Honeyed Words (11 page)

Thirteen

We switched cars at my place. I really wanted to bury my head under some blankets for a few hours, but she was wired.

“You could come to my place,” she said, grabbing me around the waist as I pulled her luggage out of my trunk.

It was tempting. I liked the way her hands felt on my stomach as she wormed them under my shirt. But I had to work in the morning. And I felt like I could sleep for days.

“Not tonight,” I said, turning to catch her hands in mine before she got too far. “Work tomorrow.”

“Me, too,” she said. “You can go to work from my place in the morning.”

I kissed her, but pulled back before it got too passionate. “You are pretty damn persuasive,” I said, stepping away. “But I should really check in on Julie.”

Katie crossed her arms and harrumphed. “Bother,” she said, putting on a semiserious pout. “She’s a grown woman, Sarah. She doesn’t need you mothering her.”

I looked at her, then cupped her chin in my left hand and kissed her on the nose. “You know why. Maybe we can go out again this week.”

For a moment, I thought she was going to stamp her foot, but then she yawned.

“Go home, hon.”

She shook her head at me, and then stifled another yawn. “Okay, you win.”

We walked to her car, loaded the trunk, and said our good-byes.

I watched her drive away. When she was out of sight, I grabbed my kit and sloughed my way upstairs.

The hallway smelled like boiled cabbage. My neighbor, Mrs. Sorenson, seemed to have a mission to spread the joy of boiled cabbage and fat cats to any neighbor who would stand still. She was actually very cool.

Julie had gotten to know her over the last few weeks. I think it was good for both of them. Mr. Sorenson had passed before I moved in. She was pretty lonely.

I opened the door to the apartment and lumbered inside. I dropped my bags by the dining-room table, stepped into the kitchen, and opened the fridge. There was still some milk and a few other things that were likely part of Julie’s food hoard. I sniffed the milk just to make sure it was not spoiled. I had a track record for letting things go bad in my fridge.

At least I was using a glass these days. Then, if the milk had gotten chunky, I could tell as I poured it. Before, when I drank straight from the carton, I was occasionally surprised.

The milk was cold and very satisfying. When I was rinsing the glass, Julie walked in from the bedroom. Only one of those, so I slept on the pullout couch. Not as comfortable as my bed, but she was the one recovering.

“I was wondering when you’d get home,” she said, rubbing her eyes.

I glanced at the clock. It was just after one.

“Sorry if I woke you,” I said, pulling out a chair and sitting down at the table. “Been a helluva weekend.”

She smiled at me and pulled out another chair. It hurt me to watch her leverage herself into it in such a dainty and fragile way.

“Did Katie have a good birthday?”

“Well…” I must’ve grimaced a little, because she got that concerned-boss look on her face and leaned forward, placing her elbows on the table. “Trouble?”

“You might say that.” I ran my left hand through my hair. “You see any news this weekend?”

“Ah,” she said, sitting back in the chair. “I was afraid you might have gotten mixed up in that singer’s disappearance.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

I spent the next half an hour filling her in on the whole thing. We’d shared many stories over the last few months, including all the gory details of the dragon, giants, Woden / Odin / Joe … the whole nine yards.

She had good reason to believe, having been snatched by the very dragon I managed to kill. But, like me, she was just learning all the strange details of our overly complicated world.

“I’m sure the local authorities can handle the kidnapping,” she said. “Rolph has contacts in the community, right?”

“Aye,” I agreed. I yawned large enough for my jaw to hurt. “I really need to get some sleep.”

“Right,” she said, pushing herself up from the table and sorta hopping to a solid stance. “Work in the morning.”

She didn’t look at me as she said it, but I knew what was written on her face. This was killing her day by day. She needed to get back out there, smell horses, feel the hammer. Julie was mentor, master, parent, and friend, all rolled into one. She was the best damn blacksmith I knew, and if I was very lucky, I’d be a lot like her when I grew up.

“Want to go over to Cle Elum with me tomorrow?” I asked, hopeful. A day with Frank would replenish her flagging self-esteem. He thought she was something special.

“PT in the morning,” she said, her shoulders slumping. “I swear that woman is trying to kill me.”

I smiled. “I’m sure it’s helping.” The physical therapy was taking longer than the doctors had originally planned. The surgery had done a good job putting all the pieces back together after the dragon had smashed her right femur, but with the steel rod, pins, screws, and new hip, she was struggling.

“Oh,” she said as she limped across the room, leaning on her cane, “Jennifer called. Wanted to remind you about the Flight Test meeting tomorrow night.”

Crap. I’d forgotten with all the craziness. I was a stakeholder in the movie studio I worked for—Flight Test, Ltd. Frederick Sawyer, the dragon in Portland, had purchased a twenty-five-percent stake but had to give it up when the Seattle dragon, Nidhogg, caught him meddling in her domain. She gave me half of his share and had kept the rest for herself. Twelve and a half percent was damn good.

Elvis Versus the Goblins
was in distribution and had hit a couple of film festivals. I’d bet we were going to get good news. Besides, the crew was itching to start the next project.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll be sure to make it.”

She waved over her head and shut the bedroom door.

I hated that I couldn’t fix her. I’m a maker, as she is. We transform the bones of the earth, iron and steel, into useful objects. Watching her suffer made me feel useless.

I flipped the couch cushions onto the floor and pulled out the bed. The bills on my desk were getting pretty deep, I noticed, as I shimmied out of my jeans. I’d need to pay them soon. Maybe Tuesday. A quick brush left my mouth minty and clean. I wasn’t sure why that seemed so important as I climbed into the bed, but it distinctly did not taste like the powder from those flowers.

I sat bolt upright in bed. Damn it. Mirrors. I crawled out of bed and took down the mirror in the hall. It fit nicely behind the couch, with the reflective, elf-displaying side facing the wall. That should confuse anyone who cared to look. I draped a towel over the vanity mirror and pulled the bathroom door shut, just in case.

It was nearly two before I turned out the light. Work was going to come damn early.

Fourteen

Frederick Sawyer paced outside room 100 of the Multnomah County building. The halls bustled with bureaucrats, law enforcement, and common citizens, who were starting their workweek with the usual apathy he expected from thralls.

The planning commission was due to begin within the next half hour, and Frederick was here to determine why his project continued to be delayed. This delay had gone on for over four months and was costing him hundreds of thousands of dollars in lost wages and revenues.

Delays of this sort were not uncommon, but this smelled of interference and meddling beyond the simple need of bureaucrats to create further bureaucracy.

Frederick was not one to let the rage take him, even when faced with an obstacle that could cost him a large sum of money. There were others of his kind that would hunt down those who offended them, shred their bodies with tooth and talon, burn the remains to ash, and scatter the dust to the winds with the beat of their mighty wings.

His breathing was a little too hard, he realized. Perhaps the pseudo-metaphor was a bit too close to the truth. The drones on the planning commission did not make the laws. It was just their job to implement the will of the state and federal authorities, as well as the Multnomah commissioners.

His pride still stung from that incident in Seattle over the movie studio. It galled him that his investment of time and money would be in Nidhogg’s hands. Rumor had it part of it went to that smith, Beauhall. She was an interesting one. He smiled. He’d be keeping an eye on her and her clan, that’s for sure. Perhaps the investment would bear fruit of a different flavor. There was always his influence over the young actor Montgomery. His loyalty was easily maintained. He may not have an open hand in the movie studio, but he had his claw on the pulse, so to speak.

Now, if he just could get his hands on that bloody sword. That was a trifle worth his estimable time—an echo in the ether that set his teeth on edge.

But back to the business at hand. This office park was costing him a fortune with every delay. The commission was sympathetic to his plight, as his design followed the density plans, as well as provided green space and a dedicated place for the county to use for social services—mainly homeless services. Frederick knew where his bread was buttered. Toss the bureaucrats a few crumbs and they would follow you to hell.

He only just noticed how the rest of the visitors and participants of the commission had drifted from him, giving him a wide berth.
Has my anger grown so obvious?
he thought.

From the back of the milling crowd, Frederick caught sight of his able servant, Mr. Philips. The dapper man traversed the throng with quiet aplomb.

Frederick stopped his pacing, straightened his collar and cuffs, and crossed his hands behind his back. “Mr. Philips,” he said, once the man had breached the final cadre of government officials. “I hope you bear me good news.”

Mr. Philips did not betray his emotional state, but he never had. Frederick had no wish to play poker with the man. Stone cold to a fault, that fellow.

“I’m afraid I have some unfortunate news,” Mr. Philips said, stopping before his master and pulling a small notepad from his breast pocket.

Frederick waited, not wanting to appear too impatient or draw the attention of any of the nearby individuals.

“First,” Mr. Philips said, making a small check on his notepad with a short pencil, “the problem with the construction seems to be the state of our major contractor’s insurance.”

Frederick kept his face impassive, but he could feel the heat rising in him again. “Insurance?” he asked quietly.

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Philips said. “It seems the company in charge of overseeing the construction of Duchamp Office Park has suffered from a revocation of their liability insurance. Something about lost paperwork and inadequate documentation.” He looked at Frederick, his face as calm as a monk’s.

“I see,” Frederick said, tasting the words in his mouth as if they were mothballs. “And may I assume that a mutual acquaintance of ours holds said insurance policies?”

Mr. Philips nodded. “Indeed. The underwriter for those policies is none other than her grace, Nidhogg.”

Frederick grimaced. “I think she has left grace in the dust of time,” he said, the bitterness thick on his tongue. “She is a spiteful cur who has lived past her time.”

“I’m sure you are quite correct,” Mr. Philips said. “Be that as it may. She is the reason this project has been delayed.”

Frederick felt his nails cutting into his palms. This would mean more groveling to the most ancient of dragons … the cow … and her pet witch, Qindra. He ground his teeth and took a deep breath. “Set up a conference call with Qindra at her convenience, if you please.”

“Very good, sir,” Mr. Philips said, handing Frederick a business card. “She will speak with you this evening at six. She can be reached at the number on the back.”

This is why you serve me,
Frederick thought, allowing a feeling of control to slip back over his anger. “You are efficient as always, Mr. Philips.”

“I live to serve,” his thrall said, bowing at the waist, more of a nod, really, than a full bow. “As for the other problem…”

Frederick’s smile vanished as soon as it had blossomed on his face. “Not another?”

“I’m afraid so,” Mr. Philips said, opening a manila folder and handing Frederick a five-by-seven color photo. “The dwarf lad you sent to Vancouver was found secured to a basketball pole and forced to watch the sunrise.”

Frederick winced. “Ugly way to die.”

“Indeed,” Mr. Philips said, handing over a second photo. “The sign he wore is clearly a warning.”

“Dragon friend,” Frederick read. “Do you suppose this King of Vancouver even heard the message young Bartleby was sent to deliver?”

“His name was Bömburr, sir.”

Frederick looked at him, confused. “Pardon?”

“The dwarf lad. His family has served you for generations. His name was Bömburr. He left behind a mother and three younger sisters. His father was killed serving you several years ago in that mission to Belarus.”

Belarus…? Frederick thought back. Something about a business deal with that dragon in Minsk.