Never Deal with Dragons (4 page)

The silver dragon thanked me briefly, and I responded in kind. I watched as he helped his wife waddle a few steps away from the corral. The two dragons took to the sky in a massive gust of air, their thigh muscles rippling under leathery skin as they pushed up from the ground and beat their powerful wings. I shielded my eyes to ward off the worst of the dust as they gained altitude. I never got tired of watching dragons fly. With their weight, it should have been impossible. It was more beautiful because of that fact.

Just like me and Trian. I’d never been able to resist the impossible.

Tucking that wistful thought deep into the “don’t ever open this” mental box, I glanced back at Richard.

But Mr. Green was gone, his shiny leather loafers whisking him away as silently as he’d first appeared.

Chapter Two

“What do you think about this one?” I held the slinky red dress along my body and squinted into the mirror.

Carol stepped back and ran a practiced eye over the outfit. “It’s nice. But do you want to show up to a dragon party wearing the color of blood?”

“Dragon blood is purple.”

“But the blood of their
prey
is not!”

I waved away her concern. “Unless it’s accidental, they don’t make a habit of eating people.” Still looking into the mirror, I sucked in my stomach and wished for the hundredth time I was three inches taller. At five feet even, I was forced to wear dangerously high heels just to keep my face out of human elbow range. With dragons, the extra inches might keep me from being walked on accidentally.

She snorted and snatched the dress. “I don’t care whether they’re dangerous or not. Don’t wear red.” I felt a hanger slap my hand as she switched the merchandise. “Look, here’s a pretty blue one. Blue is calming. And it goes with the gold sandals I tried earlier.” Carol might not be excited about the event, but she’d had no trouble helping me with the shopping.

Richard Green hadn’t been joking about staying in touch. Only a day after his and Trian’s visit, an enormous envelope was delivered to my desk, containing a very nicely worded invitation to a dinner party hosted by Lord Relobu. It was addressed to Emory, so I opened it and scanned the document for details requiring his attention.

I kept the social invitations near the top of Emory’s inbox—at his request. One of the perks of working at DRACIM was the frequent opportunities to rub elbows with Tulsa’s rich and powerful. With northern cities such as New York and Chicago cold almost year-round due to war-induced climate change, Tulsa’s population had grown exponentially. And with the growth came the migration of those in power. Emory made sure he took advantage of any networking opportunity available.

I wondered what type of party this was going to be. I’d never been to a dragon-hosted dinner. Dragon table manners were...coarse according to even the most lax human standards. I studied the wording on the parchment for clues as to how many people were invited. Emory’s was addressed to “Mr. Glask and guest,” but I couldn’t tell whether the event was an intimate gathering or full-fledged shindig.

The only thing I knew for sure? If there were dragons present, Emory would want me to serve as his translator. And if Trian was going to be there, I didn’t want to go.

A thought occurred to me. Emory couldn’t make me go if he didn’t know about the invitation. All I had to do was hide it. I paused for a moment to wrestle with my conscience, rereading the invitation as if it held the answers to my moral dilemma. Unfortunately, that second read had me doomed. Emory called my name and the doorknob to my office rattled as he turned it with pudgy fingers. My treasonous thoughts caused me to panic. I tried stuffing the envelope into the drawer of my desk, but my love of chocolate proved to be my undoing and the papers wouldn’t fit around the wads of empty candy wrappers.

When he saw the envelope coupled with the spray of wrapper confetti and what had to be guilt written all over my face, Emory demanded to see what I’d been trying to hide. The smart option would have been to simply hand him the envelope and resign myself to a night of humiliation and torture. Instead I’d refused, telling him the note was personal, but he’d only smiled, and threatened to report me for violating my confidentiality clause for the second time.

Face burning with a mixture of anger and embarrassment—even though the invitation had nothing to do with confidential material, Emory and I both knew what another accusation added to my record would mean to my career—I handed over the paper.

After Emory read the invitation, his face lit with pleasure. He informed me in no uncertain terms that I would be accompanying him and his wife to the event to act as translator. Before I even had a chance to argue that the invitation specified only two persons, Emory ordered me to “find something appropriate to wear to this fiasco.”

Then he did something I’d never expected. He handed me the company card. “Make sure it’s dragon proof,” he muttered before darting back in to his office, likely to call his wife.

With this invitation, he wouldn’t owe her a night out on the town for a year. Provided she wasn’t eaten or otherwise dismembered, she’d be the envy of all of her friends for months. Lord Relobu was notorious for preferring his privacy, and the human press had been pushing to take a look around the property for years now. A dinner party with
the
dragon lord of North America was a coup, even by Mrs. Glask’s lofty standards.

I’m not a stupid person. I accepted the credit card, no questions asked, and called Carol. I figured even if they did turn me away at the door, I’d at least get some new clothes for my trouble.

Five minutes later, we’d headed to Utica Square. Saks Fifth Avenue hadn’t survived the war, but Miss Jackson’s, a local Tulsa favorite, had a pretty good selection of cocktail and dinner dresses, and Carol and I had plans to see them all. And because it was Carol, we’d already tried on at least half.

Miss Jackson’s was also one of the few places that carried materials treated in anticorrosion chemicals, guaranteed to stand up under all sorts of dragonish conditions. Unlike my old skirt, which Isiwyth had managed to ruin for me after only one wear.

My presence as a third wheel at this party might be a bummer, but one of the perks of being the head secretary was that I approved all department expense reports. Including Emory’s. Which meant I decided what amount was “reasonable” for the project. And he would pay dearly for ruining my Saturday night.

I scanned the dress Carol had pushed in my direction. “I don’t like the blue one. Too many ruffles. They’re itchy. But this one,” I held up a sleeveless number in a deep forest green, “is absolutely gorgeous.”

“I agree. It matches your eyes perfectly. And the gold shoes would work with it too.”

I frowned. “I’m beginning to think you’d say yes to anything that matches the shoes.” Carol wore the same size as me, and I wouldn’t put it past her to have me dressed as a clown, just so she could wear the shoes with an outfit they actually matched. Carol was a mercenary when it came to clothes.

“You bet your ass I would. But in this case, it’s true. Go try it on.”

Five minutes later I was the proud owner of a fancy green corrosion-repellent dress, courtesy of DRACIM. And if anyone asked about the new pair of jeans Carol had in her hands, I’d tell them it was payment for consulting services.

Now for the hard part—the beauty parlor.

Unlike Carol, with her always curly, never frizzy, beautiful runway hair, my cut was closer to the “I slept under a bridge last night” mousy brown variety. I take full responsibility; I keep it short to cut down on drying time in the morning, and I’ve never found a cut that makes my face look like an adult’s. I’ll never be one of those super-thin “I can eat what I want” types, but with small concessions to a healthy lifestyle, I keep off the pounds. Except for the face. My cheeks insist on puffing out in an imitation of a chubby toddler, except without the cuteness factor. A curse of genes, I suppose.

But Carol swears by her stylist, Akisha. She insists the girl is magic, and now that I’m armed with DRACIM’s credit card, I’m willing to pay top dollar for the privilege of becoming her subject for the day.

Carol leaned across the counter to hug an exotic woman sporting spiked blond hair and an apron. “Akisha, here’s the girl I called you about. Thanks so much for fitting us in today. Myrna needs to become sophisticated overnight.” Carol unpacked the dress and held it up. “And here’s what she’ll be in.”

I sat in the chair, watching Akisha as she walked a circle around me, her calculating gaze absorbing every hair on my head. Her serious expression was a little disconcerting, and I’d started to fidget by the time she spoke.

“I can fix this. I have an idea—it’ll be fabulous.” She laid a hand on my shoulder. “And honey, whoever you’ve had doing your hair, you should fire her—immediately. It’s atrocious.”

I nodded and tried not to wince. My “stylist” happened to be me. Obviously I wasn’t cut out for a career in the beauty industry. Pun intended.

She got to work smearing and foiling. I closed my eyes and tried to look on the bright side. If it weren’t for Trian, Saturday would be unbelievable. It was my own personal Cinderella story. From muck boots and vomit to high heels and champagne. And maybe I’d even get to meet some Very Important Persons.

Sure, I’d been to a few dragon-hosted functions—all as Emory’s translator—but nothing so grand as a dinner party at a dragon lord’s home. This level of party was something beyond even Emory’s scope.

The only party Lord Relobu had hosted in previous years had been when Hollywood had reopened. Movie stars, on sabbatical during the worst of the war, had bounced back with all the style, glitter and aplomb expected of the beautiful elite.

I imagined an enormous ballroom with lights strung from the ceiling—the expensive electric kind, not the kerosene DRACIM usually made do with when large lighting effects were needed. Tables loaded with food, laughter mixed with conversation, and dragons flying overhead. The women would be dressed and perfumed in their finery, and the men relaxed and urbane in their tailored tuxedos. A man with dark hair and intense golden eyes would smile, take my hand, and...

“Myrna?”

I opened my eyes and met Akisha’s gaze in the mirror. “Can you take a seat over there and give this color some time to set? I’ve got a cut appointment in a couple of minutes. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in a wax while you’re here? To be honest your eyebrows look like a couple of hairy caterpillars.”

I looked in the mirror. She was right. Under the mountain of metal antennas sprouting in every direction from my scalp, I had two very fuzzy eyebrows.

I cleared my throat. “Sure, that’d be great, Akisha—thanks.” I glanced at Carol. She didn’t look happy.

“What?”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what again?”

“Daydreaming about that no-good Trian. Don’t come crying to me when he screws you over
again.
”

“What?” I sputtered. “I’m not daydreaming. He’s a client. Well, he’s not actually a client, but his client is my client and...” I scowled at my best friend and wondered how she’d learned to read me so well.

“I brought you here so you’d look great to make him sorry, not so you could fall in bed with him again the first time he smiles in your direction.”

“Good grief, Carol. Thanks a lot for your vote of support.”

“Myrna, he left you without a word, and I spent the next four months picking up used tissues from all over the apartment. When you finally stopped crying, you started acting like your job was the only thing worth doing. That particular affliction never passed, but at least you take some time to have fun once in a while. I don’t want to see you as the burned-out workaholic again.”

“He didn’t leave without a word, exactly,” I muttered. Actually, he’d left me a note, but the two words—“I’m sorry”—made me so freaking mad and hurt that I’d tossed it into the fireplace and never mentioned it to Carol. I’d forced myself to pretend I didn’t really care about the reasons behind his actions, but seeing his warm golden eyes again had stirred up a lot of uncomfortable feelings.

Her guess about my mindset was a little too close for comfort, so I pulled out a classic negotiation technique. Redirection. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine. Besides, I think I’m more interested in sandy locks these days.” I feigned interest in the magazine on my lap and slid my gaze to Carol. I’d filled her in on the oh-so-suave Richard Green, and she’d had little hearts flying around her head ever since.

“Shut up, Myrna. At least I’ve fallen in lust with an upstanding citizen.” Her eyes went dreamy. “He invented the dragonian language, Myrna! That’s just—”

“Really nerdy.” I rolled my eyes. “I’ll make you a deal. If I don’t get eaten at this party,” I laughed at Carol’s worried face, “I’ll be sure and invite Richard over to the apartment for drinks or something and formally introduce you.”

“In that case,” She leaned down and gave me a quick hug, “I really hope you don’t get eaten.”

* * *

On Saturday, the limo pulled into my driveway at exactly five o’clock. Well, it tried. My complex’s parking lot was proportionate to the size of the apartments—way too tiny to maneuver. I watched for a second as the massive vehicle made several attempts to navigate the sharp turn in the drive, wincing when the passenger side view mirror got up close and personal with the handle of the garbage chute.

I left the window to take one last peek at my reflection. The green dress really was beautiful. I couldn’t decide whether it was because the color and fit accentuated my body in all the right places, or simply because the bill had been footed by DRACIM. I suspected both points held some weight. I’d come close to hoping Trian did make an appearance, just so I could shove my gorgeousness in his face.

I was a little iffy on the shoes, no matter Carol’s opinion. When I made it outside, I noticed the driver had given up and settled for parking just outside the gate. I teetered toward him, almost breaking my neck twice before he was close enough to escort me to the curb. He kept up a steady patter about the unusually warm weather while his gloved hands provided a brace at my elbow and lower back as we walked toward the vehicle. These shoes were dangerous! I could only pray Lord Relobu’s street had fewer potholes than mine.

The driver opened the door with a distinct flourish. I stifled a giggle and did my best to pretend I was familiar with the procedure. I slid across the leather upholstered seat. The interior was warm and intimate, complete with a flat-panel television and champagne on ice.

I was surprised to see I was alone; Emory lived in the wealthier suburbs of Tulsa, farther from Lord Relobu’s country estate. Emory had insisted on calling Mr. Green’s office to make the arrangements. I’d assumed he and his wife would have been picked up first. I settled in to the ride, content to enjoy the surroundings before I was expected to make conversation with Amy. Emory’s wife had never really liked me.