Deal With Her Dragon

by Ruby Sirois

  “Ja… just as I thought. You’re in dire need of extensive, expensive pampering. I think you’ll die right here on the spot if you go without. This is a very serious issue and it must be addressed immediately.”

  “Well…” I relent. I have no willpower, no strength with him.

  “I guess I am feeling a bit light-headed.”

  “See? Dr. Dragon to the rescue. You’re lucky I got here just in time.”

  “Isn’t there something you want to ask me?”

  I shoot him a look as I shut my apartment door behind us.

  “You knew I was planning to call you for a wish?”

  “I make it my business to know things like that.”

  “And yet—” I gesture with one newly-manicured hand to the huge pile of designer shopping bags now occupying half the available space on my bedroom floor.

  “One has nothing to do with the other. Just like what constitutes payment for magical services rendered, and what does not. Don’t you remember?”

  My face grows hot. I do remember. I’ve never forgotten.

  “That just because I didn’t make a wish doesn’t mean we can’t… you know.”

  “In this case, ‘you know’ means shopping.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “I thought dragons were greedy, hoardy misers who’d cut a bitch for a ha’penny or whatever. Is this breaking new ground for you?”

  “So what if it is?”

  “I can’t possibly be that special.”

  “Why not?”

  “Would you stop answering my questions with questions?”

  “Why?”

  I roll my eyes. “I can’t believe you and Whimsy aren’t best friends.”

  “Not for lack of trying on my part. I suppose I’ll have to conjure up bigger fish.”

  “He’d like that, but—”

  “Speak it, häxan. I hope it’s a good one this time. I’m in the mood to show off.”

  “Oh, so now you want to show off? No more frugality? No more property write-offs? No more job agencies and fancy sleight-of-hand?”

  He waves it off. “Egg’s play.”

  It takes me a second. I am nonplussed.

  “Wait, did you actually hatch—”

  “Speak it, häxan.”

  I shake it off, refocus. “I guess this is going to be a big one.”

  “I’m listening.”

  I explain about the flood and about the dozens of spoiled barrels. Of all the mead ruined, and all the time and effort that was lost. Of how insurance falls woefully short to make us truly whole.

  His face is serious.

  “I’m afraid I can’t conjure back your mead, Emelie. When I conjure into being, I always take a thing from somewhere—it doesn’t just appear out of nothing. Haven’t you studied physics?”

  “Physics?” I’m totally lost. “What are you talking about?”

  “Matter can be neither created nor destroyed. So when I conjure, I simply—well, let’s say borrow.”

  “Borrow. Good one.”

  “Fine. Maybe borrow is not strictly correct. That’s not the point.”

  I groan. “Then I don’t know what to ask for.”

  “You have lots of mead.”

  “Jodå, but it’s not aged. That’s the problem.”

  “You need quick-aging barrels.”

  “Quick-aging… isn’t that against physics, or whatever?”

  He waves it off. “A simple bit of time manipulation, localized entirely within the inside of an oak barrel or fifty? Egg’s play.”

  “Egg’s—Ragnarr, you’re really going to have to explain how dragons are made at some point.”

  “Well, I’d be more than happy to show you.” He gives me a languid look from head to toe.

  “Can you focus?”

  “I am focused.” His eyes drop back down to my body.

  Gives me another teasing smile. Raises an eyebrow.

  I cross my arms over my chest, blocking the view. He sighs in ostentatious disappointment.

  “On the issue at hand?” I say sternly.

  Ragnarr shakes his head, mocking admonishment.

  “As much as I enjoy our witty repartee, I hope you are less talk and more action when it comes to repayment.”

  I make an exasperated groan. “You and Whimsy, I swear…” I shake my head.

  Deep breath. Get back to the wish, Em.

  “Okay.” I count the points off on my fingers. “I wish for quick-aging barrels, impervious to any natural or man-made disasters. I also wish for unequivocal success and growth for So Mote It Bee. I wish for a well-earned excellent reputation in all regards. I wish that—” I hesitate, then charge ahead. “I wish that anyone who is involved with So Mote It Bee will be happy and healthy, and that they’ll all get their heart’s desires.”

  He whistles. “Are you sure?”

  “Why?”

  “This is a big one. A lot of stipulations, especially that last. Generous of you, but do you think you can afford it?” Ragnarr gestures to his disc around my neck.

  I pick it up, inspect it.

  “It’s half-full still, I thought it would be okay. Why, is it too much?”

  He ponders for a minute, drawing numbers in the air, squinting at them, drawing a few more.

  “According to my calculations you’ll land, hmm—just under full.” A flirtatious grin. “Tack on one more tiny little stipulation, you’ll be mine. That sounds nice, right? Tempted, häxan?”

  Despite myself, I am tempted—more than a little, in fact—but I’m not about to say so. Not to him, nor to myself.

  “Nah, I’ll stay.”

  “Shame.”

  It sounds surprisingly unironic. A touch disappointed, even. But he doesn’t elaborate.

  A long pause.

  “Well?” I say at last.

  I wonder what my payment will be this time. It’s probably going to be big.

  “Well what?” A little smirk.

  He knows very well what I mean.

  “You love driving me crazy.”

  “Nothing I’d rather be doing. Well, almost nothing.”

  “Exactly, about that—”

  “Put on that new red silk gown we just bought. The one with the vee neck and thigh slit that made you look like a 1930’s movie starlet. I’m taking you out somewhere nice tonight.”

  “You like oysters?”

  Our steps ring off the cobblestones. Ragnarr has my arm in his, judiciously keeping his stride length short so I don’t have to struggle to keep up in my high heels.

  I wrinkle my nose.

  “Definitely not. I can’t stand fish.”

  “A Swede who hates seafood? Isn’t that illegal?”

  “Ha! You might think so. Nej, it’s just that when I was little, my mom always had pickled herring at every holiday. Standard Swedish holiday fare, you know. But one Easter, I think I was about seven or eight, I wasn’t feeling well. Mom made me finish my plate even though I didn’t want to, and I was sick right there in front of everyone. I know it’s dumb, but ever since then…” I shrug. “I just can’t do it. I always preferred meatballs, anyway.”

  “Poor you. That’s a shame, but I suppose it’s just more for me. I love oysters. A bit salty, a bit sweet—a satiny little bite-sized taste of the ocean.” He gives me a suggestive look. “They’re an aphrodisiac, you know.”

  I shudder. “Maybe so, but not for me. So wet and gooey, and I don’t mean in a sexy way.”

  He laughs. “When you put it that way. Well then, a nice bottle of red and handmade chocolate truffles it is.”

  “That’s a left turn.”

  “I’m inspired by your dress and also by how I’d like to let you melt in my mouth. Slowly.”

  “Oh?” I say with interest. “That sounds promising. And then what?”

  “Bold wishes for the bold, häxan.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means go big and go home with me.”

  I raise an eyebrow at him.


  “Don’t you mean go big or go home?”

  “I meant what I said.”

  “What is this place?”

  We’re in Östermalm, heading through an unmarked door halfway down a narrow alley. It’s guarded by a gigantic bouncer who gave Ragnarr a curt nod of recognition when we approached.

  “This is Tredje Kronan, a private club I like to come to sometimes. I’m a long-time member. It’s popular with a certain crowd—well, you’ll see.”

  Tredje Kronan. The Third Crown. It even sounds fancy.

  As we descend, my red satin heels sink into the plush carpeting on the stairs. We might as well be heading to the Met Gala, from the looks of the place. Live jazz filters through up from the main area, mixed with the soft buzz of conversation from well-heeled jet-setters decked out in diamonds and sipping from martini glasses.

  Now I’m glad I wore this stunning gown, even though I felt over-dressed when I put it on.

  Ragnarr greets the hostess, who seems to know him a bit too well for my taste. Even she is wearing designer clothes and looks like a Victoria’s Secret model.

  I feel her side-eyeing me, finding me sorely lacking—what’s she doing with him—but in response I tilt my chin up just a bit and give her a winning smile. The hostess leads us over to a plush booth in a secluded corner without giving me another glance.

  There’s no one here who isn’t famous or drop-dead gorgeous. The place is crawling with celebrities, actors, and—

  “Wait, is that the prince?” I hiss, grabbing Ragnarr’s sleeve and motioning with a jerk of my head.

  Ragnarr glances over.

  “Ja, he’s here once in a while. I’ve chatted with him once or twice. A bit full of himself, but nice enough. When he goes out, it’s always to Tredje Kronan first. If you haven’t noticed, häxan, it’s very exclusive.”

  “Jodå, I did notice, actually. I thought we were just going out for chocolate and wine?”

  I slide into the velvet-upholstered booth. Ragnarr follows. He sits pressed thigh-to-thigh with me, pulls me into the crook of his arm. He’s so deliciously warm—it’s like basking in sunshine on my own private island.

  “We are. Because the best truffles in the city are here.” He gives me a little wink. “Remind me never to introduce you to the pastry chef. I don’t trust you not to dump me here and now once you taste them.”

  I scoff. “Me, dump you? I don’t think so. Have you looked around in here? I’m pretty sure ninety percent of the women in here want to murder me for daring to be seen with you. The other ten percent are obviously not straight.”

  “Don’t be silly, häxan.”

  He gestures to a waiter, who nods and strides off at once. Ragnarr really is a regular here. The thought is intimidating. I scan the room, trying not to look like a gawking bumpkin.

  Okay, so maybe not ninety percent, but I see a good half-dozen stunningly beautiful women glaring at me or looking away quickly when my eyeline crosses theirs.

  But Ragnarr doesn’t notice them at all. To him, they don’t even seem to exist.

  I don’t understand.

  I felt beautiful in this dress earlier, but a wave of awkwardness hits me now.

  “Look around,” I insist. “I’m not making it up.”

  He pulls me a little closer. “Trinkets.”

  “What?”

  “All they are is trinkets. Not you.”

  “Trinkets? What does that mean?”

  His mouth twists in a moue of distaste.

  “Things that have little use or meaning. Easily discarded.”

  “I mean, sure, I think they’re kind of bitchy for staring at me, but that’s a little mean.”

  “You’re not understanding my point.”

  “That’s true.”

  If he would call actresses and models ‘trinkets’, what must he think of me? Linnea’s words of warning come flooding back.

  Using you.

  Ten supermodels.

  Revenge.

  He sees them flicker behind my eyes.

  “Häxan, stop thinking whatever you’re thinking. Whatever it is, it’s not true. You are the opposite of a trinket to me.”

  “What’s the opposite of a trinket?”

  He’s not making any sense. I suddenly want to cry, but can’t because I’ll ruin my makeup. I might cry anyway.

  I take a deep breath, let it out shakily. I feel like everyone is staring. Judging.

  I want to hide.

  “You are.”

  I laugh, a bit bitterly. “Not helpful.” My voice sounds thick to my ears.

  “Something I want to keep. To treasure, forever.”

  “You can’t mean that.”

  “Oh, but I do.”

  “Why? I’m a witch. You hate witches.”

  “Maybe,” he says carefully, “with time, I could learn to come around for the others. That remains to be seen. But I do not hate you. I feel quite the opposite about you.” He takes my chin between forefinger and thumb. “If you would let me, I would cherish you.”

  My stomach does a little flip. “You would?”

  His eyes are hot on mine. Drop to my lips.

  “If you were mine, I’d never let you go. You are the most precious thing I could ever hope to possess.”

  I don’t take time to ponder this before I blurt out, “Even more than treasure?”

  “You are the true treasure.”

  “Even more than your entire hoard?”

  “Nothing in my hoard means more to me than you do.”

  “That can’t possibly be true.”

  “Why do you doubt me, lilla häxan?”

  Maybe it’s because comparison is the thief of joy, and I can’t stop comparing myself to every other woman in here. He must see it, must read my thoughts on my face.

  “I wanted you the moment I saw you,” he says. “Even before I actually saw you. The moment I sensed you, sensed your aura. That’s when I knew I wanted you.”

  I didn’t know this. It gives me pause.

  “My aura?”

  “It was your aura that drew me at first, when you called me that first time. And then when I saw you, I could not keep my distance. I still can’t.”

  The waiter returns with a bottle and two glasses. He sets them in front of us, pours Ragnarr a sample. Ragnarr tastes, nods. The waiter fills our glasses halfway and sets down the bottle.

  “Very good, sir,” the waiter says. “I will return shortly with your selection of chocolates. Tonight we have Mayan chocolate, raspberry licorice, and marzipan.” He turns on his heel to fetch the order.

  “How did he know? You never ordered.”

  “You think dragons don’t know how to use a cell phone?”

  I give him a look. “I’ve known you this long and I still don’t think I know the first thing about dragons.”

  “You know everything you need to know.”

  “Do I?”

  “Try the wine, häxan. One of my favorites.” He hides the label by standing the table’s vase of flowers in front of the bottle.

  “See if you can guess it—go on, impress me. Let’s hear your tasting notes.”

  I give him a look, but let it go for now.

  I swirl the glass, hold it above the white tablecloth, noting the muted garnet color. Swirl again. Sniff. Lightly smoky, with a hint of rose and real tar.

  “Well-aged.”

  “Like a certain someone you know?”

  I roll my eyes, ignore him, continuing.

  “What I mean is, aged a good number of years in oak. Then in the bottle. At least twenty years old, probably more.”

  “Keep going.”

  I sip. The tannins dry my mouth, but not unpleasantly. The wine feels like fine suede on my palate.

  “Bursts of dark fruit—cherry and fresh plum. Hints of sweet baking spice and, hmm—raisin. Dried plum, too. Wonderfully balanced, with a bit of heat left on the finish. Really well-made. I can see why it’s a favorite.”

  “And your verdic
t?”

  “Tar and roses… that’s classic Nebbiolo. I think it’s a Barolo.”

  “Well done,” he says, replacing the vase to the table’s center and saluting me with his glass. “1982, to be precise.”

  “Mmm.” I take another sip, savoring it before swallowing. “You have excellent taste.”

  “Isn’t that what I’ve been trying to tell you?”

  “Are we talking wine, or me?”

  “Ja.”

  “See, this is why I, and I quote, ‘doubt you.’ You’re never serious. Or you’re always serious. I have no idea either way.”

  “I’m serious about you. I’d add you to my hoard this minute if you’d let me.”

  “I think you’re just teasing me, like you always do.”

  “I’ve never said that to anyone else, despite what you may think.”

  “But what does that mean? Add to your hoard? I’m not a priceless diamond.”

  “Oh, but you are. You just don’t see it.”

  “And you do?”

  “Dragons have a knack for finding precious things and never letting go.”

  “So I’m a thing?”

  “A thing of beauty.”

  “I mean it.”

  “I don’t know how else to say it, häxan. You don’t seem to believe me when I do. I’ll have to show you.”

  I open my mouth to protest.

  Then his lips are on mine, hot on mine, his tongue insistent, demanding entrance. His fingers curl around the nape of my neck, pulling me closer. Angling my head to kiss me more deeply.

  Part of me wants to put up a show, to push him away and demand some straight answers for once. Another part—stronger, more primal—unfurls for him like a rose for a honeybee.

  Inviting. Spreading.

  Blossoming. Yearning.

  The sweet cinnamon musk of him is everywhere, driving me out of my mind with need.

  “Are you convinced yet?” His voice is low and rough with desire.

  My blood is hot in my veins. My pussy is soaking through my panties. I think my hands are shaking.

  I feign indifference. It’s not easy.

  “I guess I am for now, but I’ll probably need more convincing later.”

  He sees right through me. Dragons are smug jerks.

  “My pleasure.”

  To my embarrassment, the truffles have arrived while we were otherwise occupied. My cheeks grow hot at the thought of our very public display of affection, but Ragnarr is unfazed.