A Hint of Hydra

by Heidi Lang

  “Is that so? Then why did he send you a love letter, hmm?” Hannah’s dark eyes twinkled.

  “He did not!” Lailu snatched the paper, her face now so hot she was pretty sure she could cook over it. She opened the letter and read quickly.

  Lailu—

  Remember that time I helped you take down a dragon? And then helped you cook it? And even helped you serve it up to almost the entire gang of elves? Oh yeah, and stuck around to clean up afterward? Because I sure do!

  I also remember a little, tiny promise you made. I think the words “Lailu owes” and “favor” were used together.

  Guess what? I’m calling it in. Sunrise hunt on the Third Day of Masks. I’ll pick you up.

  —Greg

  P.S. Don’t make any plans for the street festival, either—I’m going to need a cooking assistant.

  “Oh . . . no . . .” Lailu groaned and crumpled the paper.

  “So I take it, not a love note?” Hannah asked innocently.

  “Like you didn’t read it.”

  Hannah grinned. “What do you think you’ll be hunting?”

  Lailu shrugged. “It just better not be fyrian chickens. Favor or not, I’m not going after those beasts again.” Still, she really did owe him—both a hunt and a cooking session, since he’d done both of those things for her.

  Greg had been her rival all through the Chef Academy and was still her rival in the restaurant business. But he had also become . . . sort of . . . almost . . . her friend. Definitely not an admirer, secret or otherwise, but their relationship had certainly become more complicated after the events several months ago, when he’d helped Lailu save herself and Hannah from a gruesome fate involving a vicious gang of elves.

  She shivered, a mixture of nerves and excitement running through her as she tried to guess what kind of beast they’d be after. It had to be something challenging, or why else would Greg be calling her in as backup?

  Knock-knock.

  Lailu frowned at the back door. Almost no one came through that way, except the elves, but her next payment to them wasn’t due for another week.

  She opened the door a crack, just wide enough to see a boy standing out there in dark clothing he’d done his best to make casual, the neck of his shirt loose and his vest undone beneath his thick wool coat.

  “Ryon?” Her heart leaped. He hadn’t been by Mystic Cooking since the night they helped rescue the kidnapped elves.

  “The one and only.”

  “Where the spatula did you go? It’s been months!” She would never admit it, but she was relieved to see him. More than relieved. Happy, even.

  “I’ve been making myself scarce. Can I come in?”

  “If you must.”

  “What a delightful invitation. I have never felt more welcomed.” He made a show of stepping through her door, stopping when he caught sight of Hannah. “Resident thief Hannah,” he said, inclining his head.

  “Former loan shark lackey Ryon,” Hannah retorted, rising from her chair.

  Ryon’s eyes widened, and he threw back his head and laughed. “Good to see your wits are as quick as your fingers. But I really prefer the term henchman.”

  “So I’ve heard. And I prefer the term . . .” Hannah hesitated.

  “Hmm, I take back the quick wits comment.”

  “Hey!” Lailu said. “Be nice.”

  “Oh, it’s okay, Lailu.” Hannah looked Ryon up and down. “I might not know what term I’d prefer, but I’ll take thief over henchman or lackey any day.” Her smile was as sharp as steak knives as she added, “At least I’ve never been someone else’s lapdog.”

  “I suppose I deserve that,” Ryon said.

  “If you’re done insulting my friend, want to tell us why you’re here?” Lailu said.

  “Maybe I just wanted to visit my favorite chef.”

  “You’ve been gone months. Months, without a single word. And you expect me to believe you’re just now dropping in for a visit?” She crossed her arms. “I don’t buy it. What are you up to?”

  “I’m wounded. I really did miss you.” He smiled.

  Lailu found herself smiling too.

  “And . . . I might need a tiny favor,” he added, pinching his thumb and forefinger together.

  Lailu’s smile fell faster than a one-winged griffin. “Absolutely not.”

  “I’ll tell you where I’ve been these past few months.”

  Lailu debated, but in the end her curiosity got the better of her. “How about you tell me where you’ve been, and what you need, and then I’ll consider it?” she said carefully.

  Ryon laughed. “You’re learning. I’m so proud. Okay, first I had some things I had to take care of after Mr. Boss’s sudden death, and it was important to keep a low profile. And then I’ve been living with the elves the past few weeks.”

  Hannah gasped, then narrowed her eyes, giving Ryon the same kind of scrutiny she usually reserved for Slipshod.

  “Why?” Lailu asked.

  “I thought I should keep an eye on them, see how they were handling . . . everything,” Ryon said. By “everything,” Lailu knew he meant the discovery that their people were being kidnapped and drained of blood. There had been no casualties, but Lailu knew the elves did not tolerate insult or injury from anyone.

  “Do they . . . do they know who was behind the kidnappings?” Lailu asked warily.

  “You mean, do they know it was Starling?” Ryon snorted. “Obviously. They’re not stupid.”

  “Then why haven’t they done anything to the scientists?” Hannah spoke up. “I mean, they were ready to cut off my limbs over a hair comb.”

  “They don’t have any proof yet, and Fahr is trying to go through official channels. He’s worked hard to preserve peace with Elister. I don’t think he’s willing to throw that all away just yet.”

  Lailu thought of Fahr, the beautiful black-haired leader of the gang of elves. She’d only met him a few times and didn’t know anything about him. But Eirad, his icy-eyed second . . . he didn’t seem like the patient type. “What does Eirad think of this delay?” she asked.

  Ryon grinned. “You’re so clever. That’s exactly the favor I was going to ask you about.”

  “I’m . . . what? Really?” Lailu blinked.

  “Oh yes. Clever and very perceptive.”

  “Don’t try to compliment her into helping you. That’s so sneaky.” Hannah frowned.

  “It is, isn’t it?” Ryon’s grin widened.

  “Sneaky and manipulative,” Hannah added.

  “Both wonderful attributes I happen to be blessed with.” He winked.

  Hannah’s frown deepened. “I see what you mean about the winking, Lailu. It is annoying. And you,” she pointed at Ryon, practically jabbing him in the chest. “You know Lailu doesn’t have any defenses against that kind of thing.”

  “I do so,” Lailu protested.

  “No, honey, you really don’t.”

  “Let’s stay on topic,” Ryon said quickly. “What’s important is Eirad. I know he’s loyal to Fahr, but I don’t trust him, and I want you to help me keep an eye on him. I think he’s up to something.”

  “What kind of something?” Lailu asked.

  Ryon looked at her, his gray eyes serious. “Revenge.”

  Crack!

  Lailu spun around. One of her favorite pots had split, pieces of griffin and hot oil tumbling out to sizzle on the stove. “Oh, no no no,” Lailu moaned, rummaging around for an oven mitt and trying to rescue her doomed meal. “Hannah, pass me a clean pot. Ryon, grab me some towels. Hurry! This is a disaster!”

  “It’s not that bad,” Ryon began.

  “You don’t understand! This . . . this . . .” Lailu waved a hand in distress at her broken pot.

  “It’s a terrible sign,” Hannah said quietly. “When something breaks the day before the Week of Masks, it means your life is about to be broken too.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You just had the heat up too high,” Ryon said.

  “This
is a cast-iron pot,” Lailu said. “It shouldn’t break like that. This was no accident.” She bit her lip. “I never replaced Chushi’s shrine.” Her shrine to the God of Cookery had been smashed to pieces on her opening day by Mr. Boss after she refused to give him and his cronies free food. Of course, she and Slipshod had owed him a bunch of money. . . .

  Maybe now her patron god was angry with her? Whatever the cause, Lailu’s stomach filled with a sick, squirmy feeling, as if her intestines had turned into snakes and were devouring her from the inside out. Nothing good would come of this; she was sure of it.

  “Cheer up, Lailu. I need to go now, but I’ll see you at the feast tomorrow,” Ryon said.

  “You’re going to the party?” Lailu asked.

  “Naturally. I need somewhere to practice my dance steps.”

  “Ooh.” Hannah clapped her hands. “Can you get Lailu to dance too?”

  Ryon winked at her and then put a hand on Lailu’s shoulder. “Think about my words, okay?” Then he slipped outside, closing the door softly behind him.

  “I’m not dancing,” Lailu said into the silence, but her heart wasn’t in it. She went back to cleaning up the mess on her stove and salvaging the rest of her feast, her thoughts on Eirad. Her pot had cracked at talk of his revenge. Maybe it wasn’t a bad sign at all, but a warning.

  3

  RIVALS AT THE DANCE

  Lailu!” Wren waved from across the crowded ballroom, her bright red hair standing out against the purple of her gown. Even with the silver cat mask over her eyes, there was no mistaking Starling Volan’s daughter.

  Lailu waved back. It felt good to see a familiar face in the sea of people around her. She had been feeling lost amid all the bright colors and extravagant masks, even with Slipshod beside her. True, everyone had been eating their feast with enthusiasm, but she still didn’t feel like she belonged among these people. She could hardly wait to escape Elister’s fancy ballroom and fancy guests and get back to Mystic Cooking.

  Wren slipped under elbows and around skirts until she reached Lailu. “I heard you tried Carbon’s newest invention,” she said breathlessly. “How was it? Was it amazing?”

  Lailu grimaced. “It was . . . something, all right.”

  “Fool things broke on us,” Slipshod said. “The lever stuck, right in the middle of a fight. I think Lailu and I will stick to more conventional chef’s tools from here on out.”

  Lailu breathed a sigh of relief, then felt guilty at Wren’s crestfallen expression. “Er, no offense, Wren,” she added.

  Wren shrugged. “Wasn’t my invention. Mama will not be pleased, though. She hates mistakes.”

  “Oh. Well, she doesn’t have to know,” Lailu began.

  “No, I’ll have to tell her. It’s sort of my job. Someone has to keep those scientists in line.”

  “Is that what your mom has you doing these days, then?”

  “Oh, that and other things.” Wren leaned in closer. “I’ve started working on my own inventions,” she confided.

  “Really? I thought you wanted to be an actress.”

  Wren tossed her head. “Kids’ stuff. I’ve given it up. Besides, inventing things is a lot more fun.”

  “That’s great, Wren.” Lailu hoped Wren was happy with this choice, and that it wasn’t something she was doing just to please her mom.

  “Unfortunately, my inventions do have a tendency to kind of burst into flames. But I’m working on it,” Wren added hastily. “I think I’ve found a way for Mama to keep an eye on—”

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” Elister’s voice boomed from every direction, and all other noise in the room cut off, as if Elister himself had sliced the sounds with his infamous crescent-shaped knives.

  “I’ll see you around, Lailu,” Wren whispered before scurrying off.

  Lord Elister strode out into the middle of the ballroom, draped in a suit of the deepest crimson and wearing a black velvet version of the old executioner-style masks. Clearly he had taken the original purpose of the Week of Masks to heart—a week to ward off evil spirits. As someone who had earned the nickname “Elister the Bloody,” Lailu figured he’d want to take this week seriously. There were probably a number of angry ghosts trailing him.

  For a moment Lailu felt his icy green eyes settle on her before sweeping the rest of the crowd. She tried to shrink back behind Slipshod. Elister had saved her life a few months ago, and he seemed to respect her cooking, but she knew he’d never forget how she’d tried to spy on him. And she would never forget how easily he’d killed two men in front of her.

  Lailu’s breath caught as a tiny woman in a gown the color of pure gold moved to stand beside Elister, her snow-blond hair piled in coils and held up by her gleaming crown. Although Queen Alina rarely made public appearances, she was instantly recognizable. Only people from her home country of Mystalon had hair so blond-white or skin so pale.

  After the old king died, Queen Alina had inherited the throne until her son was old enough to rule. But Lord Elister seemed to wield as much power as she did. Rumor had it they’d formed an alliance back when the old king first began to grow ill. Elister ruthlessly killed all rivals to the throne so Queen Alina’s young son would be the only option, and in exchange, she had given him power equal to her own.

  Next to Elister, the queen looked almost like a child as she raised a hand and beamed at the ballroom full of people.

  “I thank you all for joining me on this, the first day of the Week of Masks,” Elister said. “Later tonight you will all be graced with an unveiling of Starling Volan’s newest invention, but before that . . . dancing!” On cue, the musicians in the corner struck up a tune. The first day of the Week of Masks was all about chasing away fear and dancing with your demons, and the dance floor quickly filled with people ready to do both.

  “All right, Pigtails, time for you to get out there.”

  Lailu froze. “M-me? Dance? Out there?” She gazed out at the beautiful women in low-cut gowns of all colors and men in top hats and brightly decorated coats and cravats, their masks smiling and snarling at the world. Lailu looked down at her own outfit, a gold-and-black silk shirt belted over formfitting black pants—the finest things she’d ever owned, courtesy of Hannah. Still, she would stick out horribly in this swirling soup of colors and finery. She could not go out there. What was Slipshod even thinking? Stalling for time, she tried the first excuse that came to mind. “I don’t have a mask.”

  “Don’t you?” Slipshod opened a sack and pulled out a pair of glittery golden masks. He passed her one. It was beautifully made, with long, sweeping griffin feathers that would frame the wearer’s face and little glass beads lining the eyeholes. Lailu recognized Hannah’s work immediately.

  “But . . . but I don’t belong out there.” She couldn’t explain how she felt as out of place here as an appetizer in the dessert course.

  Slipshod puffed out his chest. “Of course you belong. Lord Elister himself invited us.”

  “Yes, but just to cook.”

  “It’s never just to cook. Remember, I used to do this sort of thing all the time, back—well, back in the day,” he mumbled.

  Slipshod never talked about his glory days, but Lailu knew he used to cook for the old king himself. He’d been the greatest chef in all of Savoria, coming up with new and unique recipes and literally writing the book on dragon cuisine. She still wasn’t sure what happened; the few times she’d gotten up the courage to ask, Slipshod had changed the subject and then been moody and silent for days afterward.

  “Look, after the feast is when the cooks get to mingle. You know, brush elbows with the upper crust.” Slipshod ran a hand through his strangely glossy hair, then put on his own griffin mask. “Well, go on,” he said, giving her a gentle push in the direction of the dance floor.

  Lailu stumbled a few steps forward, then halted. People danced and laughed all around her, the music swirling until her head swam with it and she thought she might be sick. She spun around, trying to find an exit, but
she was surrounded by thrashing, twining limbs. There was no escape.

  “Where’s your mask?” a boy asked.

  Lailu turned. “Greg?” she asked. His curly hair had been tamed and stuffed under a shiny black top hat, but she still recognized her one-time rival turned sort-of friend, even under the fiery phoenix half-mask: Gregorian LaSilvian. Her heart beat faster. Which was ridiculous.

  He tapped his mask, and Lailu hurriedly pulled her griffin mask down over her face.

  “Definitely an improvement,” Greg said.

  “And there’s my favorite chef.” A slender boy in a fox mask strode between a pair of exuberant dancers and bowed to Lailu, his dark hair pulled back into a low ponytail that brushed the shoulders of his sleek green shirt. As he straightened, he winked.

  “Um, excuse me, we were talk—” Greg began.

  “You don’t mind if I borrow her, do you?” Ryon cut in.

  “Ryon? What are you do—oof! Hey!” Before she could do more than utter these words, Ryon had a hold of her hand and was dragging her farther onto the dance floor.

  “I made a solemn promise to your friend that I would get you to dance.” Ryon’s other hand rested lightly on Lailu’s hip, and she squirmed.

  “You didn’t promise her anything. You just winked.”

  “Ah, but I take my winking very seriously.” He whirled her around in a circle. “Besides, if you must know, I ran into her again earlier this morning.”

  “You did?” Lailu wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

  “Oh yes, and we had a very illuminating conversation.”

  Lailu felt even more unsure about that. “About what?” she asked nervously.

  “Oh, family, friends, your excellent dancing abilities.”

  “But I can’t dance!”

  “Nonsense—you’re dancing right now.” He spun her around like a top and then dipped her backward and up again.

  As much as she hated to admit it, it was fun. He twirled her around again, her feet flying like she was sprinting after a beast.

  “And look! You’re smiling now too!” he said.

  “I’m imagining I’m out hunting.”

  “Whatever works.” He spun her so fast, the world became a blur.