Forged in Fire (6 page)

As the tale wove on, we finished two pots of tea and most of the cakes.

“I have not spoken of such in a very long time,” she said with a sigh. “It feels good to unburden myself of these memories that haunt my nightmares.”

“Perhaps,” I offered, feeling daring and brave beyond my measure, “just a thought, but perhaps you regret the way of things?”

She cocked her head at me, stroking the side of her face as she watched me. “Regret?” she finally croaked. “And more. The wheel no longer turns, the axle is askew. That is what the mad wanderer tells me in my dreams.”

I caught my breath. Even Nidhogg was plagued by dreams from Odin. “Is there any chance to fix things?” I asked.

She shook her head, sadly. “It is too late,” she said. “Too much blood, too many sacrifices. We live in a world of our making, and we will rule it with justice and right.”

It was like talking to that old man in the
Indiana Jones
movie, the one who protected the Holy Grail for centuries. There was no other path, no other options. This is what I was meant to do and what we always did.

It was sad and pathetic.

The world was a mess. How could we not fix it? Was there no hope?

“I thank you for the story,” I said, standing. “But I need to return home.”

She nodded and waved a hand again. “I will see you out.”

The servants who were coming forward to escort me out froze, confused. This just was not done.

We exited the great library and walked back toward the front of the house.

As we neared the front doors, Nidhogg paused by a side corridor. It was smaller than the rest and ended in a plain, white door. Small items lay along the floor in front of the door—trinkets and toys, hand-drawn pictures and needlework.

“The children,” she said, waving back toward the house. “They come here, try to sneak into her room.” She looked at me, sadness in her ancient eyes. “Qindra’s suite.”

I nodded, understanding.

“They love her, the wee ones. The older ones, too, I guess,” she said with a shrug. “But this is a room fraught with dangers and magic. They will injure themselves, interfere in things they cannot begin to understand.”

I’d seen Qindra in action. I could easily believe her room would be filled with things that went boom, in the magical sense.

“I understand,” I said, grinding my teeth. “Rescue Qindra faster.”

Nidhogg chuckled and shook her head. “You will find the way, I have told you. It is foretold. I have no worries now that I have seen your true self, young blacksmith. If anyone alive can bring her home to me, it is you. But that is not what I mean.”

She walked down the short hall and, using her cane, pushed a cross-stitch that lay propped against the door. I knelt and picked it up. It was a beautiful portrait of Qindra.

“Jai Li misses her the most, I fear,” Nidhogg said, her voice husky. “Since…” She did not finish her thought.

Jai Li, the mute girl who sat at Nidhogg’s side, working her needle and thread from morning to night. She’d captured Qindra perfectly.

“I want you to build me a gate,” she said, finally. “Something befitting my home that will keep the children from this hall. Protect them from hurting themselves.”

I stepped back, gauged the hallway, noting the thick wooden beams across the ceiling and the tiled floor. “And a lock, I presume?”

“Yes,” Nidhogg said, smiling. “With two keys. One for me to wear near my heart, to keep her safe. The other for you to keep, to remind you of your obligation.”

“A gate. Sure. I can do that.”

Nidhogg patted me on the arm. “Go home to your lover, young one. She misses you.”

I watched her turn and walk away. Emotions warred in me, fear, sadness, and frustration. I hated that she knew about Katie, likely from Qindra. Made me feel vulnerable. But on the other hand, she feared for the children. That spoke of some level of compassion.

What a complicated creature, this dragon. Nothing like her spoiled, broken child, Jean Paul, had been. And what of Frederick Sawyer? His public persona was one of philanthropy and benevolence. But I knew he was a dragon, through and through. How horrible could he get? I didn’t think I wanted to find out.

I took my gear from a nearby servant and pushed back into the tepid light of early afternoon. I had to tell Katie everything.

Six

I
swung by
M
onkey
S
hines—my favoritest coffee shop, ever—before heading back to Kent. I wanted to organize some of my thoughts about the gate Nidhogg asked for and do a little research on the intertubes before Katie got home. Mondays were her long day, so it was all good.

It made me sorta sad, driving by the ruins of the smithy where I used to work with Julie, my blacksmith master. I loved that place. But the damn dragon, Jean-Paul, burned it down along with Julie’s home. I felt it was a victory to come back here, thumb my nose at the ruins that couldn’t be recovered until the dragon taint had been leached from the land. Two years, we figured, as the fireweed grew wild. Then the elves assured us we could reclaim the land. Until then, it remained a condemned property that reminded me of what we all had lost.

If it wasn’t for Monkey Shines, I may have given up hope. I was welcomed in that eclectic coffee shop, a native—family. It made me happy to walk through the doors.

The hot, inked, and pierced barista, Camille, was working, which meant I’d get a cool design in the foam of my coffee. Katie and I both joked that Camille was too much for either of us to handle but that she’d make someone deliriously happy someday. I thought it was the tattoos and wild, technicolor hair she favored, but Katie assured me it was the miniskirts and boots. I could see the appeal.

Camille had been working at Monkey Shines since long before the dragon came, and I’d seen her nearly every day that I worked for Julie.

She winked at me when I walked in. The kids in front of me were eastside punks, momma’s boys and trust-fund babies by the look of ’em. They wouldn’t tip her. Their kind never did. I always made sure to drop a buck or two in the tip jar. Good karma.

“Usual?” Camille asked, when the angst-ridden children shuffled to the exit with their six-buck coffees.

“Yeah, you got any crullers?”

She smiled and took the last two out of the case, putting them on a little plate before taking my twenty.

“What’s new in your world?” she asked, handing me back my change.

I dropped the loose coins and a single into the tip jar while she went over to make my mocha. Gail was working the drive-thru, but the place had hit a lull. Not time for the after-work crowd yet.

I rambled on about the goings-on in the blacksmithing world. She asked about Katie, and we generally exchanged small talk. It was our relationship. She was my dealer. I came to her for caffeine and sugar, and in exchange I let her into parts of my world. It was comfortable.

I grabbed my liquid addiction and went to the back, parked my ass in a great overstuffed chair, and put my feet up on the table. I’d give the coffee a little bit to work its way into my bloodstream before I pulled out the laptop. I took the first sip, let the chocolate and strong coffee roll across my tongue, and gave a wavering sigh. It was nearly as good as sex.

Once I felt the buzz kick in, I pulled out my laptop and began making notes. This had to be the best damn gate ever built.

After an hour, I got up to go pee. Camille was out wiping down tables and offered to keep an eye on my gear. When I got back I decided to do a little research along another line.

When I first met Frederick Sawyer, the dragon from Portland, I’d sat in this very seat and researched him. He was more of a puzzle than Nidhogg. While she sat in her house like a giant spider, pulling her stings, capturing her flies, Frederick was out among the people.

At any time I could find pictures of him at some social soiree or fund-raiser. He’d just recently been given an award for his work with homeless kids.

What was creepy, I knew he’d killed a ton of people—eaten some of them by his own admission. The three dragons I’d met were so different I had no clear idea how to correlate a search. I knew other dragons existed. I just needed to find out where.

I knew from the dwarves that there were dragons in Memphis and Dublin. Maybe I’d start there. How hard could it be to find someone with a lot of power and money?

I flagged Camille down for another mug of coffee. I felt another project emerging.

Seven

F
rederick
S
awyer breathed deeply, inhaling the intoxicating scent of the young woman who glided at his side. She was elegant, turning the heads of many of the gentlemen and a few of the bolder women. The opera crowd had a pecking order, and this young thing upset the balance of power among the matrons and crones.

“You look wonderful this evening,” he told her.

She smiled demurely. “Flatterer.”

He laughed, a mellow sound that drew smiles from those around them.

“Guilty,” he said. “But you are stunning this evening.”

“Thank you,” she said, curtsying. “The dress, the hair. It’s all a charade. Monday, I’ll be back in blue jeans and a work shirt, stocking shelves at the food pantry.”

“Ever the pragmatist,” he said. “How lucky I was to find a discerning opera fan among the creamed corn and chickpeas.”

Then it was her turn to laugh, and he drank it in. She had a beautiful laugh that would capture some young man’s heart before long. One musical trill and he would fall smitten into her arms.

He loved the way the light shone on her silky black hair. While he
could
have relations with her, as was his wont, there was more value in enjoying the beauty of her. Even the way she sipped her champagne was a work of art.

She scrunched her face, wiggling her nose, as if the bubbles tickled her.

Her beauty was natural,
he surmised.
Not painted on like many of the women in this room. She exuded a certain je ne sais quoi that eluded many women.

“Isn’t
Orphée
wonderful?”

“Quite lovely. I’d heard good things about this performance, and if they fulfill the promise made before intermission, the ending should be spectacular.”

The matrons mingling in the vestibule grew suddenly restless, flitting about as if a hound had set upon a flock of geese.

One of the women from the box next to his own nodded at him as she passed them, her agitation palpable.

From the midst of the blue hair and fur coats, the house manager struggled to make his way forward. Once he cleared the flock of opera groupies, the manager bore intently toward Frederick.

Frederick stepped forward, automatically putting himself between the urgent fellow and his date.

“I beg your pardon,” the manager said, his face red with a patina of sweat across his balding brow. “There is an urgent message for you, sir.”

He held out a piece of folded paper. Frederick took it with raised brows. The man stood by, as if waiting for a response.

The note was brief. Certain assets in Seattle had recently been compromised. Mr. Philips had urgent information that needed Frederick’s immediate attention.

It must be serious,
he thought,
for Mr. Philips to interrupt my night at the opera.

“A thousand pardons,” he said, turning to the young woman. “It is my bad luck to be deprived of this fine opera and your delightful company this evening.”

He turned to the manager. “Please see that she enjoys the rest of the performance and arrange a taxi to see her home.”

“Assuredly, sir,” the man said, mopping his brow with an embroidered handkerchief.

Was he nervous? Frederick was a patron of the theater. Was the man afraid he’d offended him by interrupting his date?

“My good man,” Frederick said, taking him by the arm and turning to face the girl. “I entrust this beauty into your care, just as I entrust my elusive time to the wisdom of your artistic vision.”

The manager blushed and a crooked smile crossed his face. “Thank you, sir. I do hope you can return to see the performance another evening.”

Frederick shrugged. “C’est la vie.” He turned to the young beauty, took her empty hand, and raised it to his lips. “You will forgive me?”

She giggled as his lips brushed the back of her hand. “I’m sure I can find a way,” she said.

He straightened and gave her his most winning smile. “Another night, perhaps, we can pick up where we left off?” He let a bit of his fire flow into his words. Allowed the power to brush against her like a summer breeze.

“Perhaps,” she said, blushing. “I would hate to think I wasted this dress.”

“You are by far the most beautiful creature here this evening,” he said, his tone serious, his eyes filled with flame.

She gasped, but the smile did not leave her lips. He leaned in, kissed her lightly on the cheek, and turned to the door.