A Dash of Dragon

by Heidi Lang

  “By the gods, what’s wrong with him?” a nearby elf whispered.

  Suddenly Mr. Boss seemed to notice they were not alone. As he took in the room full of elves, he froze in place, one foot lifted off the ground, the fingers of his other hand clenched around the handle of his infamous cane.

  Ryon slipped past Mr. Boss and knelt next to Fahr. Close together like that, Lailu couldn’t help but notice the similarities between the two, especially the eyes. They both had the same laughing eyes—although no one’s eyes seemed to be laughing now.

  “Victor!” Elister boomed, and everyone turned toward him. He dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, then smiled. “I’ve just heard an interesting rumor about you.”

  “A-a rumor?” Mr. Boss slowly put his other foot on the ground.

  “Lailu?” Elister gave her a pointed look, and now everyone was staring at her.

  Lailu swallowed. “Mr. Boss knows where the missing elves are,” she whispered.

  Fahr went very still. “Are you sure?”

  Mr. Boss shook his head violently. “No, no. You checked, remember? You searched my quarters and there was nothing, I have nothing . . .”

  “He’s been drinking their blood,” Lailu said.

  Fahr put a hand to his mouth, his eyes wide with shock.

  An elf near Lailu stood abruptly. “Where’s Livea?” he demanded.

  All around him other furious elven voices chimed in at once, asking about their missing companions.

  “I don’t have them. I don’t know anything about them,” Mr. Boss insisted. As Lailu watched him edge back toward the door, her fear dripped away. How had she ever let this man bully her? He was pathetic.

  “He’s keeping them in the Industrial District. I don’t know if they’re still alive, but he has them stored away in a strange building near the corner of Steam Avenue and Iron Way. There’s a button you have to push. I can show you.” Lailu relished the look on Mr. Boss’s face as she gave away his secrets, relished the feeling of having beaten him. She’d won, and Mr. Boss knew it.

  He went the shade of sour milk and stumbled backward, then raced for the door.

  Before he’d gone more than a few steps, a tall, broad-shouldered man appeared, blocking the doorway, his boots clicking against the wooden floor as he stepped inside.

  Mr. Boss screeched to a halt.

  The man straightened his puffy white chef’s hat, adjusted his crisp white apron, and smiled. “Hello, Victor. Going somewhere?”

  Lailu’s jaw dropped. It was Master Slipshod, but Master Slipshod as she’d never seen him before: clean-shaven, his clothing freshly washed and ironed, his posture upright and confident. This, she knew, was a glimpse of the man he’d been, back when he was cooking dragon cuisine for the king himself.

  “S-Sullivan?” Mr. Boss gaped. “I thought you left!”

  “Left? How could I leave my apprentice?” Master Slipshod dipped his head in Lailu’s direction. “You didn’t think I’d left, did you?”

  “Um, actually—” Lailu began, a rush of anger filling her chest and blazing across her face.

  “No, no, I was investigating,” Slipshod spoke over her. “Checking in with my contacts. Learning some very terrible things about you, Victor.”

  “Things? What things?” Mr. Boss asked.

  “Yes, chef. What things?” Fahr demanded, moving in closer, a wall of elves at his back and Eirad and Ryon at his sides. Lailu wanted to shrink away, they looked so terrifying, but Master Slipshod seemed cooler than old Mr. Frosty.

  “I found Brennon’s family. You remember Brennon, don’t you? My old gambling buddy, took one bluff too many.” Master Slipshod’s smile dropped, his chubby face hardening. “You made a mistake, Victor, when you stopped paying your henchmen to guard them. It was easy to set them free, and they told me what you’d been keeping hidden away.” He paused, looking around the room dramatically. “I know where the missing elves are being held.”

  Fahr sighed. “So do we. Lailu just told us.”

  Slipshod’s triumphant air collapsed like bread left too long in the oven. “Oh, you already know?” Then he recovered. “I mean, I’m not surprised. Best apprentice in the land, she is.” He grinned at Lailu. She did not return it.

  “I-it wasn’t me!” Mr. Boss spluttered as the elves advanced on him. The Butcher just stood there, apparently not sure whether he should try to attack the elves or just stay out of the way. “It was, it was, it was . . .” Mr. Boss looked quite deranged, staring wildly around the room. Then he stopped, his gaze landing on Starling.

  “You,” he whispered, pointing one shaking finger at the scientist.

  Starling looked around as if she couldn’t imagine Mr. Boss might be pointing at her. “Me?” She sounded calm—amused, even.

  “She’s the one! The one who’s been trapping those elves,” Mr. Boss shrieked. “It’s her fault. She made me tell her where they would be, how to find them. She took advantage of me! A poor old man’s dreams, turned them to ashes, lied to me, poisoned me. It was all a game, an experiment to her, but I have to keep drinking that damn elixir, or I die. I die!”

  Some of the elves glanced angrily at Starling, but her face was a mask of shocked innocence. Even Lailu, who knew better, was half-convinced the scientist was innocent, but she could tell by some of the elves’ faces that not all of them were as convinced.

  “Clearly, the man has gone delusional,” Elister spoke up, his voice full of scorn. He shifted closer to Starling, a subtle reminder that she was there with him. If she weren’t, she might not be leaving Mystic Cooking all in one piece. “Isn’t elven blood poisonous to humans?”

  “Yes,” Fahr said coldly. “When taken in large doses, that is.” He turned back to Mr. Boss, his eyes glittering. “It looks like it’s far too late for you.”

  “Lies. Lies! I should be younger. Stronger. I’ll live forever!” Mr. Boss stood straight up and in one quick, surprising motion, slammed his silver-topped cane into Fahr’s temple. The elf made a small sound and crumpled to the floor. Half a second of stunned silence passed, and then the rest of the elves screamed and yelled, scrambling over one another and knocking over chairs in their haste to get to Mr. Boss. He ducked past Master Slipshod, darted through the open door, and fled, a stream of elves on his heels.

  Lailu heard dishes shattering and she winced, glancing up in time to see Starling slip out the door, the scientist’s hand sliding under her vest and pulling out a compact metal object, pipe-shaped with a handle.

  Fahr groaned, and Ryon went to him, his face twisted with concern. “Fahr, are you—”

  “I’m fine. Help me up,” Fahr said.

  Ryon shot a look back at Lailu, then put his hands under Fahr’s arms and hauled the elf to his feet. Together they staggered out the door after Starling and the rest of the elves, leaving the restaurant in silence.

  Elister picked up his fork and resumed eating, his face impassive like this was a normal day, while Master Slipshod stayed by the door, quietly watching the retreating crowd.

  “Little chef,” a familiar rough voice snarled, and Lailu’s heart sank as she realized the Butcher had also chosen to remain inside. “I owe you.”

  “You owe me, all right,” she said, trying to be brave. After all, she’d already beaten him once, and with only a haircomb at that. Plus, Lord Elister was there. Surely the Butcher wouldn’t be foolish enough to try something in front of the king’s executioner. “You owe me an apology.”

  Havoc looked taken aback. “No.” He slowly pulled a long serrated blade out of the sheath at his hip. Maybe he was foolish enough after all. Lailu gulped. “I owe you pain.” The blade was of decent quality, Lailu could tell at a glance, but the edge wasn’t nearly sharp enough for her kind of cooking. Still, it would do the job, if the Butcher got close enough to use it. Lailu had no intention of letting him near her ever again. She reached for the knife at her hip, then froze at the sound of a loud pop coming from outside, much like the sound of the fireworks Hannah had
used.

  And then she turned back, too late, as the Butcher lunged at her.

  Whoosh!

  Something sailed past Lailu’s head, so close it sliced a few hairs off one of her pigtails, and then a second later the Butcher slammed into the far wall, a meat cleaver pinning the collar of his shirt to the plaster as easily as Lailu had once pinned onions in that very spot.

  “You leave my apprentice alone,” Master Slipshod growled, a second meat cleaver in his hand.

  The Butcher’s face was full of surprise. “Slipshod? You wouldn’t dare do anything to me, you spineless, worthless, used-up old has-been—”

  Another whoosh, and Master Slipshod’s second cleaver quivered in the wall a mere hairbreadth from the Butcher’s head. “Just watch me.” Master Slipshod stalked forward, grabbing both of his meat cleavers and pulling them slowly from the wall. “You have five seconds to leave.”

  Havoc hesitated, but the look in Slipshod’s eyes must have convinced him the chef was deadly serious. With a growl he stalked past him and toward the door. Lailu relaxed like jelly freed from its mold.

  “Lailu, I found the—” Greg stopped in the doorway of the kitchen, his eyes widening as he clutched two bottles of wine. “Watch out!”

  Lailu turned, but it was like she was swimming through stew as the Butcher lunged at her, serrated knife held high.

  “Die!” he snarled.

  She fell backward, but too slowly, her death clearly written in Havoc’s cold eyes.

  34

  LAILU’S TURN

  A blur passed between them, and then a thick, warm liquid spattered Lailu’s face. Havoc’s eyes went from vengeful to shocked to completely empty before he fell over, dead. Behind him, Elister calmly wiped down his crescent blades before sheathing them.

  He turned to his bodyguards. “Some help you were.”

  Mr. Mustache and his twin began muttering apologies.

  “Save it,” Elister said. “Instead, make yourselves useful and dispose of that before it stains the floor.” He indicated the Butcher’s bleeding body.

  “Are you all right?” Greg whispered, crouching down next to Lailu, but she hardly noticed him. Everything seemed so cold and distant. Elister had moved fast, too fast. No human should be able to move that quickly. Yet if he had gone any slower, it would have been her body lying there, staining the wood of the dining room floor.

  Master Slipshod stepped in front of Lailu, blocking her view of the two musclemen carrying the Butcher’s body out of Mystic Cooking. She took his proffered hand and let him pull her to her feet, the world swirling around her.

  “Well, that was unfortunate,” Elister said. “Technically I’m not supposed to kill anyone if I’m not in my official capacity. It causes all sorts of messy paperwork.” He sighed. “But some things can’t be helped. And I must say, Sullivan, I was most impressed with your bladework. I’ll have to tell the king he was wrong about you. You have not lost your touch from the days when you served his father.”

  Master Slipshod colored slightly and bowed his head.

  “And your apprentice.” Elister smiled, his expression almost fatherly as he looked down at Lailu. “My dear young chef, it has been my pleasure. Excellent meal. I shall have to call on you again, and soon. Say, do you have any plans yet for the Week of Masks?”

  “Uh . . .” Lailu couldn’t wrap her mind around anything other than the day’s events, let alone a holiday that was months away.

  “I don’t need an answer right now, as I’m sure I’ll see you again before then,” Elister said, not altogether reassuringly. Inclining his head toward her, he put a handful of coins on the table. “For the meals,” he explained. Then he turned and walked out the front door.

  “By all the spices,” Greg breathed. “I can’t believe that just happened.”

  “You almost missed it. What were you doing in the cellar for so long?” Lailu asked.

  “I was looking for LaSilvian wine.”

  “We don’t carry that stuff,” Master Slipshod said scornfully, and both Lailu and Greg looked at him in surprise. “We prefer other brands.”

  Lailu felt her anger toward her mentor softening. “That’s right.”

  “What are you doing here?” Greg demanded. “You can’t honestly think Lailu would still be your apprentice after what you did.”

  “Of course she’s still my apprentice. Best apprentice in the land.” Master Slipshod dropped one hand on Lailu’s shoulder, then sniffed the air. “Although I daresay the pupil has outdone her master. That is some fine cuisine I’m smelling. Mountain dragon, spiced with . . . is that a hint of lebinola? Genius. That wasn’t in my book.”

  “No, I added that in myself.” Lailu couldn’t help herself; her chest filled with pride as she grinned up at her mentor, who maybe wasn’t so bad after all.

  “I did, for the briefest of moments, consider the idea of leaving town,” Master Slipshod admitted. “But when I delivered that note to your little redheaded friend, she told me where to find Brennon’s family.”

  “Wren told you where they were?”

  “She said she had come across their location ‘by accident.’ ”

  “Who’s Wren?” Greg asked.

  “Starling Volan’s daughter,” Lailu explained, then added, “She helped me prepare a meal once, back when I catered for Lord Elister.” Greg’s shocked expression almost made that whole experience worth it.

  “Anyway,” Slipshod said, “you know I would never have truly abandoned you, right, Pigtails?”

  “Wait, you just admitted—” Greg began, but Lailu was already nodding.

  Greg looked at the two of them and sighed. “Sometimes you can be too forgiving,” he told Lailu. “At least toward everyone but me.”

  “Oh, I’ve forgiven you many times,” Lailu said sweetly.

  “You have?”

  “Yes, but usually you go and muck it up again right afterward.”

  “Yeah, that’s probably true.” Greg grinned. Lailu decided she didn’t mind his goofy smile so much anymore, or the way his eyes crinkled at the edges. In fact, if she was perfectly honest, it was kind of a nice smile.

  “Well, Pigtails, you ready?” Master Slipshod barked.

  Lailu jumped, her face strangely warm, like she’d been caught eating ingredients before they were cooked. “For what?”

  “For the real work to begin.” He rolled up his sleeves, his expression grim. “We have some serious cleaning to do. I’ll start in the kitchen.” And he vanished behind the curtain before Lailu could argue.

  She looked at the overturned tables and chairs, the broken plates, and the smears of food and blood on the floor.

  “I guess we’d better get started.” Greg rolled up his own sleeves, looking as tired as Lailu felt.

  “We?” she asked.

  “What kind of assistant would I be if I didn’t stick around to help with the cleanup?”

  “A lousy assistant, that’s what.”

  “So does that mean I’m a good assistant?”

  Lailu tilted her head to the side, considering. “I suppose you’re passable.”

  “Oh, come on! I’m the best assistant you ever had, and you know it.”

  “Wren was better,” she said, but she couldn’t stop a smile from spreading across her face, and with Greg’s help, the cleaning didn’t take so long after all.

  An hour later Greg had gone back to his restaurant, while Lailu and Slipshod were putting the final touches on Mystic Cooking’s cleanup.

  The door opened silently. With the bell lying in a broken heap on the floor, the only warning they had was the sound of footsteps as Fahr and Eirad marched inside the dining room.

  “Is everything all right?” Lailu stood up. “Did you get him?”

  “Yes and no.” Fahr looked a little dazed, and his face was pale, but otherwise he seemed fine. “We lost him at first—he was darting erratically through side streets and doubling back on his path—and when we finally tracked him down . . .”
>
  “Someone else killed him.” Eirad flicked back his blond braids in annoyance.

  Lailu gasped. “Mr. Boss is dead?” She exchanged looks with Master Slipshod, who stood frozen near the back of the dining room.

  “That upsets you?” Eirad narrowed his eyes.

  Lailu shrugged, not really sure how she felt. Mr. Boss was evil, and he’d caused her all sorts of trouble. It had even been her idea to set the elves on him to save herself in the first place. But when she pictured the pathetic creature he had become, all she really felt was pity. “Do you know why?” she asked.

  “Why what?” Eirad asked.

  “Why he was drinking your blood? I mean, if he knew it would make him like . . . well, like what he became.”

  “Because the fool man was mortal.” Eirad shook his head. “He had no idea how lucky he was. To be able to grow old . . .”

  “Eirad, enough,” Fahr said sharply.

  Eirad pressed his lips together, a small crease forming between his eyes. Lailu had never noticed before how much sadness lay buried beneath his perfect features. He glanced at her, and she looked quickly away.

  “How did he die?” Master Slipshod asked, his voice strangled. “Who killed him?”

  “We don’t know,” Fahr said bitterly. “There was this flash of light and then a sound, like a loud pop. The next thing we knew, Victor was falling backward, a hole in his chest.”

  “A hole?” Lailu asked. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” Fahr said impatiently, “that someone ahead of us managed to use a projectile to put something through Victor’s heart.”

  “Someone ahead of you?” Slipshod asked. “And you don’t know who?”

  Eirad scowled. “We have our suspicions—”

  “We don’t know who. Not yet.” Fahr gave his companion a sharp look.

  “Well, whoever it was knew him well enough to know where he would turn, to know where to wait,” Eirad said.

  “Right now the more important mystery is, how did Victor trap our people?” Fahr continued darkly. “He would not have been strong enough to do that. Not without significant help.”