The Dragon King and I (13 page)

Silly boy.

Conric was saying something, but my brain didn’t think it was important enough to compute into human language. Instead I let myself drift, and all too soon the warmth of Sam’s arms was replaced by the cool comfort of my own bed. I was still coherent enough to note the infamous jar clutched in Sam’s hand. The one he hadn’t been holding me up with. He held it so hard that the talons protecting the crystal stopper were digging bloody furrows into his skin.

The jar made me think of why we’d needed it in the first place and my eyes went to where the worst of his injuries had been. But to my surprised pleasure, the skin looked untouched. I don’t know what had happened in there, but whatever it was had achieved our original purpose.

“I’m not tired you know.” I said, snuggling beneath my blanket anyway despite my words. I waited to see if he would get all macho, heap-big, caveman on me, but he simply gave me a weak smile.

“I know. But you are in shock. Try to get some rest if you can and I’ll bring you something to eat in a bit.”

That sounded like an excellent plan but, “Are you trying to get rid of me? Because it sounds like you’re trying to get rid of me.”

The smile that bloomed this time was bright, honest, and very Sam-ish. “How’d you guess?” he sobered again almost instantly. “I need to have a talk with our Piper and I’d rather you stayed out of it.”

I would have made some quip about the big strong men not discussing things in front of women folk, but didn’t think it was like that. It seemed more like a personal matter than something that Sam thought was too important for my delicate sensibilities.

Plus, I simply needed a break, and couldn’t seem to care one way or the other what the two men wished to discuss. Lax of me, I know, but two near death experiences in less than seven hours will do that to you. So I simply sighed and waved him on his way with a dismissive flick of my hand. I saw him execute a smart bow in response from the corner of my eye. “Don’t forget to bring food.” I muttered as he was leaving, and was rewarded with a soft chuckle in response before the door shut.

I lay there for a count of three before my eyes widened in horror and my face flushed a deep, painful, red.

“And clothes!” I screamed after him, “For the love of god, please bring clothes.” I was unable to fathom how I’d failed to notice that he’d been naked. For one sweet, blissful, minute I’d been in the presence of an NC-17 rating (which, as most porn watchers will tell you, is the rating reserved for the good stuff), and I’d missed it. Rachel would be ashamed of me. I tsked in self-disgust and slapped my forehead with the palm of my hand.

“Should’ve had a V8.”

* * * *

I lay staring at the ceiling for a while after Sam came back with a sandwich and some juice. The sandwich didn’t have any sort of condiments on it. In fact it was just two slabs of bologna cradling a single loaf of bread. I had looked at the plate in his hand for a long, silent, moment, before finally taking it with a smile. He’d obviously tried. Wasn’t his fault he didn’t get it. The way he made sandwiches was a clear indication of his priorities however.

Meat first.

A cannibal after my own heart.

Anyway, I’d eaten the thing and it had eased my hunger enough to where I was actively trying to convince myself to go to sleep. I’d asked Sam before he left the final time if we’d be going to the market the following morning and he’d assured me that we were.

By this time tomorrow, I’d be able to add a genie’s tongue to the hidden stash of supernatural body parts I’d need to cure myself. If anything, the speed with which things were moving should have set my mind at ease. And it did to a point. What was bothering me wasn’t the progress of the Quest.

No.

My worry, strangely enough, was for my mother and it was thoughts of her that kept me tossing and turning. I don’t know what it was, but there was just something nagging at me. Little snippets of conversation here and there that my mind was trying desperately to connect. I don’t know what I was trying to figure out or why it was so important, but I was left with the distinct feeling that I was missing something.

Finally I gave in, and called her.

I didn’t worry about waking her up in the middle of the night. I’d never actually seen my mother sleep. As far as I knew she simply shut herself in her room once night fell and lowered herself back into the pit from whence she came.

Not a flattering description, but accurate for those who knew her.

As I’d guessed, she wasn’t asleep. The phone had only rung twice before she picked up.

“Darling, who’s Seraphim?”

My mother was not a big fan of ‘hellos’.

I gave a long, slow, blink of disbelief. When I tried to answer I had to clear my throat a time or two before my voice would work.

“I’m not sure. Why do you ask?”

She grew silent. Then, “No reason. It was just a name I heard in passing and I was wondering if you knew anything about it.”

“Can’t say that I do.” My voice was cheery enough but on the inside I quailed. The thought of Seraphim and my mother meeting in any way, shape, or form was enough to make my blood run cold.

“Where did you—”

“When do you plan on getting married?” Her voice sliced cleanly through my barely formed follow-up question and I sighed.

“Are we really doing this right now?”

“Well why not? I don’t have any new gossip to share, and you wouldn’t care if I did anyway. Your lack of morbid curiosity has always been a glaring defect in your personality.”

“Thanks, Ma.”

“Don’t be crass Alexandria. As your mother, it’s my right to worry about you. Not to be unkind dear, but you aren’t getting any younger. All of your friends from school are either married or pregnant or both.”

“I don’t have any friends from school.” except Rachel but my mother’s dislike of her walked a fine line between antipathy and outright hatred. So I just didn’t bring her up.

She snorted, “Why would you? You were always moping about and getting into trouble. It was a miracle you graduated in the first place.” I didn’t have to see her to know she was shaking her head in matronly disappointment. “I thought things would improve with age, and yet they haven’t.”

“Can I just say how I absolutely a-dore the way you’re treating me like a budding uni-bomber? Really appreciate it.”

“You’ve stopped going to classes.” She snapped, and my own ire began to rise.

“Yes.” I gritted out.

“And you don’t have any friends other than…that one.” I knew who ‘that one’ was and silently thanked Rachel yet again for putting up with my family.

“I don’t need any other friends.”

“You don’t go out.” she continued, ignoring me completely, “you don’t work, you don’t exercise, and you haven’t been to the library since the last Harry Potter book came out.”

R.I.P Severus Snape.

“What’s your point?”

 “My point,” she stressed stridently, “is that with the way things are going you have absolutely no way of finding yourself a potential husband. When I die—”

I groaned.

“—you’re going to be all. Alone. No husband. No babies. No meaningful relationships to boast of whatsoever. I talked to Whispering Pines the other day again.” Whispering Pines was a cemetery for rich people. There really was no other way to describe it. Wealthy old people tried to outclass one another by buying the most tricked-out caskets. Viewings were usually big deals because they gave the families a chance to show off how well off they were at home.

The funerals were the real prize though. They were like royal weddings, only the guest of honor was usually dead. I say usually because there had been an incident when I was twelve involving Mrs. Kirkland, an eccentric, middle-aged, interior designer, who’d faked her own death just so she could see what sort of turn out she’d get.

Seeing the reaction of the crowd when she’d risen from her open casket like a bad zombie cliché was, hands down, one of the funniest moments of my life. Suffice it to say that no one showed up when she actually died but me and Mrs. Kirkland’s husband and two kids. The point is that, in our neck of the woods, the fact that my mother was already making her funeral arrangements at forty-seven was just good taste on her part.

“I told them that I’d need a larger casket.”

I don’t want to know. “Why?”

“Because I plan on spending the majority of my afterlife turning over in my grave while Elizabeth Adler rubs the fact that she already has three grandkids and a handsome son-in-law in my face.”

I
knew
I didn’t want to know.

“Mother.” I said, striving for patience. Why had I called her again? “Elizabeth Adler has been dead for two years now. She can’t rub anything in your face.”

“You’ve obviously never had a nemesis.”

I sometimes forgot, but this conversation brought the truth forth with blinding clarity once again.

My mother was insane.

This point was driven even deeper when her voice grew thick with unshed tears as she said, “I just…I just want you to be happy.”

“Mother?”

She was still sobbing and going on about never being able to spoil her unborn grandchildren once she was put in the ground, so she didn’t hear me.

“Mom?” My voice was louder this time. Still no response. Time to bring out the big guns.

“Danielle!?”

Her sobbing ceased instantly and her voice grew cold. “Alexandria Marie Greyson. What have I told you about calling me that?”

“Sorry.” I muttered, trying and failing, to sound contrite. “But you were acting ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous? What would be ridiculous is if I allowed you to continue down this path without doing anything to help you.”

Gotta say. I did not like the sound of that.

“What did you do?”

“Have you ever met Phillip Orson?”

I went through the mental catalogue of every wealthy, single, young man that I knew and found him halfway down page five.

“The doctor.” my voice was flat.

“The surgeon.” she corrected smugly.

“No.”

“I’ve already invited him to dinner for tomorrow night.”

Shit. No wonder she’d been so insistent that I come.

“He’s very handsome,” she was saying. “Polite, too. When I told him about you and your…condition he seemed quite fascinated.”

“I’m not coming.”

I don’t know anyone but television assassins and serial killers who’ve perfected the art of sounding deadly over the telephone as well as my mother has.

“Why not.”

“I’ve just decided that I’m going to be busy…doing…stuff.

“Alexandria, you will be at that dinner table tomorrow night or so help me God I will make my way over to that hovel you call an apartment and drag you there myself.”

That sounded ominous. And something that I desperately wanted to avoid.

“Fine. But the doctor’s gotta go. I’m not going to let you bully me into coming over just so you can play matchmaker.”

“He’s perfect for you. He’s coming.”

I couldn’t really control the words that came out of my mouth next.