Deal With Her Dragon

by Ruby Sirois

  Valerie hesitates.

  “Here’s the weird thing, though. I got a letter addressed to me at her house from a high-end job agency I’ve never heard of. But I haven’t given anyone the address, so I’m not really sure how I got on their list or how they found me. Maybe the school forwarded it, I don’t know. I would have just thrown it away, but something told me to open it anyway just to look. And when I saw the job description I was interested right away.”

  “That’s strange,” I say.

  But I’m not all that surprised—I have an inkling of what actually happened.

  “So, you have an MBA? That would be useful.”

  “Yes, I just graduated. I’ve gotten a lot of queries from luxury hotels and Michelin-starred restaurants in London, Paris, and Milan, but nothing has sounded exactly right for me yet.”

  Valerie’s tone implies she’s trying not to brag, but I can tell she’s proud of what she’s accomplished. No Swede would have even mentioned it this way for fear of sounding too self-important, but from Valerie it’s simply a refreshing Americanism.

  “My plan was just to take it easy for a few months to unwind after my studies. Travel, sightsee, you know. I wasn’t intending to take a job right away. But like I said, my interest was piqued.”

  “What caught your attention?”

  Obviously Valerie didn’t find her way here out of a Ragnarrian abyss, so I’m very curious about the path she took to get here.

  “I was here in Gamla Stan last week sightseeing, and I noticed this block in particular when I walked by. The house is beautiful, and the location is convenient.”

  “Yes, it is. I love it here.”

  “And I also thought it was so exciting that it’s a witch- and female-owned and operated business.” She speaks nearly without taking a breath in between. “Those are all things that’re really important to me, but especially since the restaurant business is so male-dominated. Same with breweries. It’s a male-dominated industry, and I’d like to help change that in any way I can. I have a lot to contribute to a small business with growth potential like this one, and I am more dedicated to my work when I can really believe in the company.”

  Valerie gives me a wide, sincere smile. I’m completely enchanted by her energy.

  “I also think it’s super cool and amazing that you make your own mead.”

  “Oh! Do you like mead?” I shouldn’t be surprised by this, but I am. Valerie just seems too perfect already.

  “Um,” she says, “I’ve never actually had one I liked, but it is such a romantic concept in a way. Exotic. Evocative and mystical.”

  I nod. It’s hard not to get swept up in Valerie's enthusiasm. With natural charisma like hers, she could be an actor or a politician.

  “I’ve been to the Viking Bar down the street and they have that sort of kitchy angle on it,” she says, “but I see that you’re taking a different approach and it’s a smart one. Unique. And as a witch myself, I totally get it. With the right management and clever marketing to your demographic, your profits could go through the roof.”

  “That all sounds great to me,” I say, excited. “Let me get you some coffee, show you around a bit, and when Linnea’s free, I’ll bring you in to meet with her.”

  “You look beautiful this evening, häxan. And,” Ragnar says, “very pleased with yourself. Like the cat who got the cream.”

  I’m at my kitchen table having coffee after dinner. I smile up at my dragon from over my antique porcelain cup. I’m getting used to Ragnarr’s habit of appearing out of nowhere at odd times.

  My little kitchen is warm with the oven’s residual heat, and I’m not wearing much—just a silk babydoll nightgown which doesn’t leave much to the imagination. His hot eyes taking in every detail of my déshabillé is not making things any cooler.

  “What’s this about cream?” says Whimsy. “I want some.”

  “Oh, be quiet, Whimsy. You just had treats.” The half-empty bag is still sitting open next to me on the table.

  “That was then. This is now.”

  I wave him off with a hand.

  “It’s the strangest thing,” I say with a smile in my voice. “Just recently we had an MBA walk in off the street who was perfect for the job and we were so impressed, we hired her on the spot. Pretty amazing, right?”

  “Amazing.” Ragnarr makes a mocking bow. “Of course.” A smug little smile plays at his lips.

  I set my cup down with a clink on its saucer. Coffee sloshes over the side.

  “Don’t tell me you own stock in some high-class job agency or something, and you did this second wish magic-free too.” My voice is accusatory.

  “Well…”

  “Oh, come on. What I am risking my life for?”

  He gives me a sideways look, but lets it go.

  “I do know some people, but I also nudged it along a bit, got things into the right hands a little easier. So let’s say it was fifty-fifty.” He smiles at the exasperated look I’m giving him. “Don’t worry, häxan. I promise you got your money’s worth.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” I say, relenting. “Valerie's already made so many changes it makes my head spin. I’m just happy I can spend all my energy upstairs, guilt-free, without worrying about what’s going on front-of-house. She’s an absolute angel. A godsend. Um—dragonsend…?”

  A self-satisfied grin. He leans against the counter with studied flippancy.

  “So it’s a success all around. Don’t you know it’s bad manners to complain?”

  “Complain? That’s all she does,” says Whimsy. He’s interrupted giving his backside a thorough tongue-bathing just to insert this very appreciated tidbit of information.

  “Thank you for that, Whimsy,” I say drily. “Don’t you have a mouse to eat or a moth to chase? Or even better, other people to annoy?”

  He flicks one ear in disapproval of my tone. “Not when the two of you are so utterly fascinating.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Enough quibbling with the cat,” says Ragnarr, dropping his ironic manner all at once. He pulls me to my feet. “Let’s talk about how gorgeous you are in that little thing and how I can’t keep my eyes off of you.”

  His chest is big and hot and hard against me, and I’m suddenly very aware of just how thin my short little negligee is between us.

  “What about it?” I say, a bit breathlessly.

  “I can’t stop thinking about how hot and wet you were, how sweet and delicious.”

  My knees weaken. He senses it, holds me tighter against him.

  “And I can’t wait for you to make your next wish.”

  I push away from him without strength. The exotic cinnamon and sandalwood scent of him is too much to resist. I want to drink it in, bathe in it from head to toe.

  “That was the last wish. I’m not making any more. You said it yourself, wishes have nothing to do with—with being with you.”

  “But being with me will be so much sweeter once you’re my hoard.”

  The way he says it makes it sound so sexy. Like something I should want. He certainly wants it.

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “It means you’ll be mine.” Ragnarr plants a line of soft kisses down the column of my throat, and I shiver. Gods, that feels so good. “All mine.”

  Right now, being all his doesn’t sound bad at all.

  “Would you keep doing that if I was all yours?”

  “I’d never stop, häxan.”

  One hand cups my breast through thin silk. His thumb flicks against the hard point of my nipple.

  “You make it very hard to think rationally,” I say with a gasp.

  “How lovely to hear all my hard work is paying off.”

  The other hand slides down my hip, caressing, curving under the babydoll’s hem to massage the right globe of my ass. I can’t help it; my hips move against him. His hand comes with them, guiding them, urging them on. His cock is thick and hard against me, and I moan. I’m so wet and ready for
him.

  Images flash in my head, the way they have for days since I saw him last: the way his tongue felt between my thighs, out on the balcony—cool breeze against my heated skin—how the city lights turned to meteors when he made me come for him.

  “Let me taste you again, häxan,” he says, voice low and husky.

  All I can do is nod.

  “It’s been raining all week. Can’t you make it stop, Lin?”

  We’re at our regular café by my apartment, where we usually have our business meetings.

  “You know my gift is to bring rain, not stop it.”

  Said rain pounds in dark sheets against the windows. Outside it’s miserable, dismal, but inside the café, it’s cozy and inviting. Little tea lights flicker on each table.

  I sigh. “I know. I’m just sick of all the gray.”

  “Not that I could even affect a whole city, either,” Linnea says, finishing a complicated-looking knit cable on her sock. “Way above my level.”

  “Still better than only being able to make everything you cook delicious.”

  “I’m a terrible cook, so I’d love to have that gift. My daughters would certainly like me more.”

  “Wouldn’t it be nice to have a gift that actually was powerful enough to be impressive? Like flying, or telekinesis?”

  “Ha! Well, maybe in a fantasy novel. I’d settle for one that made kids clean their rooms without being asked or that made small businesses run smoothly all the time. Speaking of which, I can’t believe Valerie just walked in off the street like that. An MBA and everything? It’s honestly a miracle.”

  A customer drops a fork with a clatter from the tray they’re self-bussing. Picks it up.

  “Well…” I pick up my latte, swirl it in my cup, put it down again without taking a sip.

  “Well, what?”

  I catch myself. Hesitate. Open my mouth. Shut it. I want to tell Linnea, explain the deal, to help redeem my dragon in her eyes after their disastrous meeting, even if she doesn’t know yet that’s who Ragnarr really is.

  Linnea looks at me, annoyed. “Spit it out, Em.”

  I pull out the disc from inside my shirt and show it to her. “See this?”

  “Ja… so?”

  “I got it from the dragon. It’s kind of a, well, a wish token. When it’s completely gold, then I’ve used up all my wishes.”

  “So you’re saying that you wished this? From the dragon?” I nod.

  She sets her sock knitting down on her lap, gives me a hard stare.

  “Explain.”

  I sketch out the basics, careful to leave out the bits about “payment” and how I’m risking becoming a part of Ragnarr’s hoard. I still don’t know what that means anyway, so I’m not about to let Lin worry herself sick over it.

  “So the dragon got us this location, and the dragon found us Valerie?”

  I nod.

  “And you have one wish left?”

  “Ja, one or two.”

  I can see the wheels turning in her head. She wants to nag at me, to warn me, to stop me—but knows it’s pointless.

  At last, she sighs.

  “Just promise me you’ll talk to me before you make it. I know you have So Mote It Bee’s best interests at heart, but as your co-owner, not to mention your coven-sister, I’d really like to be involved in this. I’m worried about you.”

  Linnea is both annoyed and concerned, which is why I’ve been putting this off to begin with. I shift in my seat, uncomfortable being at the business end of my best friend’s motherly chagrin.

  She stirs her coffee briskly. Puts the teaspoon back down with a clink. I hold my breath.

  “Why didn’t you tell me all this earlier?”

  “Sorry, Lin.” I feel sheepish. She’s right, of course. “You just have so much going on, with the girls and your ex…”

  It’s a bad excuse, but I don’t know what else to say. I just hate to burden her when I know it’s not all that big a deal—but if I tell her that, I’ll have to explain in more detail and that will defeat the whole purpose.

  “Just promise me.”

  “I promise.”

  But, I add silently, only if it’s not going to add to your pile of worries—only then will I tell you before I make my next wish.

  The high-pitched jangle of my cell phone wakes me. Whimsy looks up from his place on my other pillow in sleepy annoyance. He yawns, wide maw bright pink against the midnight-black of his silky coat. It’s six in the morning—way too early for us night owls.

  I’m half-dreaming still, something about a tropical island and Ragnarr looking a treat with his shirt off.

  It’s Valerie calling. This better be important.

  I press the accept button. “Hello?” My voice is groggy.

  “You need to get here quick, Emelie. It’s urgent.” I’ve never heard Valerie like this.

  “What?” I rub sleep out of my eyes. “Why, what happened?”

  “Oh my God… all the rain we’ve been having… well, the basement has three feet of water in it. I mean, um, like about a meter. And the barrels—”

  “What?” I sit bolt upright, my heart in my throat.

  The barrels. Some of them have been aging for four years.

  “What happened to my barrels?”

  “The barrels are mostly all toppled over. It looks like maybe some of them are leaking. It’s an absolute nightmare down there.”

  A black hole blooms in my gut, like getting news of a death.

  “Fy helvete! I—I’ll be right there. Is anyone else there yet?”

  “A couple guys from the kitchen staff. They were here doing prep-work for lunch, but I was just getting started on inventory, so I’m the one who found the flood.”

  “Get them to carry everything upstairs as fast as possible. Do what you can to salvage everything.”

  I don’t bother with goodbyes, throwing on the first pieces of rumpled clothing I find on the floor in my rush.

  “Is it really as bad as all that?” Valerie asks.

  The kitchen and pantry are piled with unruly stacks of oak barrels, leaking blood-red mead on the floor like casualties of war. A sticky rainbow of spilled alcohol and dirty flood water is splashed in puddles on the floor.

  Valerie has a clipboard, making notes of the damage and tallying up what we need to report to the insurance company. My hands are shaking too badly to even attempt doing anything myself.

  “Well,” I say, “we’ve lost total control over the temperature and the humidity which in itself is devastating. On top of that, half the barrels are leaking and I’m not sure that flood water didn’t seep into the others. We’ll have to send samples from every single barrel off for testing to determine that. Which is going to cost us in both money and time.”

  “Are you sure nothing is salvageable? How much do you think is ruined?”

  “I don’t know yet, but we have to face the possibility that every last bit of it is ruined. Dozens of barrels. Thousands of liters.”

  I run my fingers through my hair, wincing at the pain. It’s still tangled from sleep.

  “All of the finest meads I made over the past four years… I can’t stop thinking about all the work that went into them. The bees, the honey, picking all that fruit by hand, not to mention the time and attention during fermentation and racking over to barrels—” my voice breaks.

  “Fy helvetes fan. All that work. All that love and attention. It’s like having your friends die. It’s like—I put so much time and effort into raising them, they’re like little people to me. Like children. And now those little people, they’re just all gone. I can’t believe it.”

  “Emelie, there’s no need to panic.” Valerie's voice is calm. She sounds like a hotel manager soothing an agitated customer.

  “I’ll take care of all this. That’s what I’m here for. I’ll talk to the insurance company—”

  “You don’t understand.”

  My hands are shaking even worse now. I ball them up to try and stop it.r />
  “Insurance money is all well and good, but it won’t bring back my mead. There was millions of Swedish crowns’-worth of product down there, but it’s worth so much more to me.”

  “Of course it is, but let’s try and think positive.” She looks at her clipboard.

  “We don’t have to worry about the financial side. That’s what insurance is for. We’ll rebuild, and you have most of your newer meads upstairs. This was all the product aging long-term, right? It won’t impact the day-to-day too much. It’ll just be a bit longer to have the ultra-premium products ready for sale. But that’s okay. We’re here for a marathon, not a sprint. Try and think of it that way.”

  I pace, only half-listening. “Even if I could remake it all tomorrow, it won’t be the same. Some of that was made right after I got divorced and it’s been aging ever since. I was going to start bottling the oldest this winter.”

  I make a noise of frustration.

  “It’s literally years lost in this flood. Years, Valerie. And a lot of it was made with seasonal fruit, so I won’t even be able to remake it from scratch for months or even until next year. All that time and effort. All my little people. It’s just—”

  My voice breaks into a sob. I can’t bear to go on. I sink down into a chair in a daze and bury my face in my hands.

  “I hate seeing you like this, Emelie,” says Valerie. She rubs my shoulder awkwardly. “All I can do is promise you I will do as much as humanly possible.”

  “But that’s the problem, isn’t it?” I mumble into the crease of my elbow. “Solving this isn’t humanly possible.”

  “Hmm… Well, what about your coven? I practice solitary, but maybe if you all join forces—you think that could help?”

  I would love to ask the coven for their assistance, but what can they really do? I shake my head, sniffle. Look up at her through my tears.

  “This is a disaster, far beyond what’s in our combined power. We’re witches, not miracle workers.”

  I only know of one miracle worker.

  Ragnarr.