revenge attack.

  "The actual bullet wound was simple enough, really, though it did hit an artery—"

  "Was there a lot of tissue damage when the attackers removed the bullet?" I asked. My shoulder was twinging at the memory of my own recent wound.

  "Absolutely negligible. Dr. Rosen, the surgeon on duty, remarked on it, in fact."

  The bullets that hit you? They dissolve upon penetrating the skin, carrying their iron content into your bloodstream.

  He continued. "She's a fighter, but there's really nothing else we can do."

  I handed the bag to Grace and spoke in Gaelic. "We didn't have a song. She's hidden a message in there, probably buried under things meant to mislead others and embarrass me."

  "Ah, like the underwear?"

  "She's got a sick sense of humor." As she led Jerry away, I said to Vialpando, "Doctor, has anyone ever mentioned to you the healing magic in dragon's blood?"

  * * * *

  Half an hour later, Kitty's IV ran pink with a mix of solution and my blood. She should have had a nice worrisome convulsion and woke up asking what happened. Leave it to McGrue to disregard a time-honored cliché.

  My medicinal donation earned me the right to stay in her room and watch over her while Nurse Nightingale monitored patients from her station. So I sat there, watching the IV drip and listening to her breathe at the same steady but slow rate while the heart monitor continued its same steady but slow beat. Each seemed to tell me that nothing was easy, but some things are harder than others.

  Wake up, you stubborn woman.

  They say humans in a coma can still hear you, so I decided to take advantage of a loophole.

  "Listen, Kitty. About the curse that turned me human. I guess, it kind of cursed us all: me, Grace, and you. I mean, who could have known that perfume would have made the human me act so, uh." I stopped. No need to go there, and I was just making excuses, anyway.

  "The point is, I didn't mean to mislead you. And, I'm sorry if I haven't been particularly sympathetic about your feelings since. Look…just get better so we can find something else to fight over, okay?"

  The IV dripped. The heart monitor continued its slow steady march. Her chest rose and fell with the same rhythm.

  I didn't know what else to do, so I laid my head on her stomach and listened to the instruments and her breathing until I fell asleep.

  * * * *

  I woke up feeling Kitty rubbing my cheek crest, tentatively, like she wasn't sure what to expect. I waited until her fingers explored one of the spikes along the edge before asking,

  "Enjoying yourself?"

  Her hand jerked away but not fast. "What're you doing here, anyway? Jerry give you my

  'gift'?" she murmured.

  I sat up and stretched my neck, one vertebra at a time. It took a while. "Saving your life; and yes, Jerry gave it to me, so you should thank me twice."

  Despite the tubes in her nose, she snorted. "Wish I could have seen your face."

  "Just be glad you haven't seen Jerry's."

  "So he's okay." She sighed with relief, and I realized she'd been worried he might be a target. "Did you listen to the CD?"

  "Grace took it home. I thought I'd stick around until you were conscious enough to scold.

  I told you to stay off this story. But, no, I might as well have—"

  "Waved a red cape at me. While you were off playing with McThing and his toys, then having your little vacation, someone had to keep this town safe."

  "That's Santry's job. You want to do that, join the force."

  "Right. And dance to the City Council's tune? Someone's gotta be on the outside seeking the truth."

  Where did she get the energy to argue? I wasn't sure if I was irritated or relieved. "You sound like a bad cliché, McGrue. Believe me, I know clichés." That earned me a small smile.

  "Listen, about trouble and clichés..."

  I hesitated. This was a lot harder when she was conscious.

  Her brows rose then lowered. "If you're going to apologize, don't. I'm not sure I can take the shock. Just go save the universes or something."

  "Works for me." I turned, carefully so my tail didn't upset any equipment. If I got much bigger, I'd have to give up hospital visits. At the door, she stopped me.

  "Hey! What do you mean, you saved my life?"

  I explained the "transfusion." She stared at me, wide-eyed, and I couldn’t tell if she was surprised or horrified. She studied the pink IV drip, then me, but didn't say a word.

  Wouldn't you know, the first time I strike Kitty McGrue speechless, and I'd just as soon she have a Lucy Van Pelt fit about cooties. "And if you tell anyone we were sharing bodily fluids—"

  She spoke so softly a human might not have heard it, "Vern? About that FMQ article—"

  "Don't apologize. They don’t have a crash cart for dragons."

  "Deal. Um…skip track three,
okay?"

  Chapter Thirteen: For Your Ears Only

  Grace met me at the front step, shielding her eyes against the wash of dust as I backwinged in my landing. Someday, we'd spring for xeriscaping or something. We tried grass a few years back, but between the water bill and the hassle of mowing, we gave it up as a bad deal.

  Once or twice a year, I blew fire on the weeds. They'd started to take a hint—who said plants can't learn?—but a yard of dirt, while easy to take care of, did have its disadvantages at times.

  "How's Kitty?" she asked as I shook myself and followed her into our somewhat cooler home. Her accent was thicker than usual, a sign she was stressed or worried. I wondered what she'd found.

  "She'll recover, once she gets over the shock of dragon cooties. She said to skip track three on the CD, by the way."

  "Aye, that would have been good advice." There was an odd tone to Grace's voice I hadn't heard in a long time. She headed into the kitchen, and I followed. She opened the fridge and started rummaging through it, something she never does.

  "Do I want to know?"

  "No. And it's a wee bit late, anyway." I listened to the clinks as she moved a jar and then moved it back. I hated it when she didn't want to look at me, and I didn't know why.

  "Oops?"

  "I removed it. Permanently. I know how curious dragons can be."

  Great. The “not-fine- I'm-fine” voice with a shade of “I'll-try-to-make-a-joke-of-this-or-I-may-scream.” Besides, I knew what it took for her to use magic like that.

  "Uh, is this where I apologize for something I didn't do?"

  She paused, her hand on the door, her face somewhere near the milk, her back to me.

  "No. It's not your fault. And 'twas a good ruse on her part. I just wish I'd known."

  She reached into the meat bin and tossed a chicken leg my way. I caught it easily.

  "Still," she continued, as she came out with the rest of the chicken—a cut-up rotisserie job she'd picked up at the market—and a bowl of salad, "whatever information she's hidden on that CD, it's beyond my abilities. I really should have Manuel give me some lessons." She took her share before setting the plates on the floor for me. I can sit and eat like a human, and when Grace first moved in, I did so when we ate together. I was glad when she told me to stop. It's really an unnatural position.