Never Deal with Dragons (10 page)

“Yes. It’s true. Emory’s position is more of an...honorary title. He attends social functions on behalf of DRACIM, but most of the daily activity, I handle. I’ve also gone through the extensive mediation training required of all DRACIM mediators. I started out in the program on a path to become a mediator, not a secretary. Circumstances...changed my career path slightly.”

Richard looked to Trian and back to me. No one could miss the undercurrents swirling around the room. I could see the questions in his eyes, about how Trian and I knew each other, and the history that made us uneasy strangers here and now. But Richard wasn’t stupid. He kept his questions to himself.

Trian shifted on his chair. “She’s fluent in the northern Chinese dragon dialect.”

“Is that so?” Richard looked at me with new eyes. Despite my burning curiosity at just how Trian knew I’d taken the obscure language class to avoid almost-failing yet another course on dragon script, I resisted the urge to look in his direction.

“I wouldn’t say fluent, but I could get by.”

“Well, Myrna, it seems you have a lot of support from Trian, and I trust his judgment. Lord Relobu is pleased to have you on board.” I took the hand Richard offered and smiled. “I imagine you have a few things to tie up at DRACIM, but we’d be pleased if you could report here by the end of the week.”

“I’ll make it happen.” Emory would be furious, but I had no intention of rotting away as his secretary. I’d figure out some way to make him agree to this. I had to.

Not to mention, the faster I could get up to speed on the details of Relobu’s problem, the better off I would be. I was going to need a lot of study time.

But Trian had other plans.

“She’ll need some combat training. Basic defensive moves for the most part, but it wouldn’t hurt if she had some instruction with a knife as well.” He looked at me. “You still run?”

Combat training?
I swallowed. “Yes.”

“Good. No less than two miles a day.” Trian glanced at my ribs. “Starting next week.”

He looked to Richard. “How long until the meeting with Hian-puo’s delegation?”

“I’ve been pushing to move the meeting up in an effort to get our team safely home, but Hian-puo is adamant. We’re scheduled to meet his representatives two weeks from today, here in Tulsa to discuss the initial demands.

“It’s not much time, but it will have to do.”

“Um, Myrna, about your wardrobe,” Richard fumbled with his glasses, obviously uncomfortable. “Hian-puo is a bit more...formal and conservative than Lord Relobu.”

I grinned and gestured to the pair of threadbare trousers and pleated shirt I was wearing now. “Don’t think this would pass muster, huh?”

“Well obviously you look beautiful...”

I glared when Trian snorted but Richard continued as if he hadn’t heard. “...but Hian-puo and his dragons will expect you to be dressed in something similar to what you wore the last time you were here for evening negotiations. How many formal evening gowns do you own?”

“Including the one from last night? Zero.” It turned out the dragon-resistant coating did nothing for holes made by dragon claws.

“Ah, well. We’ll need to remedy that.”

I did a quick calculation of the money I had saved. Emory might have been rolling in the dough, but even with hazard pay, a secretary’s salary wasn’t anywhere near extravagant.

“Lord Relobu will pick up the tab for your clothes, Myrna.” I stiffened. Trian had whispered the words so Richard wouldn’t overhear, but I was still annoyed and a little embarrassed that he knew what I was thinking.

A small dragon peeked through the door. “Mr. Green, Lord Nerul’s representatives are here.”

“Of course, of course. I’ll be right there.” He picked up my resume. “Myrna, Trian, you’ll have to excuse me. I have a meeting over mineral rights to attend.”

I waved as he stepped from the room.

There was one thing that was bothering me. “So Richard does a lot of Lord Relobu’s business negotiations, and he practically invented the Reparations department at DRACIM. Why do you guys need an outside mediator? He seems perfectly capable of handling the job himself.”

“Hian-puo demanded it. And Myrna, I’m serious about the combat training. Despite the protestations from ‘Ol’ Blue,’ I’m convinced the attacker last week was sent by Hian-puo. His insistence on an outside negotiator, coupled with an attack on the very night Lord Relobu wanted to talk to DRACIM—it sounds too coincidental for my taste. I wouldn’t be surprised if Hian-puo has something bigger up his sleeve.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, but I plan on going with you to the meeting to find out. Until then, we have no choice but to do the best we can with the information we have.”

He surprised me by curling me into a quick hug. “Myrna, I’ve missed you. Thanks for doing this for me.”

“Stop.” I pushed away, uncomfortable with how nice it felt to be close to him again. “This isn’t for you. I needed a job, and there was an opening. That’s it.”

Trian set me back on my feet and studied my face. Something flashed in his eyes—hurt?—and then he was back to business.

“Training starts at eight tomorrow morning. I’ll walk you out. And, Myrna? I’m sorry. About the demotion.”

“It doesn’t matter. No need to walk me out.” Trian made me unbalanced, and I wasn’t fond of the feeling. Even now, I had the urge to wrap myself back against his warm chest, and believe him when he told me the world wasn’t about to crumble. But I couldn’t. It wasn’t the truth. It wasn’t reality.

Reality involved a man I couldn’t trust, and a dragon population on the brink of a war. I didn’t have time to indulge in useless fantasies, especially ones that could be potentially devastating to my heart.

My feelings for Trian would have to remain where they’d been for the past year: locked in a box in the back of my mind.

“I’ll be here.” I left the room without a backward glance.

* * *

By ten o’clock Monday morning, Emory had my resignation letter on his desk, and I had Emory’s boss on the telephone. Yes, I felt bad about going over Emory’s head with my situation, but Emory refused to be reasonable.

After my meeting with Richard and Trian, I’d called Emory to fill him in on what Relobu needed from DRACIM. Despite my attempts to persuade Emory of the opportunities this would open for DRACIM—an entirely new, dragon-to-dragon revenue market—he refused to even consider the project.

Because of Saturday’s attack, he felt it would be too dangerous for our employees to put themselves at risk. I’d tried to explain how Relobu’s invitation had opened the door for humanity to have a seat at the table of dragon politics—perhaps even opening to door for new international laws guiding human and dragon relations, but Emory wouldn’t listen.

Emory was a coward, and regardless of how well this phone call turned out, I would not be working for him ever again.

Allan Gosney, Emory’s boss, had the same reservations.

Perhaps they were right—the dragons would probably chew me up and spit me out in negotiations, but at least I’d end the day trying to make a difference. It was more than I could say right now for DRACIM. I fought for composure as I listened to Allan give me the same excuses Emory had tossed my way.

“Myrna, I agree with you. If DRACIM felt like we could branch out into dragon-to-dragon arbitration and still guarantee the safety of our employees, of course we’d be all over the idea. But you were attacked last weekend, and I can’t in good conscience sign off on that.”

“This attack was a random occurrence. Relobu’s chief of security has already told me he’ll be personally supervising the session.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

“Myrna—”

“Allan. I’m quitting if I don’t get this assignment. I’m serious. I can’t work for Emory any more.”

He sighed. As regional director for all of DRACIM North America, Allan Gosney knew just how much work came through Emory’s office. And just how much work Emory actually handled personally. Once, at a party, Allan had one too many drinks and let it slip that Emory would be gone in an instant if Allan had anything to say about it, reinforcing the rumor that Emory had political friends who’d maneuvered Emory into the position, and kept him safe from the pesky performance reviews the rest of us were beholden to.

“Do you know what it will cost the company if you’re injured on the job?”

I did a silent fist-pump in the air. I could almost taste the victory.

“I can sign some papers. If I get hurt while on this job, DRACIM doesn’t owe me a dime. And I have the perfect person to fill my old position.” Sara Reiner had joined DRACIM just under six months ago as an entry-level secretary for one of Emory’s mediators. I’d worked with her on a couple of cases and found her to be surprisingly competent—not to mention an excellent identifier of bullshit—for a recent graduate of the DRACIM training program. She’d handle Emory, no problem.

And when this case was complete and I was entitled to my own secretary, I’d save her from the endless frustration of working for Emory Glask.

“How long is the assignment?” Allan, resigned, asked from over the line.

“I’m not sure, but it’s a simple diplomatic negotiation. I can’t see it taking more than a week, two tops. They want me for some basic Relobu orientation classes over the next two weeks, but I can do those after office hours.” The orientation classes were mostly combat training sessions with Trian, but I didn’t think mentioning that fact would help my odds of having Allan sign off on the deal.

“Okay, okay.” I could practically hear him tearing out his hair. “But do your best to make it one week. The future of DRACIM is at stake here.” Allan hung up the phone before I had a chance to reply to his wry request.

I was officially a DRACIM mediator again. This time when I picked up the phone, I called my roommate.

Chapter Six

“Owww! That hurt!” I rubbed hard at the spot where my sparring partner had thumped me with a meaty fist. I looked down at my arm and sighed. He’d unerringly found the one injury-free area I had left. My entire body was a gruesome canvas covered with bruises in varying stages of healing—blue, purple, green, yellow—I carried them all. When I’d mentioned wanting to view Lord Relobu’s art collection, I’d had no idea I might be referring to myself.

Stick me in a frame and charge for viewing.

“Sorry.” Plob, an aging dragon recruited by Trian to help with my defense lessons, took an obliging step backward and looked to Trian. “I wasn’t trying to hurt her—it’s just muscle memory.”

I tried to give Plob a reassuring smile, but I winced instead and took a moment to be grateful his muscle memory didn’t include claws.

Trian shrugged, totally unconcerned with the fire spreading through my arm. “You did fine, Plob...it’s supposed to hurt. That’s why it’s called an attack.”

He glanced my way. “If you’d have redirected his ‘attack,’” Trian made finger quotes in the air as he described Plob’s halfhearted attempt to strike, “with your left wrist like you were shown, Plob wouldn’t have even made contact.”

I took a brief moment to imagine the look on Trian’s face when I “made contact” with his teeth. Unfortunately, my arms were so tired I probably couldn’t raise my fist above my waist, much less hit my teacher hard enough for him to feel it. So I settled for sucking a couple of deep breaths into my oxygen-starved lungs while Trian spoke.

Trian approached the dragon and motioned for Plob to lower his head. “This spot,” he pointed just behind one of Plob’s enormous horns, “if hit with enough force, will blind most dragons long enough for you to get away or find help.”

“And if the dragon doesn’t have horns to mark the spot?” Dragon physiology varied much more widely than humans, and as a rule there was no rule when it came to their appearance. Large, small, scaled or finned—it all depended upon the type of DNA running through their veins.

Most of the records from the early failed experiments had been lost, so not even the dragons were completely sure what creatures composed their ancestry. Reptile, almost definitely, as all dragons were heavily scaled. Their clawed feet and ability to fly suggested avian, but they also had a dash or two of mammal, because they carried live young. It was quite the potpourri mixture.

There were employees of DRACIM whose sole job was to track down and catalog the different strains of “dragon” flying—or crawling—around the earth. I remember thinking their jobs had to suck—pawing through stacks of hundred-year-plus research papers and trying to build a family tree with bad phone connections, a horrible postal system and an entire species indifferent to their origins—but right now, I’d love to have a cheat sheet of the major characteristics and their weaknesses. Like, say, whether all dragons could be blinded by a tap on the head.

“I still don’t understand why I have to do all this. I thought Richard said I’d be assigned a security team. I thought
you
said you’d be leading my security team. Are you really expecting Hian-puo to order me attacked?”

I’d heard the dragon lord was half crazy, but most of the stories focused on how badly he treated his fellow dragons. I hadn’t heard a thing about his human employees or coworkers. The DRACIM office closest to Beijing was severely understaffed compared to Tulsa. The only number I could find connected me to the mailroom, and when I’d called and asked for someone who could give me some background on the Chinese dragon court, all I’d managed to get was a promise from the guy in there that he’d “look into it.”

He’d given me an extension number to a guy who’d had dealings with some of Hian-puo’s generals, but when I dialed the number, all I received was an automated message telling me the line no longer had service. I’d tried dialing back the postal guy, but no one picked up. So I was going into this meeting blind. Not my favorite option.

Trian interrupted my thoughts. “Basic combat training is standard for all Relobu employees. Though Lord Relobu aims to support human and dragon equality, the bare fact remains that there are a lot of dragons who just don’t respect equality without proof. In a dragon’s mind, might makes right. This is the first meeting Hian-puo has allowed with humans in attendance. We have no idea what to expect, and I want you prepared. To answer your question, if the dragon doesn’t have horns, try this instead.”

Plob twitched involuntarily as Trian ran a hand over the soft scales at the base of the dragon’s neck. “For humans, a strike to the neck would cause difficulty breathing, but for a dragon, it has the potential to kill. With fire and poison breathers, this is the most likely spot to disable. If the organ is popped, the dragon would suffocate or drown almost immediately.

“Most of Hian-puo’s guards are capable of flight, and the gas chamber is required for lift. This chamber connects to the lungs—if you damage it, you interrupt breathing. At the very least, it will give you time to run. And for the venomous, releasing the poison into the body will prevent it from being aimed at your back as you scramble for the door.”

“Assuming I’m able to move at all after all this torture. At this rate, I’ll likely be lying in traction at the hospital.” My ribs were feeling much better, but I was pretty sure these training sessions would be just as hard even if I were in perfect health.

Trian didn’t even blink at my attitude. By this point he had heard it all before.

“Thank you, Plob, for your help. We’re finished with sparring for the day.” The bearded dragon nodded in response and limped out of the room.

Yes. Limped. And not because of any damage I’d done.

He smiled. “Time for katas. Use the knife. I want you to feel comfortable with it in your hand.”

I groaned. I abhorred katas. At first they’d been fun. Trian had taught me a few basic moves, then had me practice by stringing them together as uninterrupted movement while he watched, correcting me when my inborn clumsiness started to show. But now every muscle in my body screamed in pain. With running, my legs took most of the torture; the rest of my muscles for the most part just came along for the ride. But katas—I’m pretty sure they were invented to torture muscles I didn’t even know I had. By the end of a session, the small dagger felt as if it weighed more than I did. And based on his smile, I was positive Trian knew it.

Despite my complaints, and though it pained me to admit it, Trian was actually a very good teacher. He was patient, he was thorough, and he knew exactly how much my body could take before it shut down. I might feel like dying at the end of a lesson, but in truth I would probably come out of this assignment in the best shape of my life.

Plus, I had to admit my instructor was incredibly attractive. He wore thin T-shirts and sweatpants and made both look good. No matter how many times my brain told my body that it was a bad, bad idea, my heart thumped wildly anytime he came within five feet. Which was often.

I was beginning to worry I’d have a heart attack combining exercise with sexual attraction.

He had to have noticed the low hum of awareness any time we got close. But he never acknowledged the suffocating heat of our hormones. I knew it was stupid; I kept telling myself it was less complicated this way, but I found myself almost angry that he didn’t seem to be affected in the slightest. It just drove the knife of humiliation deeper. I really was just a job to him.

My attraction was disgusting. More than that, it was damned inconvenient.

Palm facing out, with the knife in my other hand, I rotated in a slow circle, my legs shaking with the effort to stay in the crouched position. I watched the mirror. My movements were jerky and uncoordinated. The two weeks of training were almost over, and I still hadn’t landed a single blow on Trian.

I finished, and then stood up, wiping sweat from my eyes.

“Trian.” He stood behind me, tracking my movements in the wall-length mirror.

“Don’t stop. You need to learn this. The proper wrist rotation is key.” He reached around, cradling my body with his, and wrapped his fingers along the arm holding my knife, moving my limbs like a puppeteer. His head faced the mirror, his expression intense as he moved my body into position.

I couldn’t help it. I turned my head slightly, until my face was barely an inch from his collarbone. He smelled so good. We’d been training for an hour, and he’d barely broken a sweat. But his skin was warm, radiating heat and the indescribable something that made him Trian. Fire, forest, a touch of cinnamon—I’d spent hours cuddled against him at night, trying to make the ingredients add up to something I could understand.

They never had.

“Damn it, Myrna. Of all the fool things you could have volunteered for, you had to go and put yourself in the middle of a fight with dragons.”

I blinked. “You’re the one who vouched for me.”

“I’m beginning to regret that choice.” The words were angry, but he sounded tender; almost resigned. His tone made me look up. I met his eyes in the mirror, and couldn’t help but catch my breath. The need was there, a perfect reflection of my own tortured longings. My breath caught. He let me see it for only a moment before dropping my arm and stepping away.

“We’ve done what we can before the meeting. We’ll just have to hope no one is dumb enough to attack you in Lord Relobu’s territory.” He gave me a look. “Don’t get in a fight. If a situation is unavoidable, scream bloody murder. I’ll do my best to get there before they slice you to bits.”

I rolled my eyes. It was nice to see Trian had confidence in my abilities.

Sad thing was, I couldn’t help but agree with him. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but my time was probably better spent on practicing screaming for help.

“Give me five laps on the outside track and call it a day.”

I groaned, but did as I was told. Running would increase the lung capacity required for screaming effectively.

* * *

At my request, I spent the rest of the afternoon in Relobu’s library, trying to map out the best approach to deal with Hian-puo’s men. Lord Relobu’s collection provided me access to books unknown to DRACIM, and I spent the better part of two hours in a state between overwhelming awe and giddy delight. The great majority of the texts were not written by humans: they were written by dragons. I looked up, grinning like an idiot at the row upon row of books. It was impossible. It was fantastic.

I pulled out a book at random and glanced at the title.
On the History of Dragons
was emblazoned in golden script on the cover. There were seven authors, and I was surprised to see Lord Relobu and Hian-puo’s names among them. My breath hitched as I scanned the list of names once again. This book was written by the original dragon hatchlings. The ultimate test-tube babies. I opened the book. Someone had translated it into English!

The book read like a journal, with each dragon reporting his or her experiences as they remembered them. Lord Relobu spoke of his first trip from the darkness of the furnace. Another entry recorded a dragon’s difficulty learning to fly. Fully engrossed, I almost screamed when a hand touched my shoulder.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Richard stood behind me, looking very distinguished in his wire-rimmed glasses and suit. Why couldn’t I be attracted to Richard? He was smart, he was polite, and he was good-looking in an understated, studious sort of way.

I smiled. Probably because Carol would kill me. She’d claimed dibs the instant she’d learned I met him. Apparently she’d fallen into insta-lust a few months back when she’d run across his head shot in one of her millions of magazines—heroin to a fashion-conscious advertising executive like my roommate. When she’d discovered the inventor of dragonscript was an attractive man in his thirties, she’d been giddy with delight.

My roommate was such a nerd.

“You’re fine. I just didn’t hear you come in.” I motioned to the book. “Richard, look at these stories. I didn’t even know something like this existed. The dragon creation, written by the dragons themselves. It’s fantastic.”

He smiled. “Yes. This was one of my first projects when I started for Lord Relobu. He wanted to get down as many accounts as he could before they were forgotten. Before we’d developed dragonscript, our only option was for me to translate their oral accounts to English.”

“Richard. This is just...” I shook my head, unable to find words for my amazement.

“Lord Relobu maintains one of the largest libraries in the world, human and dragon combined.”

“I had no idea there were this many books written by dragons.” I waved my hand to the ones I’d piled on the corner of the reading table, before I’d given up hope of having time to read through them all. History, philosophy, science—even a few novels were tucked between the somber tomes. All dictated by dragons.

“This story, of Lord Relobu’s first years in the Congo after his birth, it’s heartbreaking.” It was common knowledge dragons had been created as a by-product of cancer research, but this was the only firsthand account I’d ever seen.

The History of Dragons
described Lord Relobu’s first moments of self-awareness, his constant struggle with fear as he lay in his dark crib, and later the joy of his first flight. The other entries were just as gripping, and I found myself constantly surprised.

“There are so many different types of dragons.” I flipped through the pages. “Why doesn’t DRACIM have copies of these? How can we not know there are over one hundred unique species?”

The small size of Lord Relobu’s dragon servants finally made sense. They weren’t young dragons; they were different dragons. Everyone knew about the original seven; I’d always assumed their offspring was similar in looks and temperament to their parents. But I guess it made sense. There were a lot of different DNA pieces jumbled together in a petri dish. Who could say which hereditary trait would be dominant when mixed with a slightly different blend of genes?

Richard grinned. “Boggles the mind, doesn’t it? And I’m betting the number of different species is close to three hundred. Dr. Smith hadn’t realized the cells in the tubes were even viable, much less that they have the ability to reproduce and mutate into almost anything.”