You Slay Me (5 page)

"Who?" I asked, totally and completely lost at this point.

"The dragon whom you left guarding your portal. What is his name?"

I said the only name that came to mind, the name that had been on the tip of my tongue since I entered the shop. "Drake Vireo."

Her frown disappeared as her brows shot upward in a look of horror. "Drake Vireo? You left a wyvern in charge of your portal? Merciful goddess!"

The room spun. Seriously, the room started to spin right before my eyes. I clutched the counter and held my breath, but it didn't help.

"Do you have a chair?" I asked, sure I was going to faint.

She waved me around the long counter to where a second stool stood. "You are exhausted. Come, sit here."

I allowed her to pour me a cup of coffee, praying the caffeine would keep me sane until I could go back to the hotel room and collapse. Maybe the sleep deprivation was making me hallucinate? There was no other reasonable explanation for why I was in a city where people invoked demons and talked about dragon scales as casually as I would the weather.

"Thank you. No, black is good. Now, maybe we could take this slowly. I'm a little tired and not thinking very well. First off, do you know Drake Vireo?"

Amelie shook her head. "Not personally, although I have heard of him, of course. All the wyverns are known in our community."

"So he lives here?" Hope rose within me. All the creepy paranormal stuff aside, if she had heard of him, that meant he must be local.

She pursed her lips. "No, I believe the main lair of the green dragons is in Hungary. But he is a frequent visitor to Paris, if that is what you are asking."

I stifled the nervous little giggle that wanted to come out. "This is probably going to sound really silly, but are you trying to tell me that Drake, Drake Vireo, about six foot two, dark hair, green eyes, gorgeous voice is a ... well, a dragon?"

Amelie didn't smile as I expected. Instead, her eyes narrowed as she examined me. "Drake Vireo is not just a dragon. He is a wyvern. The green wyvern."

"Wait," I said, shaking my head and gripping the counter so I wouldn't fall over. "Isn't a wyvern another name for a two-legged dragon? One with wings and a barbed tail?"

"Yes," she said slowly, her blue eyes growing darker. "It is also the name for the leader of a dragon sept. His name explains that."

I rubbed my forehead. "You've lost me."

"Drake—a modernization of the Latin
draco,
meaning 'dragon.'
Vireo
is also Latin. It means 'green.' Only wyverns are allowed to use their sept color as a name."

"Can we go back to the part about Drake being a mythical creature who breaths fire and consumes virgins and all that? Because I just can't seem to wrap my brain around that idea. He was ... He was so masculine. Gorgeous. Sexy as hell. He didn't look at all like a big scaly lizard wearing a human suit."

"Immortals do not need to wear human suits. They can change form," she said a bit scornfully, then suddenly leaned forward and placed both hands on my head, her fingers touching my temples. I was too tired to be alarmed, too exhausted to be scared. Besides, her touch wasn't unpleasant. She hummed a soft little song, her fingers gently stroking my temples.

"You do not understand of what I speak, and yet I feel in you great power, great possibilities," she said dreamily, her eyes closed as she continued to stroke my head. "You are untouched by the dark powers, and yet you were born to harness them. You are a wyvern's mate, and yet he did not claim you. You are a puzzle that has no end and no beginning."

"Whoa," I said, my muscles all stiffening at the words "wyvern's mate." "Let's just take a step back from that idea, shall we?"

She released my head and moved over to the stool, her brows pulled together in a puzzled frown.

"Look, all I want to know is where I can find Drake. He stole something from me."

She nodded. "The green dragons are thieves. That is their skill. He is their wyvern—he would naturally be a very talented thief. And you know how it is with dragons."

I raised my eyebrows.

"They hoard treasure." A faint smile curled her lips.

"Um... I think I'm just going to let that one go. Do you know where Drake lives?"

"No."

My shoulders slumped.

"But I know where you can find him most evenings."

I sat up straight. "Where?"

"The same place you can find anyone of consequence— G & T. It is a club on Rue de la Grande Pest—'the street of the great plague.'"

"Sounds like a lovely neighborhood. G & T ... gin and tonic?"

"Goety and theurgy," she answered. ("Black and white magic." How fitting.)

"Thanks for the coffee. And the information," I said as I gathered up my things, knowing I was close to the end of my energy ... and my sanity.

She watched me walk all the way down the length of the counter to the door before she spoke up. "Aisling, a word of warning from one who wishes you well."

I cocked an eyebrow at her. Anything more would have taken too much energy.

"Do not close your mind to the possibilities. To do so will not only deny you your rightful place in this world, but it can also mean great destruction to those you love."

I glanced out through the open door to the street outside filled with sunshine and happy, dragon-free Parisians. "Don't tell me—the fate of the whole world rests on my shoulders?"

"Perhaps," was all she said.

I looked back at her, summoning up the last of my strength for a smile. "Thanks, but I've got enough on my plate right now without worrying about a bunch of stuff that doesn't even come close to being real. Maybe I'll see you again some time."

"Of that, you can be sure," she said. "I would not wish to miss your entrance into the Otherworld."

I went out into the warm sunny street without saying anything else. There was just nothing left to say.

4

“And then I said to her, Rachel, you're out of your ever-lovin' mind. There's no way in h-e-double-tooth-picks you'd find
me
hookin' up with a faery, especially one of the unseelie court, no matter how well hung he is. Ya just never know with them, do ya? I heard about a witch in Quebec who crossed one of the unseelie princes, and she ended up with three breasts. Can you imagine what she goes through trying to find a bra that fits?"

I paused, surprised not by the words—I'd had the whole day to come to grips with the fact that everyone in Paris was evidently either on drugs or suffering from mass hypnosis (I couldn't quite face the alternative)—but by the Texas drawl that spoke them. Soft, rather eerie music pulsed with an almost palpable beat through the club, music as smoky as the air that surrounded me. I peered through the depths to the bar, a long U-shaped wooden structure that sat in the center of the room. Nearest me a perfectly normal-looking woman in jeans and a T-shirt was chatting with a tall blonde in a slinky black dress. Neither one of them looked crazy, despite the subject of their conversation. I dragged my eyes back to the waitress as she headed over to a small table in the far corner of the room, taking a moment to give the room a sweeping glance as I followed. What I saw shocked me—everyone looked so normal! There weren't any odd creatures lurking about or people wearing pointy witch's hats and leaning over crystal balls. No tarot cards, no rune stones, no cauldrons or crystals or pentagrams. Not even one magic wand was in evidence. Without realizing I had been so tense, I felt the muscles in my shoulders relax. I don't know quite what I expected from the Goety and Theurgy club, but it
wasn't
normalcy. Dark, smoky dance clubs, however—oh yes, those I knew.

"Thanks," I said to the waitress as she waved toward a table and shoved a small menu in my hands.

"You will please to read the rules. English is on the behind," she said in a heavy French accent.

"Rules? Oh, like the cover charge and stuff? Sure." I flipped' the menu over, and the sane world I so desperately clung to quickly took a nosedive.

G & T IS A NEUTRAL GROUND. PLEASE FOLLOW THE RULES:

1. No summoning minions of any form, persuasion, or origin.

2. No wards are to be drawn within the club, either protective or otherwise.

3. Glamours are strictly prohibited. No exceptions will be allowed.

4. Patrons who squash imps will please scrape up the mess and deposit the remains in the imp bucket.

BEINGS AND ENTITIES WHO DISREGARD THE RULES WILL BE SUMMARILY DEALT WITH BY THE VENEDIGER.

"Ooookay," I said, wondering for the millionth time that day when life would return to my previously scheduled program. I glanced up at the waitress. She was clearly waiting for something. "Er... I agree?"

That was evidently it, because she nodded and headed toward the bar.

I sat back, leaning against the chair as I took a few deep breaths, struggling to come to grips with some very profound thoughts. Amelie was right. What I thought was unreal had turned out to be very real. Even six hours of sleep back at my hotel hadn't been able to wipe away the knowledge that Something Had Changed. Whether it was me or the world, I didn't know, and at that moment, I didn't care. All I knew is that I had been sucked into a weird version of Wonderland, but that didn't mean I couldn't hold my own. So demons were real, and dragons looked like handsome men with scrumptious bodies and droolworthy voices, and faeries had mammary fetishes. So what? I was still me, and I was a professional. "I am confident. I am self-assured. I am in control—"

"Are you? How very nice for you. I've never been in control. I've found the world is just so much nicer if you let it go by without bothering too much about it."

A young woman with masses of waist-length curly blond hair stopped in front of me, her blue eyes twinkling with delight. "Did I startle you? I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to, but I heard you speaking English, you see, and it's rare we see Americans in G & T, let alone American Guardians, so I thought I would say hullo. Hullo!"

"Hi," I said. "Er .. . you're English?"

"Yes, Welsh actually, although I can't speak the language. May I?" She gestured toward the chair opposite me.

"Sorry, please do."

She sat, arranging her diaphanous sea-green skirt carefully around her as she smiled a nice, normal, pleasant smile. I couldn't help but wonder what she was ... wood nymph? Water sprite? Sacrificial virgin?

"My name is Ophelia. Now, don't laugh, Mum was a Shakespearean scholar."

I smiled in return, relaxing. She couldn't be anything
unnatural.
She was too nice. "I think Ophelia is a pretty name. I'm Aisling."

"Hullo, Aisling. As for the name, it could be worse— my sister is named Perdita. That's her over there, talking to the Venediger. You look a bit lost. Is this your first time?"

"In France, in Paris, and in this club, yes," I said with a nervous laugh. "Does it show?"

"Only when you smile," she answered. "Well, what can I tell you about G and T? You've read the rules, so you know that this is a neutral ground. Practicers of both the light and dark powers are welcome here because everyone agrees to put their differences aside while in the club. It really is a pleasant place, although you have to watch out for the satyrs after they've had a few drinks. They get a bit grabby."

"Grabby?" I asked, making a silent promise to myself right then and there. No matter what weird things people said to me, no matter how many fantastical concepts were thrown my way, I would be calm and professional. I wouldn't gawk, I wouldn't stare, I wouldn't freak. Brazen it out, that was going to be my motto. Later, when I had time to sort through things, no doubt everything would become clear.

Yeah, like
that's
going to happen.

Ophelia wiggled her hands in a recognizable boob-grabbing motion. "Grabby. Other than them, the rest of the regular crowd are fairly well behaved. We have to be—the Venediger wouldn't allow any breach of the rules."

"The Venediger? Uh..." Already I was regretting my promise to play it cool, but I was in too deep to go back to being clueless.

"You really are new, aren't you? The Venediger is the most powerful mage in France. He's a tyrant, really. It's not right one man having so much power, but there's not much any of us can do about it. The word
Venediger
is actually German—I think it means 'man from Venice,' not that Albert is Venetian, but he clings to the old ways. Albert Camus is his name, although most of us just call him the Venediger. So much easier to remember, you see."

I didn't see, but I'd just sworn to brazen this through. I was sure that later there would be time to have that quiet nervous breakdown I had contemplated earlier.

Ophelia evidently saw my confusion, because she gave me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. "Just remember that he's the one person in all of France with enough power to keep everyone in line. You do not want to cross him."

That sounded more than a little ominous. I looked curiously at the man standing next to the woman she pointed out as her sister. He was dressed in a long navy frock coat with matching pants and a beautifully embroidered gold vest. It was a strangely elegant, very old-world ensemble. He was middle aged, probably early to mid-fifties, going bald with his shoulder-length black hair caught back in a ponytail. He looked polished and moderately narcissistic, but certainly not like the most powerful mage in France.

I didn't blink over the thought of a real mage, either, which says a lot about how well I was brazening. That or I was completely insane and totally out of touch with reality ...

"So, where is your portal?"

"Oh. Um. Well, I'm portal-less." Her eyes opened wide in stark surprise. "For the moment," I added quickly, not wanting her to think me careless. Where exactly did these portals lead to? And did I really want to know?

Her eyebrows resumed their previous position. "Closed it, did you? You must be a very powerful Guardian if you can close a portal to Abaddon."

"Actually, I'm not really a—"

"Well,
that
was interesting. Feelie, you're not going to believe what the V told me about that imp outbreak in Versailles." A woman who was clearly Ophelia's identical twin (but with shorter hair) grabbed a nearby chair and swung it around to our table, setting her glass of white wine down and flashing me a bright smile. "Hello, I'm Perdita. You're a Guardian? Pleased to meet you."

"This is Aisling, Perdy. She's American, and she closed up a portal."

Perdita looked over the rim of her wineglass with frank astonishment. "You didn't! Goddess above! I don't think we've ever met a Guardian of your sort of caliber."

"Oh, I can just about guarantee you that," I said with a laugh, and would have cleared up the misunderstanding (just what
was
a Guardian?) but at that moment a tall, handsome, green-eyed dragon-snatching ... er... dragon walked into the club. I stood up, waving away the waitress who came over to take my order. "Oh, he is going to be
so
sorry he ever tangled with me!"

"Who?" both Ophelia and Perdita asked, craning their heads to see who I was glaring at.

"A very nasty man with light fingers," I growled, grabbing the handbag I had purchased after my long nap. "His name is Drake Vireo."

Perdita started to stand up, but gave a yelp at my words, hurriedly sitting back down.

"Drake?" Ophelia asked, her eyes huge. Both sisters grabbed my arm as I started past them. "Goddess help you!"

Perdita tugged at my sleeve. "Aisling, you don't want to mess with him. He's bad news, very bad news. He's the green dragon's wyvern, you know."

"I know," I said, giving them both a smile. It was nice to feel that someone was in my corner... whatever that would end up being. "But he doesn't scare me. Much."

"But..." Perdita glanced at Ophelia, then back to me, her voice a hushed whisper. "What do you want with him?"

"He stole something of mine," I answered. The sisters just stared at me. I remembered what Amelie had said about the green dragons being thieves. Evidently no one was surprised by the news that Drake had robbed me. I straightened my shoulders, patted Perdita's hand until she released my sleeve, and said, "Don't worry—I'm not going to do anything stupid. I'm just going to make him give it back."

I thought their eyes were going to bug right out of their heads as I stormed off to the far curve of the bar, where Drake stood with his back to me as he chatted with two redheaded men.

"Well, if it isn't Puff the Magic Dragon," I said to Drake's back. I didn't speak loudly, but the second the words left my mouth, a hush fell over the entire club. Even the music stopped, as if by magic.

And what a discomforting thought
that
was.

Drake's shoulders stiffened at my words. He slowly turned around, his eyes shining with a brilliant green light in the smoky darkness of the club. Figuring a best defense was a strong offense, and not wanting to admit that all of a sudden everyone's warnings about wyverns were scaring the bejesus out of me, I took a step forward and poked him in the chest. "You have something of mine, Drake. I want it back.
Now."

"Aisling." His voice was just as wonderful as I remembered it, deep and rich, and as soft as velvet brushing against my skin. I shivered at the undiluted effect of it at close range. "I had not expected to see you here."

I pulled myself together enough to give him a disgusted snort. "I'm sure you didn't. I want my aquamanile back."

His eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared. The air of danger that surrounded him—so palpable, I could almost touch it—thickened. The people surrounding us surreptitiously moved back several paces as if they were expecting trouble. I wished I could join them. I felt as if it were high noon, and I'd just stepped into the main street of Tombstone, my trusty six-shooter at my side.

His voice swept over me again, deep with warning. "You are a very good actress. I actually believed your act earlier. I shall not make that mistake again."

I lifted my chin, my insides quaking. I was about to pick a fight I knew I couldn't win. Sometimes I truly am an idiot. "It wasn't an act. I've had a very informative day. I've learned about dragons and Guardians and imps and faeries, but all that is irrelevant. I want my dragon . back, Drake. We both know you have it. So, for that matter, do the police. If you don't want me to call them up and tell them where to find you, you'll give it back to me."

A smile flirted with his lips. Dangerous lips, I reminded myself as my heart started beating faster. He might be a dragon, he might be someone whose name instilled fear in other people, but boy howdy, he sure turned my crank. "Are you by any chance threatening me?"

I lifted my chin even higher. "Only if you intend on making things hard."

His gaze raked me as he took in the pretty poppy dress.
"Things
are already hard, sweetheart."

My knees almost melted at the double entendre, but I stiffened them and reminded my libido that he was a thief who had cruelly stolen my aquamanile and left me at the mercy of the gendarmes. "I doubt you're going to die from hauling a little wood," I said, purposefully misinterpreting his statement. "Let's stick to the point, shall we? You have my dragon. I want it back."

"I am immortal, Aisling—I cannot die. You, however, are refreshingly mortal." As he spoke, his fingers slid around my neck until his hand was gripping me in. a hold that was borderline strangling.

The silence in the club was so thick, you could have cut it with a piece of toast.

"You can huff and puff and breathe fire on me all you want, Drake," I said, my voice hoarse as his fingers slowly squeezed the air from my windpipe. I kept my chin up, my gaze firmly on his. "I'm not going to back down. I am not afraid of you."

"No? We shall see about that, shall we?" He moved closer, and every nerve in my body screamed a warning, but I just stood there as he pulled me to him, his arms hard as steel behind me, his mouth swooping down to claim mine. One part of my mind protested the fact that he was kissing me in full sight of everyone in the bar; the other part felt a moment of fear flare to life as I understood the true relationship between a dragon and his fire.