Honeyed Words (26 page)

Now, I didn’t flinch, nor did I lose control of my bladder or anything, but my heart about leapt out of my throat. Bub sat, hunched on the head of the dragon, eyeing me with those black, teardrop-shaped peepers. Tilting his head from one side to the other, he reminded me suddenly of Jean-Paul or Frederick and the way they watched their prey when in dragon form.

Da would name him demon, I was sure. Not convinced he wasn’t. This world of dragons and gods confused the hell out of me. No doubt the fine folks who wrote the bits of the Bible about demons and devils had seen creepy little dudes like Bub.

“Sorry I smashed your skull,” I said, feebly. “No hard feelings?”

He smiled, showing off very long, pointy teeth. “I’m sure I’ll forgive you at some juncture,” he said. Fine wisps of smoke escaped his mouth and nose. I guess he was excited to see me.

“You’ve been in Anezka’s family for a long time, huh?” Keep the critter distracted … always a good idea.

He thought for a moment, then dropped from the dragon’s head, landing on his hands and feet, like a cat. He reminded me of Gollum from the
Lord of the Rings,
only scaly and with better teeth.

“You seem to misunderstand the relationship,” he said, his voice more singsong than I thought could come from a face like that.

I took a step away from him, turning to keep him squarely in my front defensive zone. Just wished I had a weapon better than a cup of weak coffee. “Misunderstand how?”

He stroked the dragon affectionately, worshipfully.

I noticed then that he smelled of cloves, if you can believe it. Like those cigarettes the kids smoked in college, when they weren’t smoking dope.

“I serve the amulet. That has been my bond and my master for all the centuries since I was called from Múspell, the home of my hive mates.”

The runes on my forehead stung—somehow I knew those words, a tickle of understanding like the words had been spoken in the past. I just couldn’t place where, or by whom.
Múspell
meant fire, I thought. Something like that. I could see bits and pieces, like someone else’s memory, maybe. Why was that so familiar? It had something to do with the tree, that tree that Odin had been crucified on in my dream. Something there clicked.

“Múspell is one of the seven worlds, right? One of the worlds that can be reached from the World Tree?” I knew it was true the minute the words left my mouth.

He eyed me, stroked the wiry whiskers on his chin, and laughed. “You know more than you pretend,” he said gleefully.

World Tree was Yggdrasil, right? Nidhogg lived at the base of the World Tree in mythology—did that put it near here? Maybe she moved.

As I pondered, he picked his teeth with one razorlike talon.

I leaned against the hood of the truck all nonchalantly, wishing I’d thought to bring out one of those hammers. Would it be too conspicuous if I went back in and got one? Probably so.

Something in his attention shifted. He snapped his head around toward the house, toward Anezka. From the small window in the back, I could hear her vomiting. Nice.

“She is not well,” he said, a touch of sadness in his voice. “There is a sickness in her belly. One I cannot understand.”

“Cancer?” I asked, standing up straight, suddenly frightened for her.

“Not that form of malady,” he offered. “Something else; her humors are out of balance. It is the fault of that bastard Justin. He took from her, and she has been wounded ever since.”

“Heartbroke’s my guess,” I said. I also thought she could be pregnant. “When was the last time she’d been with a man?”

Bub growled low in his throat. “It has been five months, since the foul one was here last, tormenting her.”

Foul one? “Justin?” I asked.

He nodded once.

“Maybe she’s lonely. Needs companionship—a new lover, perhaps. Somehow she thinks it will make her feel whole again.” It felt right to me, although I wasn’t sure if I was projecting my own insecurities into the situation.

There was a small clap of sound, like a balloon popping. He vanished, only to appear again hunched on the shoulders of one of the warriors. “You are observant for one of your kind,” he said, not unpleased. “I find you interesting and,” he rubbed his hands together, “a little wicked.”

Wicked? Where was that coming from? “I’m just me,” I said with a shrug. “Don’t know about wicked.”

“She is drawn to you, drawn to the darkness that flows within you. That is her curse, to be pulled to it like a moth to the flame.”

He made my head hurt. Moth? “She seems capable to me,” I offered. “I don’t see her coming unglued or anything.”

The weariness in his body spoke of a different truth. “You do not hear her weeping, see her falling into despair,” he confided in me finally. “You did not have the joy of seeing her rages, glorying in the pain.”

Pain, rage … I was very familiar with those things, but glory? “What the hell are you talking about?”

“She is growing soft, weak,” he said, and then vanished with a
pop-pop.
I turned to find him atop the cab of the truck, his long neck craned down the window, his body lowered between his knees. “You are not weak. I see the fire in you, feel the violence just under the surface. Your anger is delicious.”

Fuck you very much. I stepped away from the truck and faced him square. “Pretty wacked, don’t ya think?” I asked. “Anger, darkness … sounds like you aren’t exactly on the side of the angels.”

“Thank you,” he said, bobbing his head. “Perhaps it is time…”

Pop
—once again he vanished.

I spun around, looking for him, but didn’t find him again. What the hell?

Pop
 … he reappeared back on top of the metal dragon’s head. “… for you to take a firmer hand with our mistress.”

With a final crack, he vanished. I imagined the sound he made when he moved was the sound of air collapsing into the spot he’d just vacated. Not like I had any evidence beyond my early exposure to Nightcrawler from the X-Men comics.

I waited a few minutes, but he did not reappear again. Finally, I went back into the shop, drank the last of my coffee, and considered the freak show my life had become. Later, I’d call over to Broken Switch Farm to confirm for tomorrow.

For the moment, I took down one of the three-pound hammers and sat on the edge of the table, toying with my cell phone, hammer in my lap. Couldn’t promise to get through the day without smashing Bub’s head in again. I didn’t trust him as far as I could spit.

Instead I texted something smutty to Katie. She’d be at school already, but didn’t start class until eight. I was really looking forward to seeing her later.

Thirty-six

Around eight thirty, I called Gunther. I really wanted to get his opinion on the Ducati. He didn’t open the record shop until noon on Wednesdays and lived fairly close to Black Briar, so Chumstick wasn’t all that far. I hoped.

“Hola, chica,” he said with his rich tenor voice. It was like sorghum molasses. He spoke Spanish, several languages in fact, but Gunther was so Nordic, it said Viking on his driver’s license.

“Hi, Gunther,” I said, feeling my heart race. I had been avoiding them—him and Stuart. Guilty conscience, I knew, but with the two of them hanging with Jimmy out at Black Briar, they suffered by his company. Yes, I needed to address all that, but until Deidre was better, Jimmy would never forgive me.

I sighed heavily. This was so damn hard.

“Any chance I could ask a favor?” I ventured.

He laughed, a lovely sound that reminded me of sunnier days. “Sarah, you know I’d walk through fire for you. You need something, you just ask.”

Tears pushed their way into my eyes, damn it. I hated that, but I’d missed him so much.

“Could you come out to Leavenworth? There’s this motorcycle I’m thinking of buying and I’d like you to look at it.”

“Interesting. I didn’t figure you for being awake this early, much less already over the mountains,” he said, the laughter still in his voice. “Buy me breakfast?”

“Deal!”

“Okay, I’ll meet you at the Waffle Pantry in ninety minutes. Will that work?”

I smiled, feeling better than I had all morning. “That’s excellent. I may have someone with me, but we’ll need to go out to Chumstick to see the bike.”

“Fair enough, see you in ninety. Oh, and I’ll drive the truck, just in case.”

He hung up, and I looked at my phone, amazed how that little effort had washed away a huge swath of angst. Maybe I should call Stuart next.

Seriously, but he was already at work. Couldn’t bother him there. He didn’t have his own place; he worked for the university. They frowned on too many personal calls. Besides, after what we’d been through in the spring, I think I wanted to chat him up face-to-face. Maybe I needed to ask him over to dinner. We could show off our scars and swap war stories. He’d been in the fight longer than Gunther, seen more of the death up close. Gunther had fallen early on—smashed hip. Stuart had walked the field, bringing in the wounded, marking the fallen.

And there I was getting all morose again. It would be good to see Gunther. He’d give me sound advice on the bike, and it wouldn’t hurt to get his opinion on Anezka. I didn’t have the experience to deal with someone like her, no matter what kind of inside knowledge she did or did not have about the world we lived in. I just couldn’t figure out how blasé she was about it all. And I wasn’t sure she and Gunther didn’t already know each other. The circle of those in the know seemed fairly tiny. But then, what the hell did I know?

Later today, Anezka and I would discuss kobolds, dragon fire, and lost loves. She needed a friend more than I thought possible. Spending all her time with that creepy little monster would bring anyone down. Not like me to come to anyone’s emotional rescue, but here was a place I could do some good.

I could hear her banging around in the house. She’d be out soon, and I’d see if she wanted to go with me into town. Might be good for her and Gunther to meet—she had said she didn’t know him, come to think of it.

Thirty-seven

Qindra woke with an urge to be on the road. She rose from her bed and cast the runes, contemplating the dream that had faded too quickly to capture. Something about blood and pain. Likely related to the package they’d received, the vial of mead presented by the Dragon Liberation Front. Puzzling name, for sure.

The runes were awkward this morning, speaking of dire need and shopping. Didn’t make a lot of sense, but some days, you just had to roll with it.

She dressed in a conservative yet comfortable outfit: slacks and a blouse. Once dressed, she stopped at the kitchen and greeted the staff with a warm smile and an approving nod. These were her people. Perhaps she should take one of them shopping with her. They rarely left the grounds.

But, alas, Nidhogg would forbid it, and it was not worth stirring her ire on a whim. Still, the company would have been welcome.

Qindra ate a piece of toast, and the cook handed her a very large coffee to take. She thanked the old woman, complimenting her work, and left the children to their oatmeal and juice.

Leavenworth, she thought. They’d be in the beginning stages of Oktoberfest. Maybe she would look for some crystal. The mistress would like that. It would be good to replace what had been shattered the last time Nidhogg had lost control.

She frowned. She couldn’t bring back the children who’d been killed, but the crystal would be a distraction. Besides, the drive would give her a chance to think. Perhaps it was time to scry for Sarah Beauhall. She’d been disappearing lately.

Thirty-eight

Anezka moaned the whole way into Leavenworth. She rode with her head against the window and rolled it down a couple of times as if she was gonna hurl. I wasn’t at all sure breakfast was the best thing for her, but she assured me she was starving.

“Just a little green around the gills, that’s all.”

She seemed more chipper. I think getting out of that house, off that property, was a good thing for her. The place had some bad energy.

Gunther was in the lot when we arrived. He leaned against his big Dodge Ram, dressed like a cross between Neo from
The Matrix
and Malcolm Reynolds from
Firefly.
The cane stood out from his trench coat and heavy motorcycle boots, which were the major accent pieces to his black, straight-legged jeans and white muscle shirt. He had a big chest, broad and well muscled. His hair flowed down to his shoulders in great blond waves.

The fact he was in his forties didn’t hurt him at all. I waved as we swung by, parking across the lot in the only open space, and Anezka practically unscrewed her neck craning around to look at him.

“Is that him?” she asked.

She pulled the visor down and began fussing with her hair, which was not helping in the least. If she wasn’t so damn desperate it would be comical.

“Yeah, that’s him,” I said, patting her on the knee. “Take a breath.”

He walked across the lot to meet us, the cane not slowing him down a bit. I climbed out of the car, shut the door with my hip, and waved at him. He grinned, strode toward me, and engulfed me in a huge bear hug.