How to Date Your Dragon

  He felt a dull pain in his palm and realized he’d crushed the gold ball he was holding. Then he grimaced and stashed it in his glovebox.

  No, Jillian wasn’t a “dragon rider,” Balfour’s clever little derogatory term for human women who wanted a fling with a dragon. She simply didn’t understand his offer. Dragons were a secretive lot. They didn’t share their private lives with their neighbors. They didn’t shift in front of non-dragons, unless they were mated into the family. They didn’t share their festivals. They didn’t discuss their courting rituals, unless those mating rituals were being offered to a non-dragon.

  He supposed he couldn’t get too upset with her for not understanding. He just had to make her understand. He would appeal to her with facts and science, and possibly a pie chart and graphs. She loved pie charts and graphs.

  As much as he shrugged off Zed’s teasing on the subject, Bael could admit to himself that he was more than a little bit in love with her. He thought maybe he’d loved her since the minute he’d seen her telling Zed off in City Hall. He loved her fire and her brains and that damnable curiosity that always seemed to annoy him in the moment, but fascinated him in the long-term. As long as it didn’t affect him directly. She was beautiful, yes, but the treasure he sought was inside of her.

  She would probably punch him if she heard him saying that.

  Though the desire to turn his truck around and drive to le maison de fous to talk to her was very strong, he punched the eight-digit code (yes, eight digits) on his grandfather’s gate and started up the winding driveway. He was a desperate dragon, but he still had a little bit of pride.

  That pride almost deflated when he saw several cars belonging to his aunts, uncles and cousins. He should have known Baldric Boone wouldn’t allow a solo visit when he wanted a full family gathering. The fact that Bael might not have the patience or desire to see the entire Boone clan en masse wouldn’t occur to the dragon patriarch. It wasn’t that he didn’t love his family…in select groups…in small doses… on federally recognized holidays.

  Bael had been putting this off for weeks. In fact, he’d pulled out of the family meeting Balfour had tried to summon him to, claiming he was too busy with work. That was another concept that was outside his family’s grasp. The Boones owned their own businesses. They did not have bosses. When they wanted time off, they simply closed up shop.

  If his parents were still alive, he wouldn’t mind visiting so much. Yes, the evening would have still been marked by the usual passive-aggressive sniping and under-handed power plays, but he would have had the amusement of watching his father ignore the jibes entirely while uncle Benedict seethed. He would have had the pleasure of watching his mother spar with his aunts, insulting them without their realizing it. He would have had them to talk it over and laugh with afterwards, while eating his mother’s homemade ice cream.

  His mother, Erin, had been a rare gem, beautiful and kind and funny. His father had credited her influence for giving Bael a more sympathetic nature than the average Boone, for thinking of other people before thinking of himself. Erin’s father had held the office of sheriff a few decades before Bael had been elected.

  He wondered how Jillian would fare if he brought her into the dragon pit. He hated the idea of subjecting her to his aunts’ sneers, but at the same time, he could very easily see her blithely ignoring them. And then insisting that they all fill out a questionnaire.

  The family was encamped on the stone chaises his late grandmother had installed on the west lawn, near the river, around a fire pit. A whole ox, no doubt provided by their uncle Barnabas’s butcher shop, cooked over the fire pit, perfuming the air with the homey smell of roasting meat. They were surrounded by a circle of iron torches meant to lend a cheerful light to the proceedings, but they only cast sinister looking shadows over his family’s angular faces.

  His grandfather, Baldric, a tall, lean man with a headful of silver hair, rose from the central chaise, crossing the lawn with a confident stride that belied his nearly two hundred years of life. His grandfather’s eyes flashed red in the firelight, but he hugged his grandson tight, bumping foreheads with him. Over Baldric’s shoulder, Bael could see his cousin glaring at them.

  “I see the whole family came to join us,” Bael noted. “Despite the fact that you told me it would just be us.”

  Grandfather Baldric shrugged. “Your aunt Bathtilda asked what my plans were for the evening and when she heard you would be here, she wanted to organize a better dinner than an old widower like me could provide.”

  “It would really be nice to have a conversation with you that wasn’t overheard by about a dozen eavesdroppers, Farfar,” Bael said.

  “What can you say to me that you can’t say in front of the clan?” Baldric asked, his eyes twinkling as they walked at a snail’s pace toward the circle.

  “Lots of things. Lots of them.”

  Baldric huffed, “Could it be something about that drole girl you’ve been spending time with? Balfour says you’ve been seeing a lot of her lately.”

  Bael’s mind flashed to exactly how much of Jillian he’d seen, which was not an appropriate subject to think on in front of his grandfather. Bael silently gave thanks that his kind wasn’t telephathic like some of the species in Mystic Bayou. He didn’t want anyone in his family to see that much of Jillian, either.

  “Balfour needs to mind his own business.”

  “Can’t see why someone your age would want to waste his time with someone he can’t breed with,” Baldric said. “You’re in the prime of your life. She’s human. She’s not fit to carry your young. No grandson of mine is going to inherit my hoard if he mates with a human.”

  Every muscle in Bael’s face was rigid as he said, “My mother was human.”

  “And look how that turned out. One living hatchling before she died. And then your father couldn’t go on without her. Because he loved her too much. Nothing but disaster and ruin from that pairing.”

  Out of deference for his grandfather’s age, Bael did not growl or bare his teeth. This was the darker side of his clan, the part that gave him relief when his family declined to fully assimilate in the community. If they fully engaged with their neighbors, the locals would realize exactly how much contempt the Boones had for anyone that wasn’t them.

  “As the result of their pairing, I would disagree,” Bael told him.

  “Oh, don’t take it personally, boy. You know what I thought of your mama. She was a fine woman, for a human, just not what I would have chosen for my son. You’re lucky that you can shift as easily as you do. You could have gone your whole life without knowing that joy.”

  “Because my mother was a lot stronger than you gave her credit for.” Bael’s tone was firm and left no room for argument.

  Baldric waved his hand dismissively. “A happy coincidence. I want you to choose better than your father. Make a match with one of the New Country clans. You know that they’ve made inquiries about you and Balfour over the years. Your cousin has agreed to review their offers.”

  “I’ll bet,” Bael muttered.

  “You should let me arrange a match for you as well.”

  Bael frowned.

  “At least consider it,” Baldric said, nudging at him.

  Bael opened his mouth to answer but his cell phone rang in his pocket. He pulled it out and noted Zed’s name on the caller ID.

  “Is it a mark of a respectful grandson to let a phone call interrupt an important conversation with his farfar?” Baldric sniffed.

  “It’s Zed. He knows I’m with you tonight and he would only call if it was important parish business.”

  “Important parish business. No such thing.”

  “It will only take a minute,” Bael said, walking briskly away from his family and answering the phone. “Please tell me there is some legitimate reason for me to come running to you for reasons of vital public service.”

  To his surprise, Zed didn’t even chuckle. “It’s Gladys Fider. You need to come
to her house, right now.”

  A short time later, Bael whipped his truck into Gladys’s gravel driveway. He hadn’t bothered with lights and sirens. Zed had made it clear that it was too late to help Miss Gladys.

  Bael’s family had been just as understanding about his departure as he’d expected, which was not at all. He couldn’t exactly tell them what was going on, because he didn’t know. And as far as they were concerned, nothing happening within the community of Mystic Bayou could be as important as socializing with them. He was bone tired already and he knew his difficult night had just begun.

  Zed was sitting on the front porch, his face in his hands. The porch light cast a silver corona over his dark hair. When Bael approached, Zed lifted his head and there were tears in his eyes. Bael rocked back on his heels. He’d known the bear shifter for more than thirty years and he’d never seen him cry before.

  “You all right?”

  “Not really. I’ve known Miss Gladys since I was a cub. She wouldn’t hurt a fly. She taught arts and crafts classes at the elementary school, for gods’ sake. Why would anyone want to do this to her? What kind of town are we living in now, Bael?”

  “I don’t know,” Bael said, putting his hand on his shoulder. “How’d you get the call?”

  “There was no call. My maman sent me over here because Gladys needed some new curtains hung up. She didn’t answer the door and I went around back and saw her through the porch door.”

  “Can you show me?”

  Zed sighed and sniffed, but then nodded and led Bael around to the back porch. The door was standing open. The lights were on and the television was set on the Oprah network. A widow, Miss Gladys had been serving herself a solitary dinner of fried shrimp when she’d been attacked. The plate was still sitting on the counter, still waiting for a squeeze of lemon.

  Gladys had been left stretched out on her kitchen table, still dressed in her housecoat. A long incision split her torso. Unlike Ted, there were no frenzied cuts on Gladys. She was still recognizable. Her blood had dripped over the table and onto the floor, but Bael noted that there were no footprints on the linoleum. There was a large squarish smear on the floor, as if someone had put a piece of plastic or cardboard near the table before cutting her open. Bael snapped on a pair of latex gloves and handed Zed the camera.

  “The door was standing open,” Zed noted.

  Bael nodded. “Nobody forced their way in. Nothing is tossed around. There’s no defensive wounds, so she didn’t fight.”

  Zed gulped. “So does that mean that she knew whoever did this? One of our own?”

  “Could be. It also could just be that she was a nice, trusting old woman who believed she was safe in her own kitchen. Some people around here still don’t lock their doors, Zed.”

  “We may have to do something about that,” Zed sighed. “We were able to write Ted off as a fluke, but I don’t think it would be responsible if these attacks continue. As much as I hate it, people around here need to be more cautious if we have a killer running around. Should we hold a town meeting? Put a notice in the newspaper? Establish a curfew? I don’t want to be the mayor from Jaws, Bael.”

  “I don’t know. All that and more, maybe. For right now, let’s just record the evidence we have. And then we’ll call David Wyatt to collect her body.”

  They worked a grid around the kitchen, from the door to the table, photographing and collecting everything out of place. Bael avoided looking at the body for as long as possible before he finally had to record her position and assess the gore. How many more of these attacks would there be? Why had the killer chosen Ted and Gladys? They were different races, genders and shifter specification. Hell, they voted for different parties. They had nothing in common, other than they were both over the age of fifty. He tried to wrack his brain for some little detail that could lead to this situation making sense, but he was coming up dry.

  “Look at this,” Zed said, pointing under the table and looking green beneath his beard. There was a crumpled sheet of paper just outside of the pool of dried blood. He carefully plucked the paper from under the table and unfolded it. The page was covered in nonsensical symbols and random letters.

  He had Zed photograph the page and then slid it into an evidence bag.

  “It looks like a page from one of those little notebooks Jillian uses to take notes.” Bael’s head snapped up, the color draining from his face. “Jillian.”

  “I already called Jillian, she’s fine. My maman went to pick her up and took her to spend the night at her cave. She’ll be the safest girl in the parish.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  “Hey, you finally found a girl that makes you worry and go all gooey and stupid. I’m not giving that up. It’s comedy gold.”

  Bael laughed, relieved to feel some emotion other than horror. “You’re an asshole.”

  “So how are things going there?” Zed asked.

  Bael gestured toward Gladys’s prone form. “This conversation seems inappropriate.”

  “Come on, man. I know it’s not super sensitive, but I need something else to focus on. Anything else. Did you really show her your treasure? I’ve been begging to see your hoard and you always said no. But with more cuss words.”

  Bael’s face flushed an angry magenta. He’d trusted Jillian with the greatest of secrets and she shared that with Zed of all people? “Did she tell you that?”

  Zed grinned at him. “No, but you just did.”

  Bael hissed out a curse. “You suck.”

  “She didn’t tell me anything. But I just sensed a sort of… Well, lately, you’ve been smiling like guy who just got laid. And since you’re someone who doesn’t display much in the way of emotions, I find that amusing. Is she gonna stay in town after her report’s done?”

  Bael shook his head and went back to his evidence. “Yeah, I’m not talking about this.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t mind if she stayed in town and laid your eggs. She’s funny and sweet. And you turn such awesome colors when we talk about her.”

  “We’re no longer friends.”

  11

  Jillian

  Jillian sipped some Mylanta straight from the bottle and adjusted her van seat back from the steering wheel. She wasn’t sure there was enough room for her stomach.

  She’d been staying at the mama bear’s house for the past three days and had been fed until she thought she’d pass out. Clarissa apparently believed that if you didn’t have to roll a guest out of your house like the blueberry girl in Willy Wonka, you were a bad hostess. Frankly, Jillian had felt a little kidnapped after Clarissa strode into her house, told her to pack up all her “science-y things” while Clarissa rifled through her drawers and packed her a bag. While Jillian stood protesting, with her laptop clutched to her chest like a baby, Clarissa tucked Jillian under the arm not occupied by her duffel and carried Jillian out like a naughty cub.

  Clarissa wouldn’t explain why she was abducting Jillian, leaving that to Zed when he dropped by the house later to tell her about poor Miss Gladys. She’d met Gladys at the pie shop earlier week to discuss her “new lifestyle,” being able to turn into a bi-pedal porcupine whenever she was angry. Like the Hulk, but sharper. She’d seemed like a perfectly nice old widow, though she’d mentioned a few times that she hoped there might be a cure someday for “remade magique.”

  Knowing that the town hadn’t had a murder in years, only to have two people, both of whom she’d had contact with, both killed in a particularly vicious fashion, filled her with a peculiar guilt and dread. What if this was her fault? What if she’d stirred some ugly old grudge within the community that led to the deaths of two nice elderly people?

  Zed assured her that this wasn’t the case, that what she was doing was important and that the town needed the assistance the League would provide.

  “Ted and Gladys gave you their stories because they believed in what you’re doing, because they liked you and thought you would do them justice. They believed that the town nee
ded the help the League was going to give us. If you give up now, that’s the only way you could disappoint them. Now, did Gladys or Ted have anything strange to say when you interviewed them? Did they feel like someone was watching them or following them? Did they mention feeling unsafe?”

  Jillian shook her head. “No, Gladys was a little reserved. I think she wasn’t thrilled about being able to change forms but she accepted it. She never asked ‘why me?’ She mentioned hoping to find a cure one day. I only spoke to Ted briefly at the dance, but he seemed really happy as a magie. He said it was like being a teenager all over again.” She sniffed lightly, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “They were just a couple of sweet people who didn’t seem to want to hurt anybody. And I can’t seem to sit down and write about them without crying. I can’t tell Bael because he already seems so stressed out. And I know it’s wrong to dump this all on you, but if I tell your mom, she’s just going to try to feed me more.”

  “Aw, catin.” Zed held her to his chest, even as it shook with laughter, and stroked her hair. “I’m sorry. You’re holding up just fine. You’re gonna be okay and you’re gonna do a fine job. Don’t you doubt it. And try to share these things with Bael, no matter how stressed he seems. I don’t think he’d like it much if you poured your heart out to me, instead of him.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  She’d been mollified by his earnestness and the hugs, but she had to admit that she’d gone to bed that night on a pile of furs Clarissa kept in the guest-cave, and cried her eyes out. And then Clarissa woke her up and Jillian ate her feelings. For three days.

  Hence her heartburn.

  Having finally convinced the Berends that it was safe for her to go to her rental house, she’d come to town to sit in on the public information meeting Zed and Bael had arranged to discuss the “situation” with the locals. Bael and Zed were trying to prevent a panic, and she admired that. But she found that she just couldn’t walk into the pie shop to listen to Bael assure his neighbors that everything was fine, when she knew it was not.