Day of the Dragon

by Katie MacAlister

  My gaze swiveled from the man who stood on the prayer rug, his dark eyes glinting with something that I took to be pure evil, over to Bree. “You know…uh…know this person?”

  “Demon. I told you, she…sorry, he…used to hang around Henry’s court.”

  The man smirked. “Those were good days. Happy days.”

  “I can’t…” I shook my head. “I can’t believe this is happening. How…”

  The man…no, not man, demon…rolled his eyes and gave a big martyred sigh. “Great. Another witless person has summoned me. You’d think the Otherworld would educate its denizens better. You want me to hold your hand? Fine, although I’m only doing this because Oriens is having in a lecturer on diversity awareness issues, and attendance is mandatory for those in residence. What is it you desire of me, oh, master?”

  I just stared at him, my brain still struggling to wrap itself around the fact that everything I’d studied for the last twelve years, everything I’d translated, read, and summarized was true.

  Demons are real.

  “We want information on the Archer dragon,” Bree told the demon, giving me a nudge with her elbow.

  “You know the rules,” Naamah said, covering his mouth while he yawned.

  “You have to ask the questions,” Bree told me. “It’s a demon rule.”

  “Huh?” At last my brain chugged into action, decided that if this was the way things were going to be, then it would be better to go with the flow and stop balking and wasting time.

  Gran’s well-being was at risk, after all.

  “Right,” I said, anger firing up at the memory of Edgar’s threats. “Demon Naamah, I command thee to…er…” I turned to Bree and whispered, “What can a demon do that I can’t do?”

  “Find the Archer dragon,” she said.

  “His last name is Andras, not Dragon.” I looked speculatively at the demon. “I command thee by my voice, my hand, my blood to locate the address and/or phone number of Archer Andras. According to the info I did manage to find, he’s in a town on the coast, although that might be outdated information. Can you do that?”

  The demon rolled his eyes again, then gestured toward the circle. “Release me, and it shall be as you demand, oh, mighty mortal master.”

  “Oh, sure.” I quickly released the quarters, then rubbed out a bit of the salt circle, breaking it so the demon could leave it. “Do you need anything to do the job?”

  “Well, since you ask”—the demon bent and picked up the prayer rug, folding it and tucking it under his arm before strolling out of the office—“this will do nicely.”

  “Um?” I asked, looking at Bree.

  “Go after it,” she said, making shooing motions.

  “Is he leaving? Hey, Naamah? Where are you going?”

  I ran after him, catching up just as he was about to open the front door. “You can’t just leave!”

  “No? Watch me.”

  “You’re supposed to do as I bid you! All the books say that! I give you a command, and you have to do it,” I argued, following him onto the sidewalk.

  “Says who? I’d say farewell, but you know how it is.” He gave a little bob of his head and tapped his chest. “Demon. We don’t do nice.”

  “You can’t just leave!” I squawked again, unsure of what I was to do in that situation. Should I run after him? Command him to stop? Send him back to hell, where he belonged?

  “Demons, man,” Bree said in a “what are you going to do about it?” tone.

  “Can he do that?” I tried to remember what the grimoires said about the abilities of demons in the control of the summoner. “Shouldn’t he have to do everything I say?”

  “If you had added the line about that to the summoning, yeah,” Bree said, doing a little spin and throwing her hands up to the night sky. “You left it out. I wondered about it at the time, but since you didn’t include it, he’s not bound to you.”

  “Well, hell!” I said.

  “It’s called Abaddon, actually.”

  I stared at her.

  She grinned. “It’s what mortals think of as hell, but I don’t suppose you care an awful lot about that now.”

  “No, I don’t. That man…that demon has got Edgar’s rug.” I closed my eyes in mingled horror and sorrow. “And I just let him walk off with it.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said, punching me lightly on the arm. “We aren’t helpless.”

  “We aren’t? I sure feel that way.” A headache started to bloom in the back of my head. I rubbed it, wondering if I could disappear with Gran sufficiently that Edgar would never find us. I glanced at my watch. “Crapballs! I have to get going if I’m going to make that club by nine. Dammit, this would happen to me right now.”

  “There are a couple of dragon hunters who live on this coast. We’ll call them after your cipher appointment.”

  “You have dragons on the mind, kid,” I told her, my stomach sick at the thought of what I’d done. The information in the grimoires was real, demons were real, and I’d just let one steal Edgar’s rug. He was so going to kill me when he found out.

  “Dragon hunters take care of demons,” she said with a shrug. “You need one to get your rug back. Where is your cipher dude meeting you?”

  I looked at a note I’d made on my phone. “We’re meeting in about twenty minutes at some place called T and G.”

  Bree clapped her hands and did a little jig. “That’s great!”

  “You know it?”

  “Of course I do.” She pulled out her phone and punched in a text message. “It’s the spot to see and be seen.”

  “It is?” I asked, my stomach now turning over with the knowledge that I’d just gone from the frying pan to the demonic fire. Not only had I summoned a demon—which was loose doing who knew what—but I had to show up at what sounded like a fancy club without having time to change into anything a little nicer. I glanced down at my black-and-white polka-dot retro sundress, trying to smooth wrinkles out of the bodice. “That’s just what I need. I wish the client had told me it was a chic place. Oh, well, I’m just meeting him there. It’s not like I have to work in that sort of a chaotic environment.”

  “You’ll fit in perfectly there,” Bree said, sliding her phone into her bag. “It’s the West Coast version of a famous club in Paris. This one is called Theurgy and Goety.”

  “White and black magic?” I asked absently, my mind whirling around as to what I could possibly do to salvage the horrible turn my life had taken. Run away with Gran? I didn’t have the funds for that. Plead for mercy from Edgar? I gave a shudder. He didn’t have any. Get the police involved? How on earth would I explain a demon stole my evil prayer rug?

  “There’s bound to be someone there who will be able to tackle Naamah once you talk to your cipher dude, and we get your thingie back from the Archer dragon.”

  “Manuscript leaf,” I said sadly. “At least Edgar can’t kill me twice for losing two things. Oh, Lordy. What am I going to do?”

  Bree, who was still twirling, stopped and stuck her fingers in her mouth and blew an earsplitting whistle. A car that was crawling past a cross street came to a screeching halt and turned down our road, pulling to a stop in front of us. “This is Ramon’s brother Sanmal. San, this is Thaisa. We need to go to T and G pronto. Thaisa has an appointment at nine.”

  “Dude,” the young man with a wispy brown mustache and goatee greeted me.

  “Hi, San. Thanks so much for the ride, not that I knew Bree had you lined up. Um…I don’t know if we can make it there in time.” I followed Bree into the back seat of the car, not seeing any other option open to me.

  “Duuude,” he drawled, laughter in his voice. His foot hit the gas, and I was flung backward on the seat, barely making it into my seat belt before he hit the road for the coast, lights flashing past us at an alarming rate.

  I closed my eyes and prayed to whatever deity was obliged to listen that we arrived in one piece, although I didn’t have much hope left. The events of th
e last two days had pretty much left that commodity in incredibly rare supply.

  Chapter Five

  ARCHER REALIZED HIS BROTHER WAS IN THE CLUB THE second he stepped across the threshold.

  For one, all conversation, laughter, and even the low drone of music that always provided an undertone to Theurgy & Goety stopped at his entrance.

  But it was the sense of black power sending inky tendrils into his soul that warned him that Hunter was near. He strolled in, noting the number of dragons present, and quickly donned an expression of indifference. One of the men at the end of the bar turned as he approached, and Archer beheld his own face. Hunter had the same high cheekbones that came from their Slavic father, the same faint cleft in a gently blunted chin, the same black hair with its slight widow’s peak, although Hunter wore his hair down to his shoulders, where Archer preferred a shorter cut.

  Only Hunter’s eyes were different, a pale green that looked like frosted moss. “Archer,” Hunter said, dipping his head in greeting.

  It took Archer a moment to control the dragon fire that flamed to life at the sight of his brother. “Hunter,” he finally managed to get out, a ring of fire bursting into being at Hunter’s feet.

  His brother raised an eyebrow at the sight of it before stamping it out.

  Archer thought of all the things he wanted to say—the impotent sorrow at the deaths of his tribe members, of the despair that filled him whenever he thought of his future, of the burning pain that seared through to his heart—but mindful of the dragon members present, he simply turned on his heel and walked to the far end of the club, taking a booth that was hastily vacated by a group of trolls in surfer wear.

  Miles followed, muttering under his breath as he joined Archer. “What is he doing here? I thought he was in Hungary. Wasn’t he in Hungary? Why is he back now?”

  “The manuscript,” Archer said, very aware of everyone watching even the slightest interaction between his brother and himself. “If you heard about it, he must have as well.”

  “Do you think he knows you have it? He’ll try to take it if he finds out,” Miles said darkly.

  “If he doesn’t know now, he soon will.” Archer felt itchy, like ants were crawling on his skin. He turned his head to find his brother was watching him, lifting a glass in a silent toast. Archer turned back to Miles without acknowledging the gesture. “Where’s the man you said would be here? The translator?”

  Miles half stood and glanced around at the people mingling in the club. Most of them were seated around small tables, but there was a dance floor in the back where denizens of the Otherworld clumped together, their bodies moving in time to the thump of the music.

  Small groups of people chatted, gossiped, flirted, made deals, and exchanged information all while holding drinks of various varieties and potencies, the air thick not with smoke, but with the earthy incense used to cleanse the air of less savory scents that sometimes lingered upon beings of dark powers.

  “I don’t see him,” Miles said after scanning the occupants. “He may be late. He said he had to get some books from the university since he wasn’t sure what he’d need.”

  “Are you sure he’s worth the money he’s charging?”

  Miles shrugged. “The university said that most of their people are away on a medieval literature conference, but this man was available. Other than him, there are only one or two independent scholars who might have the chops to tackle something as rare as our manuscript. I figured you’d want the best.”

  Archer said nothing. He didn’t relish spending precious money on having the leaf translated, but since he’d paid a small fortune to buy the damned thing, he figured he might as well know what it said. If for no other reason than to shut Miles up on the subject of the Raisa Medallion.

  A waitress brought them a dusty bottle and two glasses, her eyes wide when she glanced at Hunter before saying to Archer, “The Vandringsmand sends his compliments and would like to remind you that the club has been duly warded and guarded with banes against violence and magic, but not dragon fire, and thus requests that any differences you have with other dragonkin be settled outside the domain of the T and G.”

  “You may tell Altus—” The words stopped dead on his lips when two women walked into the club, a tall girl who looked vaguely familiar and the delicious flower who had so tempted him the night before.

  “Yes?” the waitress asked.

  “Tell him if there is any dragon fire to be found tonight, it will not originate with the storm dragons. Miles, do you see who just came in?”

  The waitress hurried off as Miles twisted in his seat, his eyebrows going up. “Interesting, but not up to our standards, do you think?”

  “Your standards and mine are quite a bit different in that regard, as you well know,” he said mildly. “That’s the woman from the bookshop last night.”

  Miles looked again. “Ah. The odd-looking one.”

  “She’s not odd-looking,” Archer said, feeling a little stab of annoyance.

  “To each his own, although you have to admit she has nothing on the fair Catriona you enjoyed last night. At least, she certainly seemed pleased when she left this morning.”

  Archer ignored his cousin’s pointed comment. He’d fully intended on spending the night allowing the busty Catriona to do everything she’d whispered that she wanted to do to him, but after fetching the manuscript, he’d spent the night alone.

  Unbidden, his eyes returned to the flower. She moved to the other side of the club, disappearing into the mass of people. “She e-mailed me three times today.”

  Miles’s smile became wolfish. “I’m surprised she can read.”

  “Not Catriona—the woman from last night.”

  “What did she want? Ah. A good vintage. 1902.” Miles opened the bottle of dragon’s blood, the heavily spiced red wine that dragonkin favored. He poured them each a glass, then tossed back his before consulting his phone.

  “To talk to me about the manuscript, evidently.” He frowned as the patrons of T&G milled around, blocking her from his view. He wondered what she was doing at such a place. Was she here on a lark? To gawk at the members of the Otherworld who gathered each night? To meet a man?

  She hadn’t struck him as being anything but deliciously mortal, as quirky of mind as she was of appearance, but that appealed to him. If he’d known she was not as fragile as he first assumed, he might have indulged in the kiss that she so clearly wanted. He certainly had been on the verge of giving in to desire, but only the realization that she was mortal kept him from claiming her mouth as his body had demanded.

  Just thinking about her mouth, the smooth silkiness of her neck, and the scent of a field of flowers that seemed to cling to her had him hardening. He gritted his teeth and told his erection that now was neither the time nor the place for such things. Before he realized what he was doing, he was striding down the length of the bar, aware of his brother off to the right but his eyes focused ahead, on the bodies as they parted before him, until he stood at a table where his flower and her companion sat, looking with wide eyes as the waitress explained the rules of T&G.

  “—and members are not allowed to summon demonic beings, bane hounds, or old gods. All imp remains are to be placed in the appropriate bucket located in the bathrooms, and the Vandringsmand, Altus Deye, asks that all patrons keep any minions, Abaddon-based or otherwise, under full control at all times. Blessed be, and welcome to Theurgy and Goety,” the waitress said in a singsong voice.

  “Er… Vandringsmand?” the flower asked, looking confused.

  “It means wanderer in Danish,” Archer said, pulling out a chair and inclining his head toward it. “Do you mind?”

  Her eyes widened when she saw him, a variety of emotions flitting across her face, starting with surprise, followed quickly by pleasure, a flush making her cheeks a shade of pink that delighted him and ending in a wariness that he didn’t care for nearly as much. “Certainly,” she said, glancing at the woman next to her. “E
r…I don’t think we’ve done the introduction thing. My name is Thaisa, and this is Bree.”

  “Hi,” the younger woman said, grinning at him. “You’re just the person we’re looking for.”

  “Then I am delighted that I chose to come here tonight.” His gaze shifted to the flower, her oddly striped eyelashes fluttering over eyes that he thought at first were filled with guile, but now he knew to be as fathomless as the ocean itself. She had some genetic oddity that made her irises multicolored, the lower third a rich, deep brown with amber lights streaking inward from the edge, while the rest of the iris was gray with glittering black flecks, like wet hematite. It was an unusual look, those piebald eyes, but he liked it. It expressed her character well, he decided, remembering her outrage when she thought he’d insulted her.

  “Yeah,” Thaisa said slowly, her gaze still wary. She gave her head a little shake as if she was dismissing a thought, and squared her shoulders. He had the sense that she was girding herself for battle. “Regardless, I’m happy to see you again. I’ve e-mailed you numerous times today—”

  “Three,” he corrected, then checked his phone. “No, just the three.”

  Her lips thinned. He liked her mouth. It was normally full and sensual, the color of a barely ripened strawberry, and he could easily imagine the sweetness that lurked within.

  “None of which you bothered to answer,” she pointed out.

  He acknowledged that. “I’ve been busy. I planned to respond later, when I had time.”

  “Indeed.” For some reason, she seemed to be annoyed at him. He much preferred her soft and warm, clad in a satiny bit of nothing as she’d worn the night before. The memory of her breasts, plump, soft, and so enticing as they heaved on his chest was a memory that had risen in his mind more than once in the last twenty-four hours. “I can see you’re very much in demand, although I don’t see your eye candy tonight.” She made a show of glancing around the club before looking back at him.

  He enjoyed the way she tried to intimidate him with a pointed frown. “Eye candy? You mean Catriona?”