They maintained polite chat during the time it took to drive into the city and to the dingy white building that sat on a corner with cars lining the streets on each side. The hotel’s entrance was at the intersection, and Rowan couldn’t help glancing up at a sign that hung drunkenly, little Tibetan peace flags fluttering dismally in the misty rain of the early afternoon.
It looked more like a questionable hostel than a desirable place for a romantic rendezvous, but perhaps it was nicer inside.
He escorted the ladies inside, helping Sophea with the luggage.
“Go ahead,” Sophea told him when they reached a battered reservation desk that bore a half-dead fern, an old-style registration book, and a small orange cat sleeping on a pillow. Behind the cat, a young man wearing an eye patch with a skull and crossbones embroidered on it glanced up from a book.
“Ladies first.”
She flashed him a smile that seemed to brighten the room by several degrees, then gave the waiting male desk clerk Mrs. P’s name.
“Papadopolous, did you say?” The young man, who had bright orange hair and matching eyebrows, got to his feet and swung the book around to face him. He flipped up the eye patch, and consulted the page. “Ah, yes, you have the Oriental Suite. Passports?”
The ladies handed over their passports and Sophea signed them in.
“I don’t know you,” Mrs. P suddenly said, her gaze on the young man. “Where is Karl Amsterdam?”
“Karl Amsterdam?” The clerk’s face scrunched up. “The man who started the hotel? He died back in the 1920s.”
“Ah.” Mrs. P looked sad for a moment. “I didn’t even get to say good-bye. Who are you?”
“Hansel Franz. Karl Amsterdam was my great-great-grandfather.”
“And are you going to pump us up?” Sophea asked with a little giggle.
Hansel, Mrs. P, and Rowan all stared at her.
Her giggle faded. “You know, ‘Ve are going to pump you up!’ Hans and Franz!”
Silence filled the room for the count of five.
“Oh, sure, I’m the only one who watches Saturday Night Live,” she grumbled, her cheeks pinkening ever so slightly.
For some reason, that blush charmed Rowan as nothing else could. A woman who could feel embarrassment over something so trivial could not be all bad, could she?
“Your room is one flight up. I will take your luggage as soon as I am finished with him,” Hansel said, handing Sophea the key. He flipped his eye patch down and considered Rowan. “Do you have a reservation, too?”
Rowan was very much aware of the near presence of Sophea as she gathered up Mrs. P and one of the suitcases before herding the former to a tiny old-fashioned elevator with twin wrought metal doors. “Er… yes. Of course. Rowan Dakar.”
Hansel flipped his eye patch up before consulting the register again. “I don’t see you listed here.”
Sophea and Mrs. P entered the little elevator. Rowan raised his voice slightly over the sound of the doors that Sophea swung shut, making sure she heard him. “I made the reservation some time ago. Look again.”
“I don’t need to look again,” Hansel said, pointing to the book. On the right side of one page was a listing of names and dates of the travelers’ stays. “You aren’t there.”
The elevator’s gears ground as it lurched its way upward. Rowan waited until Sophea and Mrs. P’s feet disappeared from sight before turning back to the clerk. He slid a twenty euro note across. “My mistake. What will it cost me to get a room here? Preferably one near my… friends.”
Hansel looked at the twenty euros and replaced his eye patch, an inscrutable look in the visible eye as the twenty euros slowly disappeared off the edge of the desk. “My mistake. You are listed. There are only two rooms per floor, and the other on the second floor is taken.”
“Do the rooms have balconies?” Rowan asked, a dashing picture forming in his mind of himself being very James Bond by climbing down to the balcony below his and slipping into Sophea’s room while she was sleeping.
“Yours doesn’t. Mrs. Papadopolous’s does.”
Rowan instantly replaced the James Bond vision with one of him handily picking a lock and slipping into the darkened room that way. He ignored the fact that he wouldn’t recognize a lock pick if it bit him on the ass. “I’ll take it.”
Ten minutes later he was seated on a black-and-white-checked chair in a tiny room furnished with equally eclectic furniture, none of which matched, all of which had the air of being cast off from a previous century. He glanced at his watch, not particularly because he wanted to know the time, but because he had propped up his phone and was engaged in a video conversation with his sister Bee. “It’s almost six, and I’ve been awake for more than twenty-four hours. Do you think I could get a little sleep before you have me committing felonies?”
Bee’s lips thinned in irritation. “I can’t believe you’re whining about a little lack of sleep when the world is facing a massive catastrophe. No, not massive—world-breaking. Don’t you understand? Bael is trying to collect three tools that he’ll use to rule not just the Otherworld, but all those millions of innocent mortals out there. Do you want that, Rowan? Do you want the mortals killed and maimed because you were sleepy and wanted a nap? Because I’ll tell you right here and now that we don’t.”
A head came into view behind that of Bee. It was a man with shoulder-length brownish-blond hair who Rowan assumed was the dragon to whom Bee had bound herself. “Is this the Dragon Breaker?” the man asked.
Rowan flinched at the title. It had been a long time since he’d heard it, but it didn’t make it hurt any less.
“He doesn’t resemble you at all.” Bee’s dragon looked suspicious.
“That’s because I look like my mom, and Rowan is kind of a mix of Mom and Dad. Rowan, this is Constantine.” Bee smiled over her shoulder at the blond-haired man, and seemed to be distracted for a few seconds until Rowan cleared his throat.
“Is the Dragon Breaker refusing to help us?” Constantine asked Bee, frowning at the camera in Bee’s laptop. “He is obligated to do so. Every dragon knows that—the First Dragon himself said he had to assist dragonkin without protest until his debt had been paid.”
“My name is Rowan, and I’m here, aren’t I?” Rowan said somewhat acidly. “And you don’t need to go into old history. We all know who I am.”
“You are the Dragon Breaker,” Constantine insisted. “You killed four dragons with your magic.”
“I’m an alchemist—I break magic, I don’t make it. And I didn’t kill those dragons—they interfered during the process of breaking down a catalyst, and were destroyed because of it.” Rowan felt as if he’d been on the earth at least three hundred years. Had that horrible night really been twenty years ago? He shook his head to himself. If only he’d had the wisdom to stop the process before it had gone too far, before the dragons, in their lust for gold, had interfered… and paid the ultimate price for that interference.
“The First Dragon wouldn’t have bound danegeld on you if you weren’t at fault,” Constantine replied with irritating complacence.
“Look, I am not guilty—”
“Enough, Rowan. You too, Constantine. This is not the time or place to debate what’s happened in the past. Let’s have bygones be bygones, and focus on what’s important. Rowan said he’d get Bael’s ring—”
“I said I’d try to get the ring, but I’m not a thief or James Bond. My window doesn’t even have a balcony.”
Bee’s forehead wrinkled. “What does that have to do with the price of tea in China?”
“Do you know what a lock pick looks like?” Rowan demanded to know, suddenly so tired that all inhibitions were long gone. So, evidently, was the filter between his brain and mouth. “Because I don’t, and I object to you sending me tersely worded texts asking me where the ring is when I am probably the least qualified person in the world to steal it. I’m a sociologist, Bee. I can explain to even the most isolated tribe who the white people
are and why they are cutting down the forests, but I am not a thief.”
“You just admitted that you are an alchemist,” Constantine said, leaning his head in front of Bee’s. She whapped him on it and forced him to move. He resolved the situation by pulling her onto his lap, so they could both face the camera. “That ring is a magic item. You break magic down to its essential parts, and we want the ring unmade so Bael can’t use it. It’s just that simple.”
Rowan rubbed his face again. He eyed the bed with the lime green duvet dotted with what looked like ladybugs, and thought seriously about going to sleep for at least a week. “Nothing is ever simple where dragons are concerned. Speaking of which, you didn’t tell me there was a red dragon with the old lady.”
“I told you the red dragon demon guys were sure to be tracking her down,” Bee said pointedly. “Bael evidently went ballistic when the Papadopolous woman broke into his house in San Francisco and stole it, and I have no doubt that he’s got every demon and demon-dragon hybrid that he controls out looking for it. I’m not surprised if you saw some of them sniffing around her.”
“There were two of them, but that’s not what I’m talking about. The companion, the woman who has possession of the old lady—she is also a red dragon.”
Bee’s shoulders slumped as she gave Constantine a worried look. “Then it’s all over. Bael must have the ring back, and we’ll never find it now.”
Constantine swore. “The gods alone know what sort of security he’ll wrap around it…”
“No, that’s not what I said.” Rowan rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn. “I’m sorry if I’m not making a lot of sense, but as I said, it’s been over twenty-four hours with no sleep. The old woman’s caregiver or companion, or whatever you want to call her, is the red dragon—and not a demon type, just a plain old red dragon—and she doesn’t seem to want to have anything to do with the two dragons who are tracking them. At least, she damn near screamed down the plane when one of the dragons tried to put a bracelet on the old lady.”
“A what?”
“Bracelet.” Rowan held out his hand, gesturing toward his wrist, avoiding looking at the bed again. He didn’t think he’d be able to refuse its sirenlike call. “You know, the thing you put on your arm. It’s in my bag now, where it can do no harm.”
“What on earth are you babbling about?” Bee glared at him. “Why would someone want to put a bracelet on her?”
“I assume because they imbued a binding spell on it.” He rallied the strength to give a shrug. “I’m just reporting the facts, such as they are.”
“It doesn’t seem to me like you’re doing anything—” Bee complained, but before Rowan could try to gather enough ire to take umbrage at that accusation, Constantine said something to her about being too harsh on him even if he was the infamous Dragon Breaker.
“He’s my little brother,” Bee told her dragon. “I’m allowed to be blunt.”
“In this case, more understanding is in order. I wish for him to get started as well, but he is mortal and is clearly exhausted. He can’t perform adequately if he is likely to fall asleep at any moment.”
“How thoughtful of you to worry about me,” Rowan said with a slight tinge of sarcasm.
“Do not thank me, Dragon Breaker. I merely wish for you to be able to do your job properly. It was my kin you killed with your magic.”
“By the gods, I don’t make magic!”
“Knock it off, both of you.” Bee took a deep breath, then made a face at Rowan. “Constantine is right. I’m being overly harsh, for which I apologize, but I just don’t think you understand how important this is to us. All of us, not just the dragons, but everyone.”
“I understand,” he said, lifting a hand, and with resignation, he looked again at his watch. “And for that reason, I’ll do everything I can to get into the old woman’s room and go through her belongings. But right now it’s too early, not to mention the fact that I can barely function. I’ll get a little sleep, wait until the small hours of the night, and then sneak into her room and try to find the ring, all right?”
“All right,” Bee said reluctantly, then softened the words by giving him a warm smile. “Don’t get hurt, okay? I mean, we want that ring—we have to have that ring so you can break it down—but you won’t do anyone good if you’re dead.”
“Thanks for caring,” he said wryly.
She made a face at him. “I almost forgot to tell you that May and Gabriel should be joining you soon. They were headed to Cairo, but said they’d stop by Munich when I told them that the thief was spending the night there. I’ll tell them where your hotel is, so keep your eyes peeled for a silver dragon and his mate.”
Great. More dragons. Just what he needed. “They are welcome to take over—” he started to say, but Bee interrupted him.
“I told you that the dragons are limited in what they can do. The First Dragon made it very clear that the person who could help us was mortal.”
“Mortal born,” Constantine corrected.
“Same difference. That’s why we’re having to rely on you to do the hard work, Rowan. But Constantine said that this silver dragon feels he can help support you somehow, and frankly, I figured you would welcome the help.”
From a dragon? Just how much help was he likely to receive? Not much, given the dragonkin’s view of him. “I very much do welcome any and all help.” He stifled a yawn. “Is there anything else?”
“Not right now. Just get that ring!”
“Do my best.”
“I know you will. Love you, kiddo.”
“Love you, too. I’ll let you know what I find.”
He ended the video call, and sat numbly while his brain tossed around the new bit of information that Bee had kept from him.
The First Dragon was involved, even if peripherally. The demigod progenitor of all dragonkin was not a person whom you soon forgot, and Rowan had painfully sharp memories of the times he’d met the First Dragon, especially the last contact.
Worse yet, fate had driven Rowan from his comfortable hiding spot just at the time when the First Dragon would be calling in the debt of danegeld, and Rowan had absolutely no way to pay it.
Until now.
“This had better do the job,” he told himself. “Because if saving the world from destruction doesn’t pay off the debt, there won’t be anything of me left to worry about.”
On that less-than-cheerful thought, he managed to set an alarm on his phone and remove his shoes before falling onto the bed in an exhausted heap.
He had a very bad feeling about his upcoming burglary, and fell asleep practicing a not-very-believable explanation of just what he was doing if he should be caught.
Three
“Is your man going to take us to dinner?”
I sighed and watched as Mrs. P cleaned out a small basket of seashell-shaped soaps, dropping them into her suitcase alongside the tiny shampoo samples, two washcloths, and a stack of notepaper from the zebra-striped desk that dominated the Oriental Suite. “Rowan isn’t my man, and no, so far as I know, he won’t be joining us for dinner.”
“I like him.” She gave a complacent nod, then patted her suitcase. “He will serve us both well, I think.”
I waited until she padded into the bathroom in search of more things to take before removing the towels from her suitcase. “Serve us well? You mean in helping us get taxis and things? Just because we’re at the same hotel doesn’t mean we can count on him for help getting to the airport tomorrow.”
“Serve us well helping us get me to my beau, of course,” she answered with a placidness that was disarming. She looked like she could have been anyone’s grandmother, and yet there she was trying to stuff a rubber shower mat into her suitcase.
“I think perhaps you’re a little confused about a couple of things,” I said as gently as I could. “You remember that we’re on our way out to Egypt where you’re going to take a trip down the Nile, right?”
“You are going to help
me across the Duat to find my beau. You and your man,” she answered, nodding before glancing around the room for anything else that looked likely. She eyed a lampshade, then gave a little shake of her head.
“I just don’t… what exactly is a Duat… boy, I wish I hadn’t left behind that piece of paper with your grandson’s phone number on it. What was his name? I think he needs to know that you’re a bit… confused.”
“I am not confused,” she answered, straightening her back and giving me a look that made me feel like a big meanie for picking on a little old lady. “I know more about what’s going on than you do if you don’t think your young man will help us.”
I gave up trying to reason with her and decided that it was probably better to humor her than point out the obvious. So I nodded, and made a conciliatory gesture. “Are you hungry, or would you like to have a little nap? Or perhaps take a little stroll around the neighborhood?”
She let her eyelids drop halfway. “I had a nap on the plane.”
“I suppose we could have dinner early—”
“No.” Mrs. P eyed me, her lips pursing at what she saw. “You need to be lithe to cross the Duat.”
“Hey, no judgments,” I said, tugging down my t-shirt. “I am entirely comfortable with myself and don’t allow people to body shame me. Yes, I could lose a few pounds, and yes, I stopped swimming because there was an outbreak of chlamydia at my local pool, but that’s no reason to look at me as if I was Sophea the Hippopotamus.”
Mrs. P stared at me in surprise.
I made an irritated gesture. “Okay, it wasn’t chlamydia—that’s some venereal disease that koalas get, but it was something that started with a C. Crypto-something. Whatever the reason, I stopped going to the Y every day for a swim, but that doesn’t give you the right to judge me. Viva la difference, that’s what I say! Everyone is beautiful in their own way, especially those women who refuse to conform to society’s stupid unrealistic standards of beauty!”