Dragon Storm

by Katie MacAlister

  “Doesn’t it bother you that you’ve lost some indefinable part of what makes you, you?” I asked, climbing on behind him when he gestured toward the rear. Without even asking permission, my body hugged his, my thighs sliding with apparent familiarity around his, my arms around his torso before I knew what they were doing.

  “Being a spirit, you mean?” He gunned the engine, making the machine roar into life before it settled back to a low growl. “No. I am a wyvern. Wyverns do not disappear into nothing because they’ve run through their available energy. Allons-y!”

  “Oooh, are you a Doctor Who fan, too?” I yelled when the bike leaped forward. Constantine, being all immortal and such, didn’t bother with a helmet, which just meant I could surreptitiously bury my face in his hair.

  “A what fan?” he yelled back, not turning his head.

  I bit back the urge to start an Abbott and Costello “Who’s on First” bit, and simply yelled back that it didn’t matter, and then settled down to enjoy the sensation of my arms around him, and his hair caressing my cheeks with little silken whips.

  The combination of wind and his hair made my eyes stream, so I closed them and concentrated on trying to pinpoint just what his scent was. It reminded me of a walk through the woods, with pine needles crunching underfoot, and sunlight streaming through the branches to touch upon dark, rich earth. Pine, I decided, with a hint of moss, and just the faintest whiff of a rare, exotic spice as a top note.

  I sucked in vast quantities of air, enjoying the smell from his hair, and was indulging in a little bit of fantasy wherein neither one of us had to deal with a demon lord, when he pulled up at a red light and turned his head to speak.

  “Why are you snuffling in my ear? Are you trying to bite it?”

  “Me?” I recoiled for a moment, almost lost my balance, and grabbed his belly again. “No! I would never do such a thing.”

  “Then you must be excited about visiting the Curiosités Demonia shop. I do not blame you—the proprietor is most comprehensive in his range of merchandise.”

  “I really don’t care about—”

  A blast of a taxi horn interrupted my protestation, and given that Constantine had to swerve up onto the sidewalk (scattering the few people contained thereon) in order to avoid hitting the taxi, I decided that it would be better for him to focus on driving.

  Ten minutes later we pulled up in front of a small white stone annex to what looked like a miniature version of Sacre Coeur in Montmartre. “Mother of marmots, is that a church next to the sex shop?” I asked, nodding to the glorious white three-story building. It was all small domes and gorgeous stone columns, and detailed stonework that included fleur-de-lis, six-pointed stars, and various symbols of the moon.

  “That? No. This way.” He opened the door to the annex building (uninspiring décor-wise compared to its compatriot), and ushered me through a jet-black curtain.

  I’ve been in sex shops before, so I was expecting bright lights, tacky plastic packaging around items of all shapes, sizes, and colors, along with a rack of cheaply made costumes, and possibly even a back room where the whips and restraints were kept. What I found was something altogether different.

  “Wow.” My voice was small and hushed as I looked around the open floor. Long, low umber benches sat before items displayed in recessed wall cases, the kind with tasteful lighting from above and below. Next to each recess was a discreet label that, upon closer inspection, gave the item name and price. “It’s like a museum, or a high-class art gallery.”

  There were a few people in the shop, a couple of ladies who sat with their heads together in front of a red leather harness that was draped over what looked like a classical Greek marble statue. At the far end, a curved desk sat, with two tiny modernistic chairs, which were occupied by a male and female couple who reminded me of beatniks from the 1950s—they wore hipster sunglasses, were all in black, had long, straight hair, and the man sported a long amber cigarette holder that was (thankfully) empty of a cigarette.

  “The tortoise-shaped nipple teasers are over here,” Constantine said, pulling me over to one of the lit mini-alcoves.

  “Yes, indeed they are,” I agreed, trying not to raise my eyebrows at both the price (two hundred euros) and the subject matter (your basic nipple suction devices made out of tortoiseshell). “So, now that we’re here, I wonder if we could have a little chat.”

  “Would you like a set?” Constantine didn’t wait for an answer; he turned and lifted his hand in the air. As if by magic, a small, dark man with black hair that was slicked back on his head glided out from behind a section of the wall that must have led to another room. “Ah, Balzac. I wondered if you were about.”

  “Balzac? You’re kidding, right?” I asked softly, but had to school the disbelief off my face when the man stopped in front of Constantine. He made me a bow, then repeated it to Constantine, saying, “Monsieur Wyvern of Norka. The sight of you here, in my humble shop brings joy to my heart, and tears to my eyes. The Curiosités Demonia has missed your presence.”

  Constantine inclined his head graciously, and waved a hand toward me. “This is Bee Dakar. She is interested in your nipple teasers.”

  “No, really, I’m not—”

  “Ah, Madame has exquisite taste,” Balzac said, giving me an oily smile. He clapped his hands, and a tall, thin woman with a pixie cut and two eyebrow piercings sauntered over, her hands held together as if she was in prayer.

  “Master?” she inquired.

  Balzac waved to us. “Monsieur Dragon and his mate would like to try out the nipple teasers. Would you see to their comfort and pleasure?” He simpered for a moment, touching one long, pale finger to his mouth. “That is, within the reason. Any other services would have to go through Madame Claude, of course.”

  “Of course,” Constantine answered.

  “I don’t even—” I started to say, but Constantine, with a hand on my back, hustled me forward and into a small room that contained just one display alcove, and a mossy green fainting couch. There was nothing else in the room, not even a light fixture, the ambient light seeming to come from the ceiling tiles themselves.

  “Sir.” The woman placed the turtle-shaped nipple devices in the softly lit alcove, then inclined her head at Constantine. “I hope you and madame enjoy your exploration.”

  I counted to seven after the door closed behind her, just to make sure she wasn’t going to pop back in and present us with a restraint system, or paddle, or any of the other myriad sexual devices that I’m sure were common in places like this. When no one entered the door, I turned to face Constantine, who was tapping on his phone, evidently entering in a text message. “That was interesting. Not enough for me to even want to touch one of those things—” I nodded to the alcove. “But still, interesting. Educational, even. I had no idea that such things as artistic sex shops existed.”

  Constantine put away his phone with a distressed expression. “You don’t want to try the nipple teasers?”

  “No.” I crossed my arms protectively across my chest, and was about to go on when he continued.

  He picked up one of the devices and plunged the top button up and down quickly. “But they are shaped like tortoises.”

  “Regardless—”

  “The suction is most stimulating.”

  “I don’t like—”

  “They are the highest rated of all the nipple accoutrements. Balzac himself endorses them.”

  “I really couldn’t care less who endorses them!”

  He started toward me, one of the little turtles in his hand. “You should try it first before you decide.”

  “Stop!” I ordered, my hand up, and the meanest look I could manage on my face.

  He stopped.

  “Don’t you even dare think of coming closer to me with that thing. No, Constantine, I do not want my nipples suctioned. Not by a tortoise-shaped thingie, thank you very much.”

  “Is there something else you wish to try, then?” he asked, placin
g it back on the alcove. “I will call Balzac and ask for whatever fuels your fantasies.”

  “Okay, first, I don’t know who made you king of making sure my toy-related fantasies are fulfilled, and second, I don’t have any such fantasies. So just chill, and sit down. I want to talk to you.”

  Constantine looked horrified. “You don’t have toy fantasies? Did you suffer from some sort of sexual abuse?”

  “No, thank the gods.”

  “Then you must have had bad lovers who did not fully understand just how enjoyable it can be to add toys into sexual play,” he said with a dismissive gesture at who knows what. “It will be my pleasure to help you overcome such neglect.”

  I gawked at him, an outright gawk, but I was sadly aware that the reason behind such a reaction was the surge of joy that rippled through me. I got that under control and asked, “Are you saying you want to have sex?”

  He was silent a moment, his eyes narrowing in speculation. “If I said yes, would you consider that a sign that I was inappropriately interested in you, or would it be a welcome revelation?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “I would consider it flattering, but not a sign that you were making improper advances, no.”

  “Ah, good.” His expression cleared and he smiled, his eyes glowing with an inner heat that made me feel very warm. “Then the answer to your question is yes. It would be my utmost pleasure to introduce you to those objects which can emphasize the delights to be found in sexual congress.”

  “You must have been extremely dangerous before you were killed,” I said, shaking my head and unable to keep a little smile from my lips.

  He took a couple of steps forward, and I was intensely aware that he might be a physical plane–bound spirit, but the man moved like a jaguar stalking prey. Instantly, my breasts decided that they really wanted an introduction to his hands and mouth, while deeper parts of me suddenly woke up and took interest in the goings-on.

  “I am very dangerous,” he said, his voice pitched low, with a roughness that I swore slid along my skin like a caress. “In all ways. Shall we return to your hotel?”

  The scent of pine trees touched by the moonlight drifted around us. I breathed it in for a few seconds, so very tempted to just throw all caution to the wind and say yes. He moved even closer until his chest was a hairsbreadth from my breasts, the heat of him making my pulse kick up a few notches. He tipped his head down, his breath brushing my mouth, a strand of his hair moving like silk against my cheek. His eyes were pure molten gold, the little flecks of black and brown swimming in a shimmer that started a fire deep inside, and spread rapidly out to every extremity.

  “Bee?” he asked, his fire threatening to burst free and sweep us away.

  I tried to remember just why it was I had banned all romantic entanglement with dragons from my life, but failed. Constantine, I told myself, was different. He was a former dragon, a man who had witnessed death and triumphed over it. He was a caring man, one who rescued damsels in distress, and helpless sentient heads. He was sexy as sin, but didn’t seem to be aware of it. He was… perfect.

  One golden brown eyebrow rose. “Has the cat got your tongue? Or are you simply so overwhelmed by me that you cannot speak?”

  And that did the trick—it broke the spell that had just about claimed me. I put both hands on his chest and shoved him backward. “You are so not overwhelming, except where your ego is concerned. Oh. Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt your chest when I shoved you. How is it? Is the curse still hurty, or has it disappeared?”

  He snorted. “I am a wyvern. I am above mere pain. So you wish to spurn my offer?”

  “Yes,” I said firmly, ignoring that part of my brain that sent up a cry of dismay at the loss of carnal fun. “I am spurning your offer of sex. I do, however, want to talk to you, as I’ve said several times now. I think we have some things to discuss.”

  “Sexual things?” he asked, a hopeful look in his glittering eyes.

  “Curse things,” I corrected, and sat down on the green couch. “Most specifically, what I can do to get you to change your mind about helping with breaking the curse. I know you don’t want to have to hunt down Bael, and that’s actually taken care of. But I could use a hand getting an artifact from him, and you are the best choice of person to do so.”

  He looked around the room for a moment as if seeking insight, cocked his head for the count of six, and then finally gave it a little shake while saying, “No.”

  “Don’t you dare walk out on me again,” I warned, prepared to go all sorts of medieval on his (very attractive) butt if he even thought of stomping off for a third time.

  “Come,” he said simply.

  “I beg your pard… oh. Come with you, you mean. I thought you were making a risqué… never mind.” I took the hand he offered, and allowed him to escort me out of the sex shop.

  Ten

  There were a surprising number of people out on the street. I thought at first it was people heading home, but most of them were dressed up, as if they were going to a club. Constantine plowed through them at a pace easy for his long legs, but less so on my shorter ones.

  “Are we out for a job, or are you intent on exhausting me so you can ply me with nipple turtles?”

  Constantine, paused, his face expressing puzzlement. “I am not jogging.”

  “You’re doing a damned good impression of it, then,” I said a bit breathlessly, whapping him on the arm. “Okay, we’re out of the sex shop. What is it you have to tell me about the curse that you don’t want anyone to hear? And don’t get that obstinate look on your face, the one that says you don’t want to talk about it. You volunteered to help your people, and you can’t do it alone. Spill whatever it is you’re thinking. Oh, man, now I have a stitch in my side.” I doubled over, one hand on my side, the other on my thigh as I tried to ease the sharp pain digging into my ribs. “Can we go somewhere that we can sit down to talk about what’s going on?”

  “Always you want to talk,” he said with a noticeably martyred look. “I have never met a woman who wishes to discuss my thoughts so much.”

  “The only reason I’m pestering you about them is because you hardly ever tell me anything. If I didn’t ask you questions, I’d sit around wondering what was going on, and why you were being the way you were, and if there’s one thing I live by, it’s not sitting around wondering something when the answer is right out there.”

  “Dragons do not like to answer questions,” he said simply, just like that was that. “We ask, we do not tell.” And with that, the damned man turned on his heel and walked on.

  “I never thought I’d see the day when I saw a dragon who was afraid of anything, let alone a little conversation,” I said loudly as he walked away.

  He stopped, his shoulders twitching a couple of times before he poked his elbow out.

  I smiled to myself, and strolled up to him, sliding my arm through his.

  “I do this under protest,” he said, a thin little stream of smoke drifting out of one nostril. “And only because if I do not, you will continue to yell out on the street every thought you have.”

  “Not every thought. Just the ones concerning dragons.”

  “Have you never heard of circumspection?”

  I pinched his arm, ignoring the snickers of the passersby as they streamed past us and up the steps of the mini-church. “You drove me to extreme acts. Where are we going?”

  “To a place where we can talk without being overheard.”

  “We were in a private room,” I pointed out. “Although I admit a sex shop isn’t the most comfortable location for an in-depth discussion.”

  “Just because you could not see anyone there did not mean we were not being monitored. Here.” He stopped on the far side of the church, and opened an innocuous door that was partially hidden by a column. “It is not well lit. Be careful on the stairs.”

  “Is this part of the church?” I blinked a couple of times once I entered the building, squinting to make out th
e stairs in front of me that led upward. A mass of black to the right indicated stairs going downward into an abyss of nothingness. Cautiously, I climbed the stairs, aware of the faint sounds of music coming from above, and a distant hum of conversation. The air itself had a closed-in feel to it, as if the building didn’t have adequate circulation, with faint overtones of a spicy incense, chalk, and, oddly, disinfectant.

  “This is not a church,” Constantine corrected me, stomping up the stairs right behind me. “It is the Hôtel du Monde au Balcon.”

  I stopped at the landing and peered down the hallway. It contained a couple of wooden chairs and doors leading to a half dozen rooms, but nothing else. “This is the brothel you’re staying at?”

  “They have excellent room service,” Constantine said, moving past me to the far end of the hall, where he stopped and unlocked a door. “And I know the owner. She does not allow magic within the building. We will be able to speak in confidence.”

  I hesitated for a couple of seconds while I weighed the idea of being in close quarters alongside the far-too-tempting Constantine against the need to discuss the situation and engage his help. In the end, I decided that I had a better grip on my own desires than I had confidence in Aisling and her demon dog.

  The truth was, I needed Constantine. We need his help, one part of my mind corrected, while the other part giggled and thought lascivious things about him.

  “Bee!”

  I stopped just inside the door, looking around at the available tables for where Gary had been set, glancing down in amazement when a buzzing noise grew louder.

  “It feels like it’s been forever, and it’s only been a few hours, really, but they do say time flies, and I believe that’s so true, don’t you? Do you like my new digs? I think they’re just awesome.”

  “Hi, Gary,” I said, watching as he pulled up before my feet. “Your new… home… is indeed pretty unique. I can honestly say that I would never in a million years have thought of putting you in a gerbil bowl, and mounting it on a remote controlled truck.”