Deal With Her Dragon

by Ruby Sirois

  14: Emelie

  Six Years Before

  “Are you going to eat all of that?” Peter said.

  Following his gaze, I looked down at my plate. Half-eaten chicken fettuccine alfredo stared up at me accusingly. I was still hungry, and I hesitated just a second before pushing it away with reluctance.

  “I guess not. I’m pretty full.”

  “You know the doctor said your infertility is mainly due to your weight.” He made a sound of annoyance. “It’s like you don’t even want to get pregnant.”

  “I can read, Peter. I’ve done research. Fertility is much more complicated than that. I’ve had PCOS for years, this isn’t unusual for anyone who has it.”

  “Oh, so you’re a fertility doctor now? You know better than the experts?”

  “Nej, I—”

  “Just because you read something on the internet doesn’t make you an expert. And it’s not just the fertility. I’m worried about your health.”

  “Not this again,” I said with a groan. “I’m fine. I’m healthy.”

  “Well, what about me? I love you, Em. So much. No one will ever love you like I do. You know that, right? Never forget that.”

  “I do. And I won’t.”

  I tried to smile, but I couldn’t make it reach my eyes.

  He took my hand, squeezed it. “And as your husband, it would be nice to have a good relationship. A healthy relationship—in every way. I hate being a nag, but I don’t relish the idea of becoming a widower at age fifty because you didn’t care enough to lose weight before you died of a heart attack or diabetes complications.”

  “Peter, I don’t even have diabe—”

  “It’s so selfish of you, Emelie. We’re married. This isn’t just about you. We’re a team. What am I supposed to do if you get sick? If you die? I’d be devastated without you.”

  “Peter, you’re being incredibly dramatic. I’m not going to die.”

  “Well, you’re not getting pregnant either, and it all boils down to the same reason. The worst part is, it’s totally reversible. Totally preventable. I don’t understand this learned helplessness you have around your weight, Em. It just takes some work, but you just don’t seem to want to put in that work. If you did, it would all fall off, I promise.”

  He was every inch the martyr.

  “Does ice cream really mean more to you than I do?”

  I pulled my hand back. “You badgering me isn’t helping.”

  “I’ve said lots of times that I’m happy to help you. We can learn new recipes, I’ll even diet with you. We can make it fun. You love to cook—and with your gift, you could make even low-calorie food taste great. I don’t see what the problem is.”

  The problem is the way you look at me, I wanted to say. The way you pull away whenever I want to give you a hug. A kiss. The expression on your face whenever I want sex.

  I can tell that you’re disgusted by me, your own wife.

  That’s the problem.

  “It’s really easy for you to say, Peter.” My voice was low, and I struggled to keep the bitterness out of it. “You don’t need to lose weight. And if you did, you could lose ten in a month just by cutting out soda. I look at a piece of bread and I gain twenty.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Emelie, it’s calories in, calories out. Not magic.”

  “It’s not the same when you have hormonal issues. A calorie isn’t just a calorie for me.”

  Peter took a deep breath, let it out slowly. With him, it was either that or yelling. I wasn’t sure which I hated more.

  “I don’t have the patience to fight with you over this again, Emelie. I’m so, so sick of it. Eventually, you’re going to have to choose: me, or food. I just can’t stick around and watch you eat yourself to death. That’s not who I married. That’s not what I signed up for.”

  * * *

  I chose, and good riddance.

  Even so, Peter’s voice has stuck around all these years just as if he’d never left.

  After all, he said it himself: no one will ever love me the way he did. And love means that anyone I get into a relationship with would say all the same things to me eventually…

  Are you really going to eat all of that?

  I’m not attracted to you anymore.

  You look disgusting.

  I’m leaving you.

  * * *

  …wouldn’t they?

  Present day

  “He’s the dragon? That gorgeous, rich, fucking asshole you’ve been dating?” Linnea throws her bag at the chair as if she’s exterminating vermin.

  “Fy fan, Em, I can’t believe you! I thought you had more sense.” She rakes her hands through her hair.

  “I should have known the second I met him, the fucking asshole. I really thought he wanted to tear my throat out. He terrified me. That fucking ödla.”

  Lizard. It’s a low insult for a dragon.

  “He apologized for that,” I say lamely.

  She gives me an incredulous look.

  “You’re naïve, Emelie. Nothing good can come of this. You’re a witch, he hates witches. Or häxjävlar, as he so very charmingly puts it.” She makes a noise as if there is something vile on her tongue. “You said it yourself. I don’t see how you can possibly think this will work out. That this is a good idea.”

  I don’t know how to explain it to her. How he makes me feel.

  “He says I’m different.”

  She barks a laugh. “If you believe that, I have some oceanfront property in the Sahara to sell you.”

  “He’s crazy about me.”

  “Crazy is a good word. Throw out the rest.”

  The more I try to justify it to Lin, the worse it sounds. The bile of doubt rises up in my throat. I stuff it down like clothes in an overfull suitcase.

  “I haven’t been on a date in ten years,” I say softly. “I haven’t dated anyone since my divorce. Don’t I deserve happiness?”

  “Of course you do. But this is who you decide to break your streak with?”

  “I mean, it wasn’t in my plans, it just kind of happened.”

  “‘Just kind of happened’?” Linnea echoes. Her voice is thick with disbelief. “This isn’t a romantic comedy, Emelie—you made a magical deal with a witch-hating dragon. Don’t you think he’s just using you? If he hates witches so much, what if this is just some kind of elaborate revenge scheme?”

  “It’s not a scheme.” I puff up as if she’s insulted me personally.

  “And how do you know? Have you seen him? He could be dating a supermodel. Hell, ten supermodels.”

  I bristle. “So a good-looking man likes me, that makes him crazy and only out to use me for revenge? Is that how you think of me? Just some fat, over-the-hill loser who a hottie like Ragnarr just wants to pump and dump? Thanks so, so much.” There’s a bitter taste in my mouth. It takes all I have not to spit.

  “It’s nice to know what you really think, Lin.”

  “Emelie, that’s not what I said.”

  Her voice is long-suffering. It only makes me more angry.

  “Don’t put words in my mouth. And he’s not a man—he’s a dragon, and he’s dangerous. Don’t you understand that? Dangerous. I really think all this was not worth it.” Linnea takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. Paces the room.

  “I wish we’d never helped you with that spell. We should have sold out to Heineberg when we had the chance, but that offer is long gone now. At least then you’d be safe from him.”

  “He wouldn’t hurt me.”

  “That’s what you said about Peter when I told you I had an intuition about him the first time I met him.”

  I would argue, but there is no way I can. Even after all these years, Peter is still hurting me.

  “You didn’t listen, just like you never listen, and look how that turned out.”

  I recoil. “You’re being really mean.”

  “I’m not being mean, I’m the sensible voice of honesty you need right now. If you think it sounds mea
n, maybe it’s because I’m telling you to take your head out of the sand and face reality, and you don’t want to.” I make a face. “This is real life, not a TV movie. All we are is häxjävlar to him. Fucking häxjävlar, Em.” Linnea sighs heavily. “This will not end well. Do you hear me? He’s dangerous! I don’t want you sacrificing your life for a business. It’s just not worth it.”

  “Too late for that now.” My voice is low.

  “What?” Linnea’s voice rises with alarm.

  I make an exasperated noise. “It’s kind of too late now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Right about now, I’m glad she’s not my mother. There is a shrill quality in her voice I’d very much like to run away from.

  I finger Ragnarr’s disc at my throat. Just under half of it remains silver.

  “Never mind.”

  “Never mind? What’s too late? What have you done?”

  I don’t want to tell her the whole truth. It’s bad enough already. She doesn’t need to know about the deal’s finer points and what I’m really risking.

  “I mean that—” I nibble my lip, forming a plausible half-truth. “Um—I’m falling for him.”

  It’s not really a lie. It’s not even a fabrication, really.

  Linnea scoffs. “Just because your clit loves him doesn’t mean your heart does—or should.”

  “Classy. And how would you know? You don’t know how I feel, you’re not me.”

  “I have eyes, I see what he looks like. I sure don’t blame you for having a big old clit-crush on that. But from the outside, I’m telling you to try and think rationally. He’s no good for you. He’s on a mission and he’s not afraid to destroy whatever gets in his way in order to get his way. That includes you, me, and everyone else in this whole mess. Maybe even this whole city. Who even knows at this point.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  But in my voice, in my heart, is a growing ambivalence. I shove it away, hard—but it seeps back in right away, like floodwater, through the myriad of cracks in my soul I’m unable to patch.

  “You act like he’s a human, with human emotions and human motivations,” Linnea says. “But he’s not. He’s a dragon, and that’s something completely different. The same rules don’t apply.”

  She meets my eyes, and my stomach twists when I see hers are brimming with impassioned tears. My heart flops over with guilt in my chest. This whole time, I’ve been thinking of myself and not how worried my best friend is for me.

  I feel terrible.

  “Emelie,” she says quietly, “I just want what’s best for you. I love you. And I’m so afraid he’ll use you, chew you up, and spit you out.” A shuddering breath. “And that’s if you’re lucky. You’re better than that, you deserve better than that.”

  A little noise. A stifled sob.

  “I know he’s gorgeous and you think he’s amazing, but let’s face it. It’s been a long time for you, and lots of women are willing to overlook lots of things for a face that pretty and a body that hot. Don’t you get it?” She dashes away her tears with the backs of her hands.

  “I hope to hell I’m wrong about him, but I really don’t think I am.”

  I raise my chin, but there’s nothing I can say.

  “I’m going to have to ask for a third wish to save the mead that was ruined.”

  I’m petting Whimsy's head a bit too hard, and he pulls back. Shakes his head, ears making a flapping sound against his fluffy skull.

  “Linnea won’t like that,” he says, licking a paw to regain his dignity.

  “Don’t you think you’ve played with fire long enough? You’ll singe your whiskers.”

  Whimsy says this last with rather more concern than I’m used to from him. I give him a cautious sideline look.

  “Maybe so, but it can’t be helped. There’s no getting around this.”

  “You shouldn’t have wasted the first two.”

  I glare at him. “They most certainly weren’t a waste. We wouldn’t be there in the Stortorget house now. We wouldn’t have Valerie now.”

  “True, but you also wouldn’t be risking your life.”

  “I really don’t think it’s all that bad.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “He’s never been anything but amazing. Ragnarr is smoking-hot, sexy, and thinks I’m gorgeous. How bad could becoming a part of his hoard be, really? Surely it’s just some kind of weird draconic euphemism for sex or something.”

  “Stuck in a dank cave for eternity. No sunshine, no catnip, not even a nice cardboard box to sit in. Probably mandatory baths every day, too. Sure, how bad could that be?”

  “Oh, come on. First off, unlike some people,” I give him a pointed stare, “I actually enjoy bathing. Not everyone acts like they’re being murdered when they come into contact with a little soap and water. Besides, I doubt he even has a cave—isn’t that just a myth? And if he does, I doubt it’s as bad as all that. Ragnarr really doesn’t seem like the dank cave type.”

  I stop to consider.

  “Hmm… more like the luxury man-cave type if anything.”

  “Interesting,” Whimsy says.

  I’m not thrilled with his tone.

  “You have insider information? He’s told you everything?”

  “Well… nej.”

  “And he’s not going to, is he?” He jumps up. “I knew it, I knew it. You don’t want to admit it, but it’s all over your face. See, just like I told you. Sneaky. You should listen to me sometimes.”

  Damn him, Whimsy's right. But I can’t give him the satisfaction. He gloats too much already when he’s right.

  “The weather’s nice today.”

  “Smooth,” he says, giving one shoulder an annoyed lick.

  I roll my eyes. Whimsy loves to dish it out, but he sure can’t take it when I turn his own irritating tricks against him.

  “When are you going to tell Linnea?”

  The last thing I plan on doing is telling Linnea of my plans for a third wish. She’s made her stance abundantly clear, and I can’t let her get in the way of So Mote It Bee’s future.

  “I’m making an executive decision. I’m not going to tell her.”

  “I thought you said you promised.”

  “I’ll tell her—after,” I say with studied lightness. “She’ll be happy with the results—once she gets over it.”

  How much longer after is something I’ll think about later.

  “He’s rubbing off on you. Or maybe you were just like him to begin with.”

  “Oh?” I give him a suspicious look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Sneaky.”

  15: Emelie

  The bell on the door jangles. A stifled curse. I look up from stocking the bar fridge.

  “I’m really starting to hate that damned bell,” Ragnarr says, rubbing at his forehead. “Never fails.”

  I stifle a giggle. “Look at you, walking in and using the door like a real person. How bourgeois.” I laugh at the look of mock annoyance he shoots me.

  “It’s nice to see you,” I say, wiping my hands on a bar towel and coming around to greet him.

  Ragnarr’s leather jacket is cool against my skin, but his lips are so warm and soft. I try, but can’t hide a little moan as his tongue brushes mine.

  “It’s nice to be missed,” Ragnarr says.

  He kisses me more deeply, his muscled arms tightening around me, his entire body long and lean against me.

  “I haven’t seen you in—”

  “A whole day?” He gives me a mocking smirk. “I know, I thought I’d die too.”

  “Rude,” I say, trying and failing to push him away. “As if you could stay away from all this.”

  Ragnarr gives my ass a squeeze. Makes a little noise of pleasure.

  “Perfect as ever, Emelie min. Nej, you’re right. I can’t stay away from all this.” Another squeeze.

  “And here I was about to say something nice, but since you’re in the mood for being sarcasti
c—”

  “No sarcasm, lilla häxan. By my father, I swear it.” Ragnarr’s voice drops an octave, low and intimate: “I can prove it to you if you have a few hours.”

  He buries his face in my neck, tastes me there. I gasp. Gods, he feels so good.

  Why does he have to feel so good?

  “Mmm. Please, let me prove it to you.”

  “At least let me change into something that doesn’t have fruit stains all over it.”

  He pulls back, looks me up and down. “I never would have noticed if you hadn’t said.”

  I look down at my old t-shirt. Once white with a screen print of my favorite band from college, it is now basically tie-dyed in front. Not very sexy, especially not with him next to me looking like a fashion model.

  I raise an eyebrow. “Really.”

  He shrugs. “If it bothers you that much, let me take you shopping.”

  “Like I’m going to even step foot outside in this. I still have to change first.”

  “Well, I still want to take you shopping after. Say ja, häxan.”

  “That’s funny. Begging me as if I’m doing you a favor by letting you buy me things.”

  “Who says you’re not?”

  “Umm… feminism?” It’s the first dissemblance that comes to mind.

  I don’t want to bring up my growing list of doubts, but it’s high up there on my real reasons why not.

  The truth is, I feel weird letting him buy me things when I have no idea what my feelings really are. That I don’t know if I can trust his intentions.

  I wonder if he’s bribing me or buying me off or something. But why would he? I’m the one who owes him. I’m the one who has to pay him when I make a wish, so it doesn’t make any sense.

  He scoffs. “Feminism has to do with women being every bit as competent and self-capable as men. About empowering women to make their own life choices—so I don’t see the connection. But if, as you say, saying no to gifts freely and lovingly bought by an enamored beau is actually feminism, then what good is it?”

  He takes my chin in his hand, turns it from side to side, examining my face carefully.